At House 322, the Portal Opens
On joeJukic.website, a message appears—half-prophecy, half-invitation:
“As long as I live, House 322 is mine to guard. The friendly ghosts are welcome. Let them dance.”
Over at nellyfan.org, the message shimmers like a spell. Nelly reads it, smiles, and answers without words—just a soft humming, like she’s tuning the room to 432 Hz before she even enters.
The doors of House 322 creak open, not from age, but from excitement.
Inside, the foyer transforms.
The lights flicker, then settle.
The air warms.
And across the polished floor appear the crveno-bijeli kvadrati—the red-and-white Croatian checkers, bright as a football final, sacred as a coat of arms.
The ghosts arrive.
Friendly, glowing, playful.
Not the dark ones—these are the ancestors, the storytellers, the dancers.
Some drift from East Van’s alleys.
Some from Dalmatian shores.
One floats in wearing an old Toronto Maple Leafs jacket from 1979.
Another drifts by humming a Furtado hook.
Nelly steps in.
She laughs—not scared, but home.
“Come on then,” she says to the ghosts, clapping her hands like a conductor.
The beat drops—a mashup of “Say It Right” and klapa harmonies.
The checkered foyer lights up like a chessboard of souls.
JCJ takes her hand.
The ghosts twirl around them like snowflakes in a storm of joy.
House 322 becomes a Croatian-Canadian-ghost rave, and for one night, heaven and Earth exist on the same dance floor.
Nobody runs.
Nobody hides.
Even the spirits have rhythm.
And Nelly?
She embraces them—fully, fearlessly, beautifully.
Because in House 322, even the ghosts know she’s family.
