Get me the manager.

Why? Because I flew all the way here from America, and I am entitled to a spectral experience.

What do you mean your village doesn't have a manager? Then get me the fucking mayor.

Yes, mister mayor, I'd like to make a complaint: I'm being denied access to the supernatural.

Twelve ghosts. The internet says your village is haunted by twelve ghosts.

Well, where the fuck are they? ‘Cause I'm here, and I don't see 'em. And I've looked everywhere.

I climbed in the window of that cottage over there and the lady inside screamed. I don't know why. There were no ghosts in there. I checked.

Wikipedia says you've got a ghost in your pub. So, I went to that pub. When I asked where the ghost was, they told me you can't see it. I said, “How do you know it's even there?” and they said, “Because sometimes when you're not looking, it moves the mugs around.”

Ooooooooooo! How terrifying.

Are you kidding me? You know what? Sometimes the mugs in my house move around when I'm not looking. They move out of the cupboard and into the sink. Do I have a ghost? Or do I just have a husband who can't be bothered to do the fucking dishes? Maybe I should charge admission to my kitchen.

Dare to enter the Screaming Woods? Oh, I dared. I dared to stand in that forest, listening for the screams. The only sound I heard was the fuming of a customer you ripped off by telling her those woods were haunted. That customer is me.

Screaming Woods? Rip-off Woods, more like.

I went looking for that highwayman—you know, the one that Wiki says jumps out of a tree and scares people? Well I went to that highway ready to knee him in the balls. But guess what? He was a no-show. Maybe because… he doesn't actually exist. You just made him up to trick people into coming here, standing in your road and yelling, “Tap this, Mr. Highwayman!” like a total idiot.

I put a Ouija board in the middle of that field over there and I waited. Oh, I waited. It should be called a Ouija bored.

I lay down in a reverse pentagram in the middle of your street, doused in the blood of a wild yam and I summoned a boggart to abscond with my soul into the underworld.

Do you know what happened?

Bupkis.

Oh, I was blocking traffic? You have a problem with that?

Well, I've had a problem with you people ever since the War of Independence.

I'm going to invoice you for wasting my natural time.

I invoke my constitutional right to a spook boogie-woo-woo.

I demand a coronary incident or at the very least premature ventricular contractions.

No? No? You can't even do that?

You know what died in this village?

Integrity.

Get out? Oh no, I am not leaving this village without my souvenir mug of ectoplasm.

What do you mean you don't have any ectoplasm? What kind of haunted village are you incompetents running here?

I demand a receptacle of unholy excretions!

No? You can't do that?

I am going to roast you alive on Trip Advisor.

Go suck an owl.

I'm going to Scotland now, and if I don't see the fucking Loch Ness monster, I am going to sue your entire country for false advertising!


And now a quick joke...

My dad saw a sign that said “Drive Like Your Kids Live Here,” so he sped up.