"Ghosts?" Kravitz repeats, looking back over his shoulder into his foyer, and thankfully there's not anything there except the door to his coat closet, the little dark wood table, and the decorative mirror that hangs over it. "Fresh out, I'm afraid." Honestly, part of him had been hoping that the house would have some sort of resident spirit in it, but the people who'd been through this morgue must have died without too terribly many regrets; he hasn't so much as misplaced a spoon or heard a cabinet rattle since he moved in.

That's all he can manage to stammer out, though, before the elf keeps barreling forwards, telling him something about a child (which, yes, he can confirm there's a rather skittish looking boy standing on the sidewalk behind him), but honestly he's more interested in the man standing before him. He's rather interesting looking, the colors of his clothes incredibly bright and clashing, but not in a bad way; it's odd, and he doesn't think anyone else would probably be able to pull it off. "I can assure you, I'm not a lich," he says, trying not to laugh. "I don't know if I'd go as far as to say "normal", but definitely not a lich."