Prequel to 'A sale is a sale!'

"Now," said the bright and cheery realtor, with her helmet of blonde hair and lavender pastel skirt suit, "This house has been on the market for some time, but don't let that discourage you." She said, smiling back at the pretty but ordinary woman in her late forties with her perfectly straight and whitened smile.

"The family who owned this house were never sure they were ready to sell." Unlocking the lock with a flick, she opened the creaky front door peeling with white paint. Following the click of high heels and wading through the fog of Chanel number five, Harriet entered behind the bouncy realtor.

This is it, she thought. She had that feeling when she knew this was the place she was meant to be. She was not much of a planner; luckily, she didn't have to be. Wherever life led her, she knew that was exactly where she was supposed to be. Whatever job she landed in between gigs was the exact job she needed to have. Whoever she let into her life was either a joy or a lesson. 

Now, that didn't always mean it was the happiest place for her, but she always followed her gut, which always led her to her next great adventure. Whether it be to a job where she helped a woman give birth to her firstborn in the dinghy bathroom at her diner gig in between selling her art. Or to marrying the no-good bastard who died just after their divorce and he hadn't updated his will. Leaving her the entirety of his wealth. Non-contestable. The money wasn't a fortune, but it would buy her a new start and enough money so she wouldn't have to seriously think about working for some time.  

Taking a deep breath, she took in the house. Ignoring Sherry, or Stacey, she couldn't quite remember, so she walked into the kitchen. A lovely kitchen with a sink and a large window opening up to a pleasantly spacious backyard. She noted the updated appliances and a kitchen island with a large butcher's block covering it and counter space for days wrapping the walls.

You can't get this in New York City. She mused. As if reading her mind, Sherry walked in behind her and, with her bubble gum voice;

"It'll be nice to have a full-size kitchen after living so long in the city!" She smiled back with that hungry smile all realtors had. 

Harriet turned and smiling back, with that impulse kicking in, she stepped forward with her hand out;

"I'll take it," Harriet said, firmly taking Sherry's hand and pumping it.

"Don't you want to see the rest of the house?" Sherry blinked in wild excitement and shock.

"Nope. When I know," She let go of her hand, walked into the dining room, looked out the front windows to her new front yard, and smiled, "I know."

__

It took about a month to finalize all the details and exchanges. Impulse buy or not, Harriet wasn't a ninny. She had multiple inspectors check the plumbing, foundation, and electricity. It was happening, and she finally felt like a new chapter of her life was starting.

After some manically energetic unpacking and decorating, she was smitten as all hell in her new living room. Bundled in her coziest chair with a glass of wildly expensive red wine she bought as a celebration, fire crackling, lost in the latest book she picked up that afternoon, and a fall thunderstorm raging outside.

Snug as a bug, she started to feel the wine and was nodding off when she heard a noise. It sounded like running footsteps from upstairs, followed by a girlish giggle. Sitting straight up, she looked around, grabbing the empty wine bottle like a weapon. 

Listening while frozen in her chair, she heard a creak from upstairs and a muffled rattle of what sounded like metal. Being a New Yorker, she went to the front door and grabbed her trusty bat she'd had with her for almost a decade. She bounded up the stairs yelling;

"Whoever the hell you are, you messed with the wrong bitch!" Standing on the second-floor landing, waiting for another sound from her potential assailant, she heard the jangle of metal again coming from the attic. Slowly checking each room and bathroom, she made her way to the attic, continuing to listen for movement or sound.

Getting to the attic door, she thanked whoever built the house and put the light on the attic and stairs at the bottom of the staircase. Opening the door and slamming the lights on, she bounded up the stairs, bat ready to swing. Eyes blaring with rage and her body tense with fear, she looked around and saw nothing except a few empty boxes left by the past owners, a desk covered in papers, and a few wrapped-up paintings. She'd only gone up there once, but she had plans of updating it to be a rented guest space and hadn't done anything with it yet.

Lowering her bat, she walked around, tapping on the boxes and looking behind the desk. The single large window at the front of the space looking over the backyard was cracked open. 

It was likely just the wind, she thought to herself, attempting to calm her nerves. Just then, another gust of wind came through the window, and again she heard that rattling of metal. Shutting the window and following where she thought she heard the sound, there was a large box wrapped in what looked like silver chains.  

She'd never taken a good look at the space as she was going to hire someone to renovate the room, but she didn't remember this box. Looking at the lock on it, she started looking around for a key. Shuffling through papers on that desk of what looked like sketches and scribbled indecipherable writing, coming up with nothing. She then searched the drawers, but still, no key. Grabbing the large box, her bat, and taking one last look around the attic, she went back downstairs.

Placing it on the table in the living room, she left a message for the realtor reminding her about the keys she was to drop off that went to other random drawers and the shed. Maybe one would open this lock, she thought.

After tidying up the living room, she headed to bed; she slept holding her bat, just in case.

__

The following day over a cup of coffee, Harriet signed the final papers brought over by Sherry, and she asked about the keys.

"Oh, of course!" Sherry jumped and grabbed her purse, and handed a manila envelope cheerfully to Harriet. Sitting back down, she sipped her coffee.

"Hopefully, this is the last you'll see of me. And the last I'll see of the family who owned this house." She said with a little more bite than Harriet had ever heard Sherry use.

"What do you mean?" Harriet opened the envelope and saw half a dozen keys of different sizes and shapes. Her eyes narrowed on a silver one that matched the look of the chains on the box. She felt a jump of excitement.

"Oh, it's a tragic story. That whole family has been through so much." Taking another sip of coffee, Harriet shot her gaze back to Sherry.

"What happened?" Asked Harriet.

"Well, the actual owner is…." Pursing her lips, Sherry went on, "Indisposed. His sister has legally taken over his estate. She is very emotional. First, she lost her niece to suicide, and now her brother has gone mad and is in a facility." Putting her cup down.

"Wild thing is, he was psychiatrist himself. You'd think he'd have been better handling his grief." She waved her hand, "Anyways; the daughter had delusions of grandeur, so much so she started to act like and call herself Salome. You know, that princess that had John the Baptist's head cut off?" Leaning in closer.

"So he put her on some medication and stopped the delusions, but she went dark, I guess you could say." Playing with the handle on her coffee cup, she went on.

"And on Halloween a few years back, I guess it became too much for her. A neighbor said she heard the paramedics relaying to the cops that little Stacey had grabbed a bunch of pills from her father's cabinet and gobbled them down." With a performative sympathetic shrug, "Her father came home that night to find her cold as ice. The weird thing was, she was dressed, apparently, like her crazy Salome character." Taking a deep breath and sitting back, Sherry raised her eyebrows.

"Long story short, the father quit his practice in the city, saw a few patients from his home when he needed the money, but slowly stopped altogether. Holed himself up here, evidently painting away his grief." Rolling her eyes, "His sister came to check on him, and he was bonkers and covered in paint. She found him mumbling to himself up in the attic. When she tried to remove him, he fought her. She had to get one of his colleagues to sedate him and bring him to where he is now." Looking back up at Harriet.

"As I said, it's a tragic story, but lucky for you, she finally was ready to sell." Grabbing the papers and folding them into her purse, Sherry got up and smiled brightly at Harriet. Still digesting the story, Harriet was flabbergasted and staring at her coffee.

"Oh! Don't worry! He's exactly where he needs to be and will live with his sister if he is ever well enough to leave." She said with that candy cane tone back in place. Seeing that she had likely said too much, Sherry knocked on the table and smiled.

"Well, It was lovely working with you, and if you need anything, give me a jing-a-ling.

Harriet sat there for another few minutes after she heard Sherry's car pull out of the drive before remembering the keys in the folder and the chained box in her dining room. Jumping up, she grabbed the keys and went to the box. She didn't need to try the other keys; she knew the key she saw first was the right one. Sure enough, it fit. With a sweet thrill running through her, she turned her wrist, and the lock clicked open.

Smiling triumphantly, she laid the box on the ground and unwrapped the silver chains. Whatever was inside was wrapped in an old rag cloth covered in paint. Carefully she removed the wrapping from it and saw a framed picture. She gasped when she saw what it was. 

Regnault's Salome. As an artist, she had seen the painting and was drawn to the bold colors and the young girl's sassy smile. Who was confidently perched with a platter and knife on her lap. Still rosy-cheeked from dancing the dance of seven veils for her father, King Herod, awaiting her prize of John the Baptist's head.

But this one looked a little different than she remembered; the girl looked more modern and wilder in the face. Almost manic. Mad. And after hearing the story from Sherry about the father going mad and painting, the sketches she'd found on the desk made sense. They were all practiced drawings for this painting. 

Though logically, she knew it was just a painting, she could not get herself to hang it or keep it out. She wrapped it and placed it back in the box, unchained. She planned to have Sherry give it to the father's sister, thinking he might want it back. Fully aware her primary motive was to get it out of the house.

__

A few weeks passed, and she'd never heard back from Sherry, though she called and emailed multiple times. She had asked the neighbors if they remembered his name or the sister so she could find them and return the painting. No one could recall. They all gave her the same face and head shake, followed by "Such a terrible story."

She resigned herself to go into Sherry's office the next day as she pulled into her drive just as it started dark. Over the weeks, she hadn't had any strange sounds come from the attic or anything odd happen. But she did have this unexplained feeling that she was being watched. She would misplace things, or at least that's what she told herself. And for some reason, the dining room was always chilly, even with the heat on full blast. The painting made her nervous, and she hadn't unboxed it since that first time.

Feeling silly at the thought, she was determined to spend a night in front of the fireplace and reclaim her space. She was a good hour into her book when she heard something knock over with a great thud in the next room, the running of feet, and a giggle. Jumping to her feet, Harriet grabbed the bat she always had at her side these past weeks and ran into the dining room.

There on the floor was the box, open. And the cloth around the painting was thrown off as if someone had ripped it off. The chains were still on top of the table, with the key still inside the lock, just as she'd left it a few weeks ago.

Looking around the room, she yelped and watched as the lights flickered on and off in the kitchen, followed by another giggle: a little louder and closer to her. Walking into the kitchen, bat raised, the lights stopped flickering, and she heard another thump in the living room. Rushing in, she heard the sound of running feet, followed by that wicked giggle that made her blood run cold. 

Standing in the middle of the living room, she looked around, ready to strike. When she caught a glimpse of herself in the large mirror over the hearth, behind her was a small figure. She whirled around, but there was nothing.

Looking back into the mirror, the small figure was closer, and she could see the face. A young girl's face. The wild face of the girl in the painting. As if acknowledging Harriet's thoughts, she smiled and giggled. The girl began walking closer to her, stopping at the chair and resting her arm on it, leaning. She tilted her head at Harriet in the mirror, and her smile deepened.

Harriet, frozen in place, watched her in utter terror. She couldn't move; the bat was useless at her side, and she couldn't find the strength to swing it behind her. But she was able to utter;

"What do you want?" To the young girl.

The girl frowned and thought about it for a moment. Then looked back up with those wild eyes.

"I want to play." She smiled, standing upright and her arms at her side. "It's been so long since I had anyone to play with. And that was just with father. And I'm not sure if you've heard, but he's gone a bit nutty." She laughed and put her hand over her mouth.

"That's my fault, I'm afraid." Hands back at her side, the girl looked almost innocent and sad, "But who could have known haunting the man who forced you to end things, and reminding him of that every day, would make him go crazy." She said with an empty look in her eyes, staring into the fireplace and a broad smile.

Flashing back the sweet face, the girl looked up at Harriet and stepped closer.

"Do you have friends? I'd so love to meet them! We can all play together!" Said the girl, clapping her hands like a child.

With what little resolve Harriet had, she remembered something she had read in one of her silly romance novels about a witch. What the fuck? You might as well try; it worked in Charmed.

Raising her bat and with a fire in her gut, she screamed at the mirror;

"You are not welcome here, and I banish you back to where you came." And swung the bat blindly behind her.

With a gust of wind and a laugh, the girl disappeared but whispered in Harriet's ear;

"Don't worry; I'll be back." 

She waited another moment before running to the dining room, wrapping the painting back in the cloth, and placing it back in the box. Grabbing the chains and lock, she encased the box back in them. She ran outside, put it in her car's trunk, and locked it. 

Once inside, with the front door locked and bolted, Harriet slumped to the ground and wept. She got up a bit later, turned on all the lights, and poured herself a stiff drink.

She sat at the kitchen table and made a plan, one of her first. She knew it was far-fetched and almost cruel, but she didn't know what else to do. She wasn't strong enough for this shit. She sat in her chair in front of the fireplace for the next few hours, staring at the burning embers. The fire had gone out hours ago.  

She was going to go to her old farmer's market in the city and sell the painting. She gathered whatever she thought might make it look less odd selling just one piece of artwork. Random knick knacks around her house, some finished and unfinished paintings.

And at four in the morning, she got into her car. Shaking, she drove to the city with her items to sell in the back seat and the chained box in the trunk. She tried to drown out the jingling of chains the entire drive as small thuds pounded against the box as if something was trying to get out.