mackay mansion has great acoustics. at least, that's what jamie tells himself with each repeat visit. never a huge believer of paranormal activity, it's usually the lingering stench of must that ultimately brings unrest. guitar rests in lap, laptop propped open on the ground, a microphone and tripod finishing the half- assed setup. take one thousand to the umpteenth degree. the guitarist strums a familiar progression, eyes fluttering closed as he is in his element. that is, until they open and land on what could practically be a ghost. all color drains from his features, frown taking center stage. “what the hell are you doing here all quiet and shit?”
