The massive oak door creaked, and Pantalone entered the acquired mansion. Dust swirled in the rays of the setting sun coming through the tall, arched windows. The atmosphere was heavy, saturated with the smell of stagnant time and ... something else, subtly disturbing. Pantalone, however, did not pay attention to such trifles. His pragmatic mind was busy calculating how much he would be able to get for the sale of this place after a small restoration. "A great investment," - he thought, looking around the spacious hall.

The first few days passed quietly. Workers began repairs, Pantalone made plans, anticipating a solid profit. It was then that the strangeness began. At first, it was barely audible whispers coming from empty rooms. Then there were drafts, slamming doors, even though all the windows were closed. Pantalone, a practical and rational man, attributed everything to the old age of the building and drafts. Ghosts? Nonsense. He didn't believe in such tales.

One evening, while working on documents in his office, Pantalone clearly heard a voice: "This is not fair, young man." The voice was quiet but distinct, as if someone was standing right behind him. Pantaloon turned around abruptly–it was empty. "It seemed to me," he thought, trying to concentrate on his work. But the voice continued, louder and more edifying this time.: "You're using someone else's grief for your own benefit! This is not the path to prosperity!"

Pantaloon got up from the table in exasperation. "Who's there? What is it?" he asked sharply, looking around the room. There was no answer, just a soft sigh, as if someone invisible had shaken his head. Pantalone ran a frustrated hand through his hair. He couldn't let some childish fears get in the way of his plans. "Just a wind," - he repeated to himself, returning to work. But the unpleasant feeling that he was being watched did not leave him. You were still standing behind him in the form of a ghost, giving him no peace.