He knocked on the door.

"I’m sorry, adventurer," came a muffled voice, “you must first raise your level before you can enter this area.”

He shuffled his feet, his nose twitching. “I’m not an adventurer, I’m Jack Of All Trades. You called me about a haunting.” He checked the gold numbering on the plastic—it was definitely the right house.

There was a pause, before the voice said, "I'm sorry, adventurer, but rules are rules."

Jack shot up and faced the door, his eyes wide. "What rules? You called me! Crying about noises at night, how the Police and the Circle won’t do anything. But if that’s all sorted now, I suppose there’s no need for me to be here, is there?"

Another pause. "I'm sorry, adventurer, but you-"

Dust fell from the door frame as he slammed his fists into it. He didn’t have time for this nonsense: his landlord had been hounding him for weeks. "Stop screwing around, some of us have rent to pay! Do you want my help or not?"

"Hmm," said the voice, "I require an adventurer of certain level."

A vein bulged from Jack's forehead. "Just let me in, we're already past two hundred words!"

The voice paused again, considering. "I'm sorry, Mr. Of All Trades, but-"

"Fine!" cried Jack, flailing. "What level do I need to be to enter, then?"

"Level: traditionally published."

He gripped his scalp. "That makes no sense! How does this level scaling work, anyway?"

"No idea," said the voice. "I'm just a gatekeeper."

Narrowing his eyes, he sneered. "A gatekeeper? So if I defeat the gatekeeper, I can get past, right?"

The voice became shaky as it said, "no, you must be level-"

He tried the handle.

It was open.

Standing behind it was a bald man, short but athletic, with a grey beard and bushy eyebrows. He wore jeans and a vest, and his mouth was deciding whether it wanted to be open or closed. “Um...”

Jack glared at him. “Let’s try this again. Jack Of All Trades, solving your paranormal problems for a low, low price. You called me about a haunting?”

A bead of sweat fell from the man’s brow. “Whirling Brady.” He looked down and stepped aside. “Please, come in.”

***

The house was dusty, but neat, with red carpets and white walls. There was little in the landing but a low wooden table against the wall, covered by envelopes and leaflets, with a pair of doors side-by-side further along. It smelled musty, but clean. A brown tabby flit across his feet, disappearing up the stairs.

The old man appeared from the furthest door, carrying a tray with four mugs atop it. "Thank you for coming," he said. "We've been getting all turned around because we don't know what to do."

Jack waved it off, fighting the urge to retort. Why spend so long screwing around, then? He was a professional, and he deserved to be treated like one, but instead he'd been transported to Morrowind and told to wait on the doorstep. "Don't worry about it, it's what I do."

Whirling smiled, pushing open the other door with his foot. "Come, meet my family."

He followed and entered a living room with hardwood flooring and cream wallpaper. There was a sofa across from him, with a TV on the wall opposite, and a bay window to the right. A net curtain hung over this, filtering the orange light across the walls. It smelled like the rest of the house, but with a metallic undertone.

Whirling set the tray down on a coffee table in front of the sofa. It was cluttered with magazines and junk, but he shoved it aside. He turned back to Jack, rolling his shoulders. "So, I told you that we were being haunted?"

"That’s right,” said Jack. “Something about weird wailing and music?”

Whirling turned to the two on the couch. "This is the man I called to help us. Everything's going to be okay, now. His name is Jack Of All Trades, and he's of average height, and thin."

Jack's jaw hung open. "Um..."

Whirling continued, "he has scruffy brown hair, a gaunt face, and lifeless eyes. His beard is thick, but wiry. And as you can see, he's wearing a black shirt, ripped jeans, and a motorcycle jacket."

Jack clenched his fist. "What do you mean, 'as you can see'? They could see everything you just said!"

Whirling gestured to the figure on the right. A middle-aged woman. "Standing at a total of five feet five, with a portly figure and a ruddy face, wearing the purest of white, is my wife, Juniper Brady!"

Jack glared at them, steam escaping his ears. "Are the junipers fermented? Did I breathe in the fumes?"

Whirling grinned, his arms swinging to the teenage boy on the left. "And here we have tall, bald, and skinny, wearing jeans and a t-shirt, my only son, Popcorn Brady!"

Jack screamed. "Are they prizes? Are you gonna bring out a dartboard? Just talk normally and let the author do his job, I'm begging you!"

Juniper picked a green mug from the table, taking a long drink before looking at Jack with soft eyes. “Please forgive my husband, he’s just happy that someone has finally come to help.”

Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

His jaw clenched, Whirling faced his wife with a pout that made him look constipated. “Don’t apologise for me!”

Popcorn leaned back into the sofa, and folded his arms. “Don’t be embarrassing, then.”

“Ha!” Whirling was stuttering, but Jack faced the two on the sofa. The mother had, thankfully, passed down her sanity. “So, what’s your problem and what do you want me to do about it?”

Popcorn tutted, but Juniper skated over his abruptness with a smile. “We have ghosts, and we’d like you to exorcise them.”

Jack’s jaw locked, and he had to suppress the urge to growl. He was quickly reconsidering his ‘sane’ judgment. “Yeah, wonderful, thanks very much. Do you have any information that might possibly be useful?”

Popcorn shot to his feet. “Don’t talk to my mum like that!”

“You know,” said Jack, “if your parents name you something stupid like Popcorn, it means they have no expectations for you.”

Juniper gasped, staring at Jack with wide eyes as Popcorn’s nostrils flared. “Big talk from a man whose name is his job!” he said. “Do you have a brother called Master Of None?”

Jack’s insides tried completing the world record for ‘most complex intestinal layout’. Memories of his siblings were buried beneath a mess of blackouts, weirdness, and fights, which was where he intended to keep them. “Yeah, and my sister, Better Than A Master Of One.”

Whirling stepped between them with a shaky expression. “Now, now, let’s everyone calm down.” He eyed his family. “I’m sure Mr. Trades has had a stressful day, and doesn’t need us picking fights with him.” He glowered at Popcorn before turning back to Jack. “Please excuse us, we’re all very on edge. It’s getting hard to sleep.”

He perked up. Finally, progress! “And why are you having trouble sleeping?”

Whirling stroked his chin. "Well, we hear ghostly wails at night."

"Ghostly how?"

"Just ghostly."

He screwed his eyes shut, breathing deeply, before turning his gaze to the others. His rent was more important than his stress levels. "Can I have something more specific, please? If I don’t know what I'm dealing with, there’s nothing I can do to help you."

"We hear wailing in some weird language," said Juniper. “Drums, accordions, that kind of thing, but it sounds more like a car crash than music.”

Jack gulped. "Definitely specific." As well as the family of idiots, he would have to deal with one of the most reviled creatures in history. A spirit so monstrous—and evil—that none dared speak its name.

A polkageist.

***

Jack leaned back on the sofa, silence and darkness surrounding him. The family had since retired, leaving him alone with his thoughts. He had shed his jacket, and sat alone with his arms folded, the material of the couch rough on his skin.

His expression was frayed, and his breathing ragged. Never mind the Brady's, how did the neighbours stand it? The pounding 2/4 drumbeat. Oom-pa, Oom-pa. The discordant accordion, playing through some hellish approximation of the major scale. It was only drowned out by what he assumed was a bag of cats hitting a wall.

“Miluju pivo, ale krásné ženy jsou lepší...”

He sighed. His life would have been a whole lot easier with some magic. But the magical method was akin to a radio, tuning yourself to the correct frequency of energy for your needs. Some people could use the whole spectrum, and others just a single band, but not Jack. All he ever got was static.

He pulled a sheaf booklet from his back pocket. It was full of religious charms, which were just paper with ornate drawings and some kind of blessing. Good for banishing creatures back to their realm of origin, and for when you run out of rolling papers. Ripping out a piece, he stood up and closed his eyes, focusing on the music. Where was it coming from?

It echoed around the house, assaulting his ears like a shockwave. He heard the crash of cymbals, the stomping of feet, and the shaking of ceilings.

Feet. Ceiling. Something sandy slid down his forehead. He glanced up, to where dust dropped from the ceiling. He left the room, striding up the stairs, feeling himself begin to vibrate. The metallic odour grew stronger.

There were two doors on the top landing, and both hung open. Emerging from the left was a scene from a horror movie—a bald teenager in superhero pyjamas, crawling on his stomach, blood streaming from his eyes and ears. It left a trail along the carpet, akin to if Hansel and Gretel had been serial killers.

“Help me...” he moaned.

Jack empathised; it probably wasn’t long before he cried blood, too. His every nerve was frayed, and the drums beat inside his head as well as out. He turned to his right, watching Whirling desperately try to climb over his catatonic wife, the blood pouring from their orifices too.

Everything started spinning, and he dropped to a knee. His vision was getting blurry. His feet itched to leave the family to their fate, whatever it may hold. But he had lost everything, once, unable to resist powers beyond his understanding. It had broken him, and he still wasn’t whole.

He wouldn’t let that happen to anyone else.

With a growl, he regained full verticality in time to see a yowling mass of fur cannonball through the air, and splat on the wall. That was it.

He couldn’t see the polkageist, nor perceive its energies. But it had long been known that animals had greater paranormal sensitivity than humans. It was also known that cats perfectly understood human speech.

He staggered forward, resisting the assault on his eardrums, and crouched in front of the groggy cat. It mewled, shaking its head to clear the stars. “Alright, little guy,” said Jack. “Where’s this awful noise coming from?”

The cat stared at him, its head cocked. It was probably just trying to figure out how to show him. It mewled again, and Jack’s heart rose, a breath catching in his throat as it turned around.

And presented its asshole to him.

He cradled his head in his hands with a deep sigh. He couldn’t touch a ghost. He could hear this one, but with it being in damned stereo, that was useless to pinpoint it. He threw a charm through the space the cat had attacked.

It fluttered to the ground.

He growled again, the Brady moaning becoming as cacophonous as the ghostly caterwauling. Think.

How was he supposed to banish something he couldn’t find? Corporeal enemies were more dangerous, but easier. He'd take a brush with the Reaper over this torture any day.

He sniffed.

His head snapped up, the obnoxious polka beat fading to the back of his consciousness. He strode toward another open door, set perpendicular to the master bedroom’s, and sniffed again. With two steps back, again. A step sideways, so he was almost over the balustrade. Sniff.

He ripped a charm from the booklet and slapped it on the air. It stuck, hovering for a second, and vibrated as a light enveloped it. The assault on their ears ended, and the spirit decided to assault their eyes instead, a flash of brilliance filling the house like a supernova.

It faded to reveal a short, blonde man, his clothes invisible beneath the full band strapped to them. There was a sword hilt on his belt, a laser beam extending from it. The spirit smiled, and said, “Thank you,” before disappearing.

Jack’s jaw hung open, the words dying in his chest.

Panting, Whirling struggled to his feet, stroking his wife’s hair as he did. “How did you find that thing?”

He looked around. Juniper had flipped onto her back with a sigh long enough to make Olympic swimmers jealous of her lung capacity. Popcorn’s arms still shielded his head as he whimpered and moaned, but he was otherwise okay. The bleeding had stopped. He said, “The smell. I noticed it when I got here, like cold iron. Thought nothing of it, at first.”

Whirling’s mouth made an ‘o’. “That’s brilliant! You’re completely worth your fee.”

Jack narrowed his eyes. “Speaking of fee, just a hypothetical, how good do you reckon Tim Kutcher’s lawyers are?”

Whirling furrowed his brows. “How should I know?”

“Top tier,” moaned Popcorn.

Jack nodded. “In which case, your fee just tripled.”

Whirling’s eyes widened, his arms hanging limp. “What? Why?!”

He rubbed his forehead. “This is just a humble web-novel, do you really think we can afford a lawsuit? It’s still the first chapter, dammit!”

Whirling stared at him, his brow ready to escape his forehead.

What magical luck he had. At this rate, maybe he could even afford his rent.