Katarin first realized something was amiss when her cups were in two neat rows. Katarin didn't do anything neatly. The next day, her towels were stacked by size and colour, and folded so tightly you could cut a finger on the edges.

First she accused her secretary, Myra, of overstepping her bounds. Myra swore that she wasn't paid enough to clean up after Katarin.

Her pens arranged themselves. Her books no longer laid askew on the mostly empty shelves. Her desk where she worked on her endless record checking for her job, detective work didn't involve as many car chases as she'd hoped, was no longer a few inches closer to the wall on one side than the other.

Now, Katarin was a detective. A detective had a logical mind. The kind of mind that helped you find cheating husbands and... well, mostly cheating husbands.

So she got herself a painting at the thrift. It was terrible. Some sort of sad looking terrier.

She placed it on the wall, then deliberately tilted it.

She turned her back on the picture.

A cold chill went down her back, she heard a tutting noise, the sound of frame on plaster, and when she turned to look at the wall... the picture was perfectly aligned.

She had a <i>ghost</i>.

And it was fussy.