Home Is Where The Haunt Is

A scream rips through the night. 

A stout woman bursts onto the dead front lawn. She pounds through the wrought iron gates and races to the sidewalk- she trips- the screaming pauses- she pitches forward, windmilling her arms- the screaming resumes as she catches her balance and makes a break for the sedan across the street.

I watch her from the shattered window, despair at her leaving and awe at her lung capacity growing in equal measure with every frantic step she takes. “Hey!” I bellow, climbing onto the fire escape. Breath escapes me in a hiss as a shard of glass tears a hole first in slacks- my best slacks, dammit- then in my leg. I scramble down the stairs, hopping the last few feet to the ground- just as she slams closed the door of her car. “Hey!” I yell again.

She screams again at the sight of me sprinting pell-mell across the lawn. The engine sputters to life, and she stares with her mouth stretched wide as the car rockets forward-

Directly into a stop sign.

The stop sign bows to the pavement at a nearly perfect 90 degree angle. Something metal clatters off of her car. Completely unphased, the screaming woman reverses, makes a wide arc around the stop sign, and screeches away, leaving nothing in her wake but a battered license plate, the echo of tires, and me, surrounded by stars and crickets and one old, ugly house.

I shove my hands through my hair, mussing up the perfect gel job I did this morning, and sit down on the brittle grass, slacks be damned. Another attempt, another failure. I rehearsed every word, practiced every gesture, perfected every step, and for what? She barely made it two rooms in before it all went to hell. 

I allow myself one long, frustrated groan before I haul myself to my feet and trudge back to the house.

I shove open the old, heavy door and step into the bleak front entryway. A breeze stirs as I step foot on the welcome mat, raising the hairs on the back of my neck, rattling the hanging pots in the kitchen down the hall, whipping the curtains, curling around my ankles, curling up my spine.

It starts as a low hum, and then rises into a voice. The timbre is deep, with the crackling articulation of stones ground together, and each word is spat like a curse, the origin coming not from anywhere I can see but from the air itself, or maybe from inside my own head:

“I WILL PEEL YOUR SKIN FROM YOUR FLESH. I WILL SUCK THE MARROW FROM YOUR BONES. YOU WILL REGRET THE MOMENT YOU DARED TO PASS OVER THE THRESHOLD OF THIS SACRED-”

“It’s me, asshole.”

There’s a pause. The wind swirls once around my chest, then settles somewhere around my feet.

“....HELLO, RICHARD.”

I stalk past the hallway’s bleak, peeling wallpaper and into the kitchen, sinking onto a breakfast bar stool adjacent to the center island. I gaze mournfully at the elegantly organized hanging copper cookware and the gleaming marble counters I meticulously cleaned.

“DID YOU SELL THE HOUSE.”

“Look into my eyes and ask me that again.”

The wind curls around my wrist, and I swiftly cross my arms. It retreats.

“THAT MOST LIKELY WAS NOT RELATED TO THE WINDOW I BROKE.”

I say nothing.

“OR THE DOORS I SLAMMED.”

I say nothing.

“OR THE TIME I CALLED HER A DARK STAIN ON MY HOUSEHOLD AND TOLD HER I WAS GOING TO UNRAVEL HER INTESTINES.”

I throw my arms up and jump off of the stool, pacing the tiled floor. “I can’t believe you just ruined my chances of a sale, again! Do you have any idea how much trouble I’ll be in when they find out they have to replace another window?”

“TAKE IT OUT OF MY ESTATE.”

“This house is your estate.”

“I HAVE CONVENIENTLY ALREADY REMOVED IT FROM MY ESTATE.”

“I hate you.”

The wind roars down the hallway and promptly knocks me onto my ass. “Why can’t you let one person look at the house in peace?” I demand from the floor. “Just one! That’s all I ask!”

“SHE WASN’T THE RIGHT ONE.”

“You say that about everyone. If you just told me what you wanted-”

“NO.”

“Then I guess we’re stuck in this loop forever.”

I take a deep breath, then let it out slowly. Not forever, I remind myself. Just until I sell the house.

“IT’S STILL NOT THERE.”

“What’s not there?”

“IT.” The wind at my neck feels weak, like a breath. “THE SPIRIT YOU’RE LOOKING FOR.”

My stomach drops. “Him,” I remind it. “The spirit is a him.”

I glance out the window. It’s just past sunset; the night has barely begun. “Time for rounds.” I grab my briefcase from where I’ve left it on the kitchen table and make my way towards the front door. “Try not to smash anything while I’m gone,” I add over my shoulder.

“NO PROMISES.”

Stop One is 46 Holland Avenue. 

It’s a townhouse, relatively pleasant-looking from the street, with a brick facade, charming shutters, and a little porch with a rocking chair. Unfortunately, it’s set apart from its cheerful, burnt red neighbors by the black stain around the second story window, seeping closer to the front door every day. I’ve powerwashed it with holy water twice now, but it’s made no difference.

I fit a brass key into the lock and step carefully inside. A quick sweep of the foyer and kitchen shows that everything has stayed the way I left it last week, the unfurnished space clean, neutral, and move-in ready. A little bit of tension melts off of my shoulders, but only a little. I know the real danger is the second floor.

I take the stairs cautiously, favoring my still-bleeding right leg. I whisper out loud:

“One. Two. Three. Cat.”

There’s a soft meow! from somewhere to my right, accompanied by the tinkling of a tiny bell.

“Five. Six. Seven. Door.”

A cabinet slams shut in the kitchen.

“Nine. Ten. Crying.”

The weeping begins, directly above me.

“Twelve, thirteen, and…”

She appears.

The translucent, ivory-colored woman before me is dressed in a tattered nightgown, her matted and bloodstained hair framing a gaunt face. She hovers a few inches above the ground. Bright white fog spills from the shadows behind her and pours down the steps, pooling around my feet. 

I brace myself and look up to meet the hollow, black, empty pits where her eyes are supposed to be.

“Good evening, Imelda.”

She narrows her not-eyes at me.

“Have you brought me what I seek?” Her flat, cold voice fills the stairwell, but her mouth never moves.

“I have.” I open my briefcase and pull out a can of tuna. I peel open the tin lid and place the can down next to me.

There's another MEOW! and the front half of a translucent calico cat comes barreling down the steps, the second half close behind. The front half eagerly laps at the tuna while the back half bumps repeatedly into the banister.

I raise an eyebrow at Imelda. “Are we good?”

She gives a solemn nod.

“So now it’s my turn, yes? Like we agreed?”

She narrows her not-eyes even further, but reluctantly nods again.

“Wonderful. Here’s what I have for you today.” I pull a packet out of my briefcase and hold it out to her. She drifts forward and takes it, examining the photos and handwritten notes. Her hands look less translucent when they make contact with the paper. I am, of course, familiar with the difference between poltergeists and ghosts. So is my left wrist, which she broke six months ago when she kicked me down the stairs. This was before I figured out the thing with the tuna.

“She’s young,” I say. “Around your age. But she’s been married for five years.”

Her ghostly brow furrows as she does the math.

“That’s right- a child bride, like you.” I watch the back half of the cat tumble down the steps. I would try to catch it, but it’s a ghost, not a poltergeist. “She got away, and now she needs a fresh start. Somewhere she can feel safe and begin her own life.”

The not-eyes meet mine. “You think of this place?”

“I do.”

“You think of this, the place of my murder, of my centuries of torment, as a place of safety?”

“No,” I answer. “I think of you as a place of safety.”

She is silent.

“I know you don't like me,” I continue, “and I am truly sorry for disturbing you. I understand that haunting the house of your torment is the only means you have to express how badly you were abused. But I also understand that you were once a kind, lovely girl. And I strongly suspect that protecting another kind, lovely girl would bring you much greater closure than kicking me around once a week.”

The side of her mouth twitches.

“And,” I add, “She has two cats.”

She ducks her head, her mangled hair covering her face. 

“I will allow a visit.”

I beam at her. “How does tomorrow sound?”

“Acceptable.”

“Well, I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

I start to back down the steps.

“Richard,” she calls.

I pause. “Yes?”

“It’s still there. The cloud around your head.”

“Ah.” I hesitate. Then I ask her again. “Imelda, am I haunted?”

She provides her usual answer. “In a manner of speaking. But-”

“But not,” I finish for her, “in the manner I’m referring to.”

She fixes her not-eyes on the cat. “No.”

“Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow.”

I take the steps to the front door backwards, the image of Imelda watching the front half of her cat pretend to eat a can of tuna slowly fading, until my foot touches the ground floor and it disappears entirely.

Stop Two is Holloway House.

It sits forlornly at the end of a cul-de-sac, its neighbors long lost to decay and demolition over the last hundred years. It teeters precariously on an uneven foundation, its turrets slumping heavily to the left, giving the entire place the appearance of existing in mid-collapse.

There’s a young woman standing on the front lawn, her head tipped back to take in the entire structure. She’s wearing a long purple skirt covered in stars and some kind of turban around her head. Even from my car, I can see the Spirit Halloween tag sticking out from the end of the turban.

I get out and join her. “What do you think?”

“I’m not sure,” answers Madame Melodia. “I mean, I can kind of see the appeal. With a little work, it could look pretty spooky. But are you absolutely sure it isn’t going to just topple over?”

Right on cue, the house sighs deeply. The turrets briefly straighten, then shake themselves out as they lean back into their usual positions.

“Oh, yes,” she says with a wicked grin. “They’ll totally believe I’m psychic now. Sold!”

I get her paperwork out of my briefcase and close the deal. The ethics of using a ghost to swindle townspeople into believing Madame Melodia is a real medium are well beyond my paygrade.

As she hands me back my favorite pen, I ask, “Madame Melodia, is there a spirit trying to contact me?”

She frowns. “How the fuck would I know?”

“Nevermind.” I go back to my car.

At Stop Three, I quickly check up on the ghost of an elderly man who haunts the apartment he shared with his wife. She died ten years ago, but he insists that he will not pass to the afterlife until he sees her again. I continue to remind him that he can’t see her again until he passes to the afterlife. He says, again, that he will not pass to the afterlife to see his wife again until he… sees his wife again. I remain confused.

I only had three stops scheduled. I could be done. But- there’s this dread, in the pit of my stomach-

At Stop Four I look for a way into the little ranch that sealed its doors to me last week when I insulted it by accident. I don't find anything, but when I loudly remark how bright the paint looks, and how marvelous the garden appears in the moonlight, I hear a door unlock somewhere. Progress.

It should be enough to call it a day. It’s well past midnight. But the idea of-

At Stop Five I narrowly dodge a textbook that an ex-professor poltergeist chucks at my head across a haunted classroom. I really, really have to be done now.

I have to. I have to. 

I don't want to-

None of the ghosts I’ve seen compare to the terror of coming home.

Because I open the door to my apartment, and he’s everywhere.

There’s a photo of us on the table by the front door, me smiling, him laughing. His favorite fall jacket is still draped carelessly over his armchair. I haven’t put away the clean dishes he left on the drying rack.

The bedroom, the bedroom. He had this soap he always used in the shower, with some unnecessarily masculine name. I don't shower with anything else now. The bed reeks of it, but somehow it doesn’t smell like him anymore. And the photos on the nightstand, his beautiful face, his braids, his silent, laughing eyes.

He’s everywhere and he’s nowhere.

This is the only place I sleep in. The only place without creaking floorboards or floating furniture or bright apparitions. It’s the only place that isn’t haunted, but I wish- desperately- that it was.

I tear my eyes away from his face and put away my briefcase. I change into sweatpants and a T-shirt and climb into my side of the bed. 

There aren’t enough half-empty cups of tea scattered around the room. There’s no one breathing beside me, no one blinking sleepily awake to ask how the ghosts treated me tonight. 

It’s been one too many nights without him and I have had enough.

I get out of bed. I sweep a few essentials off the bathroom sink and into a bag. I grab my briefcase off the kitchen floor. And I leave.

“I WILL PEEL YOUR SKIN FROM YOUR FLESH. I WILL SUCK THE- wait- I WILL SUCK THE MARROW FROM YOUR-  hold on a minute-”

I’m already in the kitchen, furiously slamming my briefcase down on the counter. “I’m staying,” I announce.

There’s a pause.

“STAYING.”

“Just for the night. I can’t stand to be- I need somewhere to stay. You can smash windows all you want, see if I care, you piece of work, I’ll probably sleep through it anyway after the night I’ve had-”

“ALRIGHT,” it interrupts.

I freeze with one foot on the steps.

“I- did you just say alright?”

“I DID.”

I don't know where to direct my glare, so I aim it at the ceiling. “You have physically removed four potential buyers from this property in the last week alone. You’ve broken three windows, you put a hole in the dining room wall, you fried the electrical circuits twice, and you haven’t even entertained the idea of allowing someone to put in an offer, nevermind buy the house. But I march in here and announce that I’m staying the night and you say alright?”

“YES. PRECISELY.”

“You absolute pain in the ass.” I rub my hands against the headache behind my eyes. “Jesus Christ. If you would just act this way with one of the buyers I would finally figure out who it is that you’re looking for.”

The wind brushes gently against me. It feels like a hand on my shoulder.

“YES, RICHARD. PRECISELY.”

My breath catches. I sit down heavily on the steps.

“Me?”

The wind curls down my arm and wraps around my wrist.

“But- I don't understand. I’ve been here every day, why didn’t you say anything?”

“THERE ARE RULES,” it replies, “AGAINST THAT SORT OF THING.”

“Rules,” I echo faintly. I look out into the kitchen, at the beautiful marble counter, at the copper pots and pans. I look at the heavy, wooden oak front door, impractical and gorgeous. I look up the rickety stairs, towards three bedrooms, two baths, and a creaky attic. And a fire escape. And the most recently broken window.

“Rules,” I repeat. “We would have to set some.”

“WE WOULD NOT HAVE TO.”

“First, you can’t kick anyone out of the house.” A gust of wind hits me directly in the face. “That one is non-negotiable. Wait, ok, how about this: you can’t kick anyone out unless I specifically ask you to.”

“I WILL ALLOW IT.”

“Wonderful. Ok, second, you can’t break any more windows. Seriously, I’m running out of window installers who are willing to come over here. You have a reputation.”

“I MAY HAVE GONE A BIT OVERBOARD WITH THE WINDOWS.” The wind swirls around my ankles.

“I appreciate your honesty.” I turn my glare firmly towards the floor. “Most importantly, we’re a team, ok? We work together. I will not exorcize you. You will not unravel my guest’s intestines. We will turn this decaying dump into a home. Understand?”

“I… UNDERSTAND.”

A change of scenery. A new routine. Companionship, albeit… incorporeal. 

Would he want this for me?

In my mind’s eye, I see him listen with bright eyes, enraptured by a story I tell him about a haunted gas station. I watch him throw his beautiful head back and laugh, reminding me again and again in his perfect voice how lucky I am to have this job.

Yes. I think he would.

I stand and climb the stairs, each creaking step as familiar as an old friend.

“Hey, what are the odds you’d let me get a cat?”

“NOT A CHANCE.”

“Hmm… we’ll see.”