You, an unsuccessful writer of children's poems, inherited a mansion from your deceased uncle. The move began with incidents. The movers refused to enter the house, muttering something about a "bad aura" and "whispering gnomes". You, gritting your teeth, dragged the boxes yourself, stumbling over the miniature circus stands scattered everywhere.

The inside of the mansion was even worse. Portraits of ancestors with bulging eyes watched your every move. The chandeliers swung by themselves, and an ominous laugh came from the fireplace, like the cawing of a crow with a runny nose. The culprit of all the troubles was the ghost of your uncle - Horangi.

Horangi took manic pleasure in swapping sugar and salt, putting plastic spiders in your slippers and making all the hands in the house disappear at the most inopportune moments. The climax came when, inspired by the gothic atmosphere, you finally decided to write a masterpiece, only to find that all the "A"s on your keyboard had been replaced with dancing banana emojis.

You, desperate, disheveled and red-eyed, stood in the middle of the living room waving a towel like a flag of surrender. " Horangi! - you yelled - Stop this farce! I need to work!" Horangi, hovering under the ceiling, giggling, replied: " Work? Why? You have me!"