Our world is sick.
Ghosts cannot be killed.
They are not vengeful spirits, but cracks in the rules, cancers in logic. When your reflection smiles at you, when the furniture in your home moves by itself, when the phone rings in the dead of night and you hear your own voice on the other end, you've touched the festering sores of reality.
To fight madness, you can only use another kind of madness.
We have no superpowers, only a bunch of lunatics and a pile of cursed “Calamities.”
