Crucifixer-Upper

The letting agent delivered the blow with a grin that drifted across her face like cemetery mist.

Peter Grey blinked once, twice, thrice. He grasped the bannister to keep from wilting to the floor like a bedsheet after the ghost had fled. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘the rent is how much?’

She smiled even wider and nodded. ‘Three thousand. It’s a pretty standard number, considering the location and the square footage. Oh, and the walking distance to the train station and the shops. Never mind the proximity to an excellent school. Do you have children, Mr Grey? They’ll love the park that’s just a five-minute bike ride away!’

Peter felt the colour drain from his cheeks. He needed to get out – he had to. He couldn’t share an overcrowded apartment with two other “men” for one more week. (If you could call such creatures like Gary and Shaun members of the human race.) He had to find a clean, quiet place. One that didn’t smell of feet and oven-ready pizzas. One that had a clean kitchen more than twice a year. One where you didn’t have to put on shoes when stepping out of your room, lest you step on something wet, sticky, or squishy. Or all three. A place you could bring back company without having to warn them first. A place that you could keep clean without fretting that someone would nuke it after a drunken night out. A place you could go to sleep without yelling, ‘Please turn the EDM down!’

But there was no way he could afford this. A standard number? Yeah, sure, if you made more than five grand a month. He shook his head. ‘I, ah—’ He coughed. You had to be careful with these sharks. They could sniff out money like zombies could recognise another undead by smell. And if they smelled no green? Well, good luck and goodbye. ‘I don’t think this area is quite right for me,’ he said at last. ‘I’m looking for something a little more… remote. Not so close to the city centre. Somewhere I have to commute to work – I love reading a book on the morning train ride! Something not so well renovated.’ Peter clicked his fingers. ‘A, um, whatchamacallit.’

The letting woman raised her eyebrows. ‘A fixer-upper?’ she ventured.

Peter shot her the finger guns. ‘That’s it! A fixer-upper. Some place that’s a bit…’

‘Cheaper,’ she said, with a sigh.

Colour once more bloomed into his cheeks, hot and red. He looked down at his feet. ‘I, well… Yeah.’

Her shoulders collapsed. ‘Well, I’m sorry, Mr Grey, but this is the most reasonable listing I have in the area.’ She glanced at her wrist, but she wore no watch. She tapped the bone. ‘Now, if you’ll please excuse me, I have another appointment that I must be getting to.’

Panic flared up in Peter’s chest. He felt trapped, claustrophobic. He couldn’t go back to that place. He needed an out, an escape. He was a rabid raccoon backed into a corner. ‘No! Please!’ he squeaked, waving his hands. ‘I’ll take anything – anything! Just something a bit more in my budget. I don’t care, anywhere. Give me your worst property. Give me leaky sinks. Give me black mould. Give me a rough neighbourhood with excessive break-ins and rising knife crime! Just give me something, please! Something I can afford, something that nobody else would go for!’

She raised a single eyebrow. ‘Something that nobody else would go for?’ She tapped her lower lip. ‘Well, I do have something… not great. The last seven tenants all left before their first week there. I really wouldn’t recommend it to anyone, it’s a dodo I’ve been saddled with. But, since you insist…’

‘Yes, yes, anything,’ said Peter, clapping through his elation. ‘It can’t be worse than my current situation.’

Twenty minutes later, they pulled up to the house. It appeared the architect was a gothic teen artist with a penchant for charcoals. The woman turned off the engine. ‘Well, here it is. You can read the address on that sheet, but it might as well be 1313 Mockingbird Lane.’

Peter pulled a so-so face. Sure, it wasn’t exactly a looker. It had very few right angles for a start. And it looked as though someone had put a ‘noir’ camera filter over it – it could use a bit of colour. But other than that? It looked fine. ‘It’s okay,’ he said. ‘How much is this one?’

She told him.

Peter nodded, still pulling his so-so expression. Much more reasonable. This one he could afford solo.

‘But I have to tell you,’ she said, turning in her seat, ‘that there’s a reason for that.’

‘Which is?’

She hesitated. ‘It’s probably better if I just show you. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

As soon as they crossed the threshold, the door creaking like Peter when he crashed after a day at work, he felt it. He tapped the wooden floorboards. ‘Under floor heating?’

‘Mmm hmm. But—’

‘And how many floors?’

‘Three. Excluding the attic and the basement. But if you just—’

Peter gave a low, impressed hum. He was currently sharing sixty square metres with two other dudes. This place would be a whole house. All to him. He peered into the kitchen. If you ignored the dust and cobwebs, it was spotless. And fancy, too. ‘A fully kitted out range stove?’

‘Indeed. But the thing is—’

‘Let me see the garden.’

Past the kitchen was the dining room, with a black, wooden table spanning the length of the room. A sheet-covered chandelier – out of place except for in a place like this – dangled above.

Peter peered through the smudged glass to the patch of grass behind the house.

A few stones stood upright, with words and dates carved into them. Several mildewed old wooden crucifixes leaned this way and that. A couple had fallen into the weeds and let the plant life strangle the remaining life out of them.

He grunted in approval. And then he shivered. ‘It’s a good size, all right. But, er, could we maybe try cranking the heat up? It’s a bit chilly in here, isn’t it?’

‘Whooooo… aaaaarree… yoooouuuu?’

Peter waved his hand. ‘We can talk ID and references and stuff later. I’d like to just take a look for now, if that’s okay with you?’

‘Whaaaaat… aaaaarrree… yooouuuu… DOING HERE?’

‘I know, I know, it’s your worst property, but it’s honestly not that bad. Y’know, for a saleswoman, you oughta take a lesson or two in trying to make a sale.’ He turned to look at the letting agent. ‘Y’know?’

But she had curled up on a chair, trying to disappear into it. Her wide eyes fixated on a spot in the middle of the room. She whimpered like a dog about to endure the torture of bathtime.

‘Wha—’

There, hovering above the table, was a bedsheet. It billowed and flowed; a nighttime wedding dress. The light around the floating sheet warped and twisted, as though it drained the colour from the room. Two circular holes opened up to the inner sheet, in the place where eyes ought to go. But inside those holes, you could not make out the other side of the sheet. Inside, there was only a swirling blackness, like a scribble erasing a misspelt word.

‘Oh, good God,’ squeaked Peter.

‘Geeeeeettt… OOOOUUUUUTTT.’

Peter fought to prevent losing control of his bladder. A ghost? A ghost? Jesus Christ, such things weren’t real, were they? Goddamnit, this place had seemed so perfect a few seconds ago. And now he would have to go back to Shaun and Gary with his tail between his legs, and a peg covering his nostrils. Trembling, Peter backed around the table towards the letting agent, who was sobbing.

The bedsheet rotated, staring at him through those flurry-of-static not-eyes. ‘Whooooo…’ whispered the ghost. ‘Whoooo…?’

Peter grabbed her by the shoulder. ‘C’mon, you were right. Let’s get the hell—’

The letting agent was comatose, unbudging. The bedsheet ghost was staring, fluttering.

Peter paused, weighing up the facts. Living with the grumpy spirit of someone long-since departed didn’t sound pleasant. Except—

Except, a ghost wouldn’t leave dirty dishes in the sink for weeks on end, claiming they needed to ‘soak’. Ghosts didn’t eat. A ghost wouldn’t leave bags of dirty laundry in the hallway, stinking up the place. Ghosts didn’t wear clothes. A ghost wouldn’t leave the bin overflowing without taking it down, stacking pizza boxes to the side. Ghosts didn’t eat things that came in boxes. And a ghost wouldn’t leave unwanted presents in the bathroom. Ghosts didn’t have bladders or bowels.

Sure, it wasn’t an ideal situation. But Peter had had worse roommates before. A ghost was a step up from Shaun and Gary. Hell, a ghost was several steps up – almost a whole staircase. And, if worst came to worst, he could put up some crucifixes and sprinkle holy water whenever he vacuumed. Or he could hire an exorcist to dispel the spirit. It was like a cockroach infestation, but less creepy. It was easier to deal with this than to deal with a nightmare of a human being who’d managed to reach adulthood.

‘Whooooo… aaaaarree… yoooouuuu?’ repeated the ghost.

Peter grinned. ‘Your new roommate.’

The ghost screeched and began reciting backwards Latin. The furniture started trying to float. The letting agent shrieked and held onto the dining table as her chair bobbed into the air. But that, too, was starting to teeter on its legs.

Peter grabbed her foot as she rose in the direction of the ceiling. He looked up at her and yelled over the sound of the tantrumming ghost.

‘Let’s talk contracts!’