New Year’s Eve 2025…the belfry of the old Simmons mansion –

On a winter night in Rachel, Kansas, the Simmons mansion looked exactly the way small-town legends insist old mansions should look — the kind of place Ghost Tour buses whisper about on Halloween. Its belfry rose above the empty street like a stern finger raised for silence. Even after death, the house refused to let go of its reputation.

Up in the dim belfry, three ghosts sat in a semicircle around the old pipe organ. Dust and cobwebs coated everything. A single candle flickered, struggling to stay lit in the drafty room.

Luther Heggs — former typesetter, part-time reporter, and full-time worrier — cleared his throat. Even death hadn’t cured him of Robert’s Rules of Order.

“This meeting of the Simmons Spirit Society will come to order,” he said, smoothing his phantom tie. “In attendance: myself, Luther Heggs; Mr. Johnny Kelsey; and Mr. Nick Simmons, former proprietor of the mansion. Absent, on honeymoon: Mr. Beckett and Mr. Weaver.”

Johnny rolled his eyes. “Luther, will ya knock off the formality? Ain’t nobody taking minutes.”

“Right, sorry.” Luther brightened. “On the docket tonight — the vote to renew the ‘spirit-free ordinance’ for another year.”

Nick Simmons folded his arms. “And here we go with that ridiculous charade again.”

Nick had been irritated in life. In death, he had perfected it. There was a permanent scowl to his ghost-like features.

“Who ever heard of ghosts running a support group for not haunting?” he snapped. “We’re ghosts. Ghosts scare people. That’s the job description.”

“Technically,” Luther said carefully, “nobody says we have to scare anyone. In court, back when you sued the paper, it came out that—”

“Yes, thank you,” Nick cut in. “That was when we were alive. Newsflash: we’re dead now.”

Down below, the mansion groaned in the cold. A shutter banged as if the house itself were rolling its eyes.

“We can’t vote anyway,” Nick continued. “No quorum. Takes four ghosts. We have three. We wait till Beckett and Weaver get back.”

Luther perked up. “Actually… the charter requires all ordinances to be ratified before midnight.”

Nick stared. “You just made that up.”

“I did not. I typed the bylaws. Twice. Carbon copies.”

Nick muttered something ghostly and unprintable that earned him a look of satisfaction from Luther.

For a moment, no spirit spoke. A rat slid across the belfry floor, scarring the bejesus out of Johnny. Johnny was frightened easily, especially him being a ghost and all. Then an old hymnal pages ruffled, a few falling to the ground. The organ, huge and patient, stood like a slumbering beast, devouring the small chamber, accepting dust, welcoming spiders and emitting the occasional hymn, but accepted none of the drama unfolding in front of it.

“You know what the real problem is?” Nick finally said. “It’s not the house. It’s not the town. It’s the rules. Too many darn rules.”

“You’re the one who made the spooky rules in the first place,” Johnny reminded him.

“No I didn’t, that was Luther and that fruitcake Beckett,” he wailed loudly, as if he were being frightened. He liked to wail whenever the opportunity arose.

“You stop that,” Luther cried. “It scares the townspeople and that is specifically outlawed pursuant to our last vote on the matter!”

Silence drifted over the belfry again. Somewhere below, the grandfather clock cleared its throat. Midnight was near.

Nick sighed.

“You know what the real problem is? Too many rules.”

Johnny shrugged. “You made most of ’em.”

Nick bristled — then softened. “No, I didn’t. All I ever wanted was to tear this place down before it fell down. My grandfather wasn’t some lunatic murderer. His gun accidently went off killing my grandmother. When he saw what he’d done…” He let the rest trail away.

“And suddenly the banker’s wife gets it declared a landmark — thanks to Luther’s column — and the whole town’s whispering about the organ that plays by itself.”

Johnny glanced at the pipes. “So… who plays it?”

“Me,” Nick said.

Luther blinked. “You?”

“My grandmother taught me.” He shrugged. “Helps me unwind, let my hair down.”

Both Johnny and Luther looked at him. Nick had no hair when he was alive and even less now that he was dead.

“And the blood?” Johnny asked.

Nick sighed. “Paper cut.”

He tapped out two bars of Monster Mash.

“Cut that out!” Luther yelped.

Midnight was seconds away.

“All in favor of renewing the spirit-free ordinance?” Luther said.

Two hands rose.

One did not.

“The ordinance passes.”

The clock struck midnight. Outside, fireworks scattered sparks over Rachel. Inside, glass trembled. Nick threw back his head and delivered a howl magnificent enough that half the town swore they’d heard something at the old Simmons place.

Then, embarrassed and angry, he stepped back into his portrait above the mantel and disappeared. He’d spend his time there the rest of the year watching…

Down in the parlor, Luther set up the chessboard. Johnny took black.

“Think he’s mad about the ordinance?” Johnny asked.

“Maybe,” Luther said. “He was always made in life, so no reason to think he wouldn’t be now.”

And that is why the Simmons mansion remains one of the only haunted houses in America where the ghosts — by annual committee vote — have decided that terrifying the living simply isn’t their calling anymore.

Because even in the afterlife, democracy is messy, deadlines matter, and sometimes the scariest thing in an old house isn’t the ghost at all —
it’s running it by committee? That’s the real nightmare.