Written by RF Wilson – “Ya know, some people swear this house is haunted,” the man said to his companion as they pushed through sprawling boxwoods that had begun to conquer the front walk.
On the phone, she had introduced herself as Phyllis Nyswander of the real estate firm Nyswander and Rivers. She stopped and turned toward him. “Oh?”
“Yeah. I talked to some of the neighbors.”
“For gosh sakes. It’s an old, uninhabited, Victorian,” she said, “just made for stories like that.”
“You don’t think there’s anything to it?” he asked, holding back a branch.
Dark clouds had begun to fill the sky. The mountains rumbled in the distance. The sweet smell of ozone tinged the air, countering the stink of the shrubbery.
“Do you, Mr. Daltry?”
“Tom,” he said. “I’m an agnostic. God. Ghosts. I’m open to possibilities.”
“Ghosts, Tom?” she said. “Do you really think ghosts exist?”
He guessed that Phyllis didn’t want to entertain the notion that a house she was trying to sell could be possessed by spirits.
She was sexy in a creamy silk blouse and mid-calf leather skirt that covered the tops of black boots. No ring on her left hand. Probably a couple of years older than he. He was flirting, saying things for the sake of conversation. Even so, who was he to say the place wasn’t haunted?
“I also understand there’ve been three or four buyers whose deals didn’t go through,” he added. “You suppose they heard about the ghosts?”
“You know how the credit market is, Tom. There are no ghosts.” After a couple more steps toward the house, she turned toward him again. “Did you say you’re going to rehab it yourself?” She was giving him the once over as if trying to decide whether or not his attire — jeans, old Wolverine boots, plaid flannel jacket open over a dark blue T-shirt — conformed to her idea of what a contractor should wear. Or, maybe she just liked the way he looked.
“If I buy it,” he said.
Lightning struck off to the southwest. He counted five before the thunder came. They looked up, then at each other, their gaze held a little longer than necessary.
“Getting closer,” he said.
The shrubs gave way to an overgrown lawn, the house perched on a rise in the center. The wind picked up. Hundred year old oaks and sycamores flailed their branches.
“We’d better be quick,” she said. “There’s no power in there.”
“Ah. Better for the spirits. They hate electricity, ya’ know.”
She scowled. There was a crack in the air as lightning lit the sky.
Haunted or not, the place was spooky. Shutters hung loose. Chimneys on both ends of the roof leaned out precariously, as if inspecting the yard below. The porch roof had the contours of an old hammock. The ends of floor boards popped up in places where they weren’t missing altogether. He wouldn’t have been surprised if Vincent Price were to come out to meet them.
Phyllis stepped gingerly to the threshold and produced a key. The rain for which they’d been hearing advance warning began, seeping through the porous overhead. Light flashed though the clouds. Her hands shook and she couldn’t insert the key in the lock.
He stepped forward to help just as the key slid home. He was right behind her. The key didn’t turn. She gasped as a limb flew off one of the sycamores and hit the ground like a body slammed wrestler.
“Here, let me help,” he said as he reached for her hand and the key.
The full arc of a lightning bolt appeared in the yard, from sky to ground. The accompanying thunder shook the exhausted porch. She lost her balance. He reached around her slight waist with his free hand and pulled her close.
Nothing was the same after that.
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RF Wilson writes in Asheville, NC, where he lives with his wife, Beth Gage. He is the author of the novel, “Killer Weed,” recently published by Pisgah Press and the short story, “Accident Prone,” in the anthology “Carolina Crimes” published by Wildside Press.
