"Well," Finn said finally, untangling himself from his friends, "that was unexpected."
"Did we just...travel?"Chet asked, floating upright and looking around with amazement."From the far-off woods to the town square?"
"Apparently so," Beau replied, brushing himself off with dignity."Though I must say, the transportation method could use some work.Very undignified arrival."
They drifted upward to get a better view of their surroundings, peering into the empty square with curiosity.The square was deserted.
"Strange," Finn mused."If we're here in town, someone must have invited us, right?That's how the rules work."
The law of spectral movement had governed ghostly existence for centuries—spirits were bound to their places of death unless specifically invited elsewhere by the living, specifically someone very powerful.Yet here they were, three cemetery ghosts standing freely in the heart of Cauldron Falls without any memory of receiving an invitation.
"But who?"Chet wondered, scanning the quiet streets."And where are they?"
"Maybe they're waiting for us somewhere?"Beau suggested.
The three friends began to float cautiously down the main street, their excitement growing as they explored the town.Shop signs swayed gently in the breeze, and warm light spilled from windows, creating an atmosphere that was both welcoming and mysterious.
The architecture told stories of centuries past—old buildings that had weathered countless seasons and wrought iron details that spoke of master craftsmen.
That's when they heard it—the unmistakable sound of raucous celebration coming from a stocky stone building ahead.
"Do you hear that?"Finn asked, his form pulsating with excitement.
"Music!Laughter!The blessed sound of a proper celebration!"Chet exclaimed.
"Gentlemen," Beau declared with a grin, "I believe we've found our party!"
The three spirits high-fived each other with enthusiasm and swayed toward The Boozy Cauldron like moths drawn to a very alcoholic flame.
Peering through the warm, glowing windows, they could see the interior packed with townspeople raising mugs of ale.The atmosphere was jovial and welcoming, with animated conversations and occasional bursts of laughter creating exactly the kind of environment the trio had been hoping for.
"Look at them all," Finn said wistfully, pressing his translucent face against the glass."So alive, so...happy."
"Is that Murphy behind the bar?"Chet asked, squinting through the window.
"Aye, that's him," Finn replied, his voice thick with nostalgia."Look at him work—still the master of his craft.I can almost smell that beautiful, hoppy aroma.Almost taste the way it hits your tongue, all cold and tingly and..."
He trailed off, floating there in silence as memories of countless evenings spent laughing with Murphy over pints of the finest ale washed over him.The cruel irony of being able to see but never again experience such simple pleasures weighed heavily on his consciousness.
"What I wouldn't give for just one more ale," he murmured."Just one more taste of the good times."
"Finn," Beau said gently, "you know ghosts can't—"
"I know what ghosts can't do," Finn interrupted, not unkindly."Doesn't stop a fellow from missing it, though."
Before any of them could respond, they heard voices approaching from the back of the pub.Quickly, the three spirits faded to near-invisibility and drifted around the corner just as Murphy and Uma emerged from the rear entrance.
The father and daughter moved with the easy coordination of people who had worked together for years, carrying what appeared to be several small kegs between them.Their conversation carried clearly in the quiet evening air.
"Right then, let's get this safely stored," Uma was saying."Da, are you certain this Ghost Draught Vapor is ready for tomorrow?"
"Absolutely, lass," Murphy replied, beaming with pride."And I'll tell ye what—old Finn is going to love this.Always said he missed the taste of a proper drink.Well, now he'll get his chance!"
The three hidden ghosts exchanged confused glances.How could Murphy think Finn would be able to taste anything?Ghosts couldn't eat or drink—everything just passed right through them.It was one of the fundamental limitations of spectral existence that every spirit learned to accept.
"The icehouse should keep it at the right temperature," Murphy continued as they approached a stone archway with a thick wooden door."Cold enough to preserve the properties, but not so cold it loses its potency."
The icehouse stood partially underground.Its thick walls designed to maintain temperatures year-round.Murphy fumbled with a large iron key, the metal gleaming with protective enchantments that would normally keep unauthorized visitors at bay.
