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It Pays To Do Research

“The title search came back fine.”

“But?”

“Oh, nothing... really.” He fumbled with some papers. “It's just gone through a number of owners.”

“What, is it haunted?”

He laughed at that. “It's a good deal, Jack. You can't find a big Victorian at this price. Not in this town. Now that's a fact. Anything else is just talk.”

“I'll think about it, Henry.” I promised I'd get back to him.

I went directly to the library. And there was always the local Historical Society.


“$145,000. That's my final offer.”

“145!” Henry laughed out loud. But I knew I had him.

“That house is haunted, Henry.”

“Now where'd you hear such nonsense, Jack?”

I dropped the folder on his desk. The grin left his face as he flipped through the articles and coroner reports. “Henry, you'd be lucky to give that house away.”

“That's bull. This house is a steal at 175, and you know it.”

I collected my folder. “145, Henry. Call me if you change your mind.”

He called.


It was a steal at 175, and an even better deal at what I paid. But it certainly seemed to be haunted. There were lots of small unexplained annoyances. Furniture never stayed put. I'd find the claw-footed bathtub full of hot water in the middle of the night. Still, I persisted, for I am not afraid of ghosts.

One night, about two weeks on, I heard noises downstairs. I grabbed a heavy stave I kept near the bed, and crept to the stairs. “Who's there? I've got a gun!” I lied.

There was a skittering sound, almost like a dog scrabbling across a linoleum floor. 'Probably just kids.' I descended the stairs as quietly as I could. The third step from the bottom creaked when I stepped on it. The noises stopped, throwing the house into total silence.

There were more skittering noises as I made my way towards the kitchen. “If you kids don't scat, you'll be sorry!” The basement door slammed as I entered the room. “Okay! I warned you!”

I yanked the door open. There was no one there. I flipped the basement light switch. The lights did not work. It figured. I gripped my cudgel and went down anyway.

It was fairly dark, but street lighting came through the four small windows. The light cast stark shadows in which anything could be hiding. I was halfway across the basement when something started taking shape near the furnace. Slowly, it took on the form of a man.

He looked to be dressed in mid-nineteenth century attire. He bore an uncanny resemblance to the original owner. Except for the oddly twisted neck, he looked just like the man in the Historical Society photos.

“You better get out of here!” I brandished my club.

He roared with laughter.

I backed away, which emboldened him. It was obvious that I would not make it to the stairs. Quite suddenly he rushed forward, hand reaching for my chest, intending to stop my heart. I dropped the staff and grabbed for his arm.

His look of surprise was precious. He glared at his wrist, which I firmly held. “What is this?” he raged.

“It's time for you to go.”

The wail of his passing added to the rush that flowed into me.

I was only dimly aware that the Police had arrived. Loud banging on the front door roused me from my ecstasy. I ran upstairs, disheveling my hair as I went. I gave them my best wide eyed look as I opened the door.

“We had a report of a scream from this house.”

I stepped aside as if to let them in. “I saw a ghost!”

The lead officer gave his partner a knowing look.

“Anyone hurt?”

“No.”

“Sorry, buddy. We don't do ghosts.”

“That's... that's okay.” I stammered as they turned away. I closed the door and smiled. “I do.”

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© 2009 by Jon M. Strother. All rights reserved.

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