Tim Burton and Geffen Entertainment (as far as I know) own Beetlejuice and all related characters/content. Not me.

"Number nine million, seven hundred fifty seven thousand, nine hundred eighty two! Jennifer!"

I jumped when I heard my name called. I glanced down and noticed a long strip of paper laying in my lap. It had a number on it: 9,757,982. I stared at it for a second before the receptionist's voice cut through my reverie.

"'Ey! Jennifer! Get a move on, we've got people waiting here!"

"I…I don't know where to go…" I muttered.

"Out the door, turn right, 8th door on the left. Don't forget your manual."

It was then that I realized I was sitting on a book. I jumped up and spun around to look at my chair. I had been sitting on "The Handbook for the Recently Deceased." I picked it up gingerly and walked slowly out of the waiting room.

I clutched the book to my chest as I walked carefully down the hallway, not sure what to expect. I mean, where the hell was I anyway? Was there a waiting room for heaven? Hell, I didn't even believe in heaven…wouldn't my non-belief be sure proof that I was going to hell? I didn't believe in hell either, though I certainly used the word often enough. Maybe this was that purgatory thing the Catholics were always going on about…

I had so many questions swirling around my head that I almost didn't realize I'd reached the 8th door. I pushed it open slowly and crept into the room beyond.

"Hello?"

With a start, I realized I was standing in my own apartment. And I got mad.

"Ok, that's it. I've had it!" I screamed at no one in general. "Not only did my louse of a boyfriend dump me tonite in front of my entire family out in the fucking sticks! Not only did I then get run off the fucking road by a stoned semi driver! Not only did I subsequently fucking DIE and somehow, magically end up in some kind of weird ass waiting room! Not only did all that shit happen, but NOW I've somehow been magically transported fucking HOME! Like NOTHING. FUCKING. HAPPENED!! I'm sick of this shit! I've only been dead for a day or so and I'm already fucking sick of it! If someone doesn't tell me what the FUCK is going on here right the fuck now I'll…"

I didn't know what I would do. Thankfully, someone appeared in the room with me so I didn't have to finish that sentence.

She was a short, thin, incredibly old woman with nails filed into claws and painted blood red, and a slit throat. I found myself staring at the smiling hole in her neck.

"Are you finished?" she asked. I blinked. "I'll take that as a yes. And by the way, you've been dead for three years, not one day."

I tore my eyes away from her neck and took issue with what she had just said.

"Wait a minute," I replied, "I know for a fact that I've only been dead for a day because I kept track of how many hours I waited for a tow truck. Granted I fell asleep somewhere around twenty-two, but still. There are considerably more than twenty-two hours in three years."

"Yes," she sighed, "but you aren't taking into account the two years, eleven months, twenty-nine days, and two hours you were in the waiting room. Now, can we please get to business?"

She took a drag on an impossibly long cigarette, inhaling deeply and allowing the smoke to pour out of the slit in her neck. It was positively unnerving to watch her smoke.

"I think I need to sit down." I said, flopping onto my sofa. She threw a pack of cigarettes at me.

"Here, take these. I know you smoked when you were alive and you won't need them any less now that you're dead. I'm Juno, and I'll be handling your case. Mind if I sit?"

I looked up from the cigarette I was lighting and nodded.

"What do I need a caseworker for? Am I poor as well as dead now?"

Juno sighed.

"No, you're new. Welcome to the afterlife, blah blah blah. Now that you've had your little screaming fit I think I can dispense with my usual pep talk. The bare fact is you're dead. Living people cannot normally see you or hear you. The afterlife isn't so much different than your life before. People have houses, jobs, the works. We also have laws. One of the laws is new arrivals have to spend 150 years back among the living as ghosts. You will haunt your old apartment. After your time is up, you come back to my office, I sign your release form, and you go about your afterlife."

I stared at her, cigarette hanging limply from my lips.

"Do what now?"

Juno sighed.

"Ok, here's the short version. You're dead, you're a ghost, here's the place you have to haunt, see you in 150 years."

"Hold on a minute. I have to haunt my own apartment for 150 years?! Are you serious? That is a HUGE chunk of time…" I trailed off, remembering how three years of my afterlife had been spent snoozing in the waiting room. I took a drag on my cig.

"So what are the rules?" I asked.

"That's what the manual is for. Read it. Use it. I've got to run. You only get five help vouchers so don't call me unless it's absolutely necessary. If I think you're screwing up, I'll call you back and read you the riot act. And above all else, no matter how desperate you get, do NOT ask ANYONE for help except me. NO ONE! Get me?"

I nodded, not quite understanding. Juno nodded back and vanished in a puff of smoke.