Thirteen Days of Midnight by Leo Hunt

I’ve ever seen.
    “Was my explanation inadequate? We can delve into detailed biographies if need be, but I thought it best to give a brief outline. The others should arrive in the next few days, I would imagine.”
    “The others?”
    “The rest of your Host, sir,” says Blotch-Face, the Vassal.
    “You’re mental. ‘Host’?”
    “Is this about last night?” asks the skinhead — the Judge — uneasily. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he seems afraid of me. “ ’Cause if it is, then we’re properly sorry and humble, honest. Well out of line, manifesting like we did.”
    “ ‘Manifesting’?”
    “We would never ordinarily presume to attend to you when you had not specifically requested us,” says the Vassal. “My colleague and I were simply anxious due to a lack of instructions following the transfer.”
    “You ain’t seem that keen on my cooking,” says the Judge. “Felt like I should ask what you wanted to eat.”
    “ ‘Transfer’? Please, in as few words as possible, explain who you are and what you’re doing in my house.”
    “I think,” says the Vassal, “we have presumed too much.”
    “Can say that again.” The Judge shorts.
    “You are Master Luke A. Manchett, correct?” the Vassal asks.
    “Yes,” I say, still gripping the skewer in case they rush me. “That’s my name.”
    “Your father is Dr. Horatio Manchett,” he continues.
    “Was,” I say. “He’s dead. Is this about the money? Because I don’t have it. The lawyers didn’t give me it yet. I’m still waiting. I don’t have the money.”
    The men exchange a puzzled look.
    “We have precious little use for money these days,” the Vassal says slowly. “We are part of your father’s Host. I take it you don’t understand the term?”
    “Clearly I don’t.”
    “We’re his Host,” says the Judge. “His crew, his boys, his power.”
    “We are — were — your father’s servants,” says the Vassal. “And in the event of his death, dominion over his Host transfers to the eldest living heir. Which, so far as we are aware, means you, Luke. Didn’t he explain this to you?”
    “He left me some papers. I haven’t read them yet.”
    “I’m sure they will illuminate these affairs better than we,” says the Vassal. “I am not an expert on matters of succession.”
    “I still have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say. “You’re his servants?”
    “Slaves, more like,” remarks the Judge. The Vassal shoots him a look.
    “My colleague and I have differing opinions on this subject,” he explains, “but, yes, we are servants. We have been signed for and are now indebted to you until the event of your own death.”
    “So I . . . own you?”
    “Yes,” he says, bowing again. The Judge tips his stubbly head down, too. “We are your Host, your property to do with as you see fit.”
    “You’re my property? There’s laws against that. Dad kept
slaves
? How many?”
    “The Manchett Host numbers eight souls,” says the Vassal. “They are not all as . . . reasonable as the Judge and myself. However, they will present themselves when called.”
    “But . . . you can’t have slaves! It’s illegal! What am I supposed to tell Mum? Oh, yeah, we’ve got an extra eight people living in our house now? Don’t worry about it? Dad left them to me?”
    “It is illegal to keep living bodies as slaves, yes,” says the Vassal. “Unfortunately, no such laws govern the soul. Since — well, this is a delicate matter for both of us — since the Judge and I are no longer alive, there are no laws about keeping us in bonded service.”
    “You . . . what?”
    “He really don’t know?” asks the Judge. “Or is he just out to trip us?”
    “You’re dead,” I say. “You’re telling me that you’re both dead. I’m talking to dead people right now.”
    “Well, all right,” says the Judge. “Touchy subject. No need to rub it in.”
    “You’re ghosts,” I say.
    “We are spirits,” says the Vassal.