Open House

CW: Mentions of domestic abuse

It’s a perfect October day, my favorite time of year. The reds and yellows of the trees sparkle with a light coating of frost against the clear blue sky. I feel invigorated and ready to start the day. Peering out of the attic window, I frown. There is a ‘For Sale’ sign at the front door and two cars parked outside, one with a realtor’s logo on it. I should be used to this by now, having lived in the house for over two hundred years, but in the old days, these things were handled much more discreetly. Gentlemen talked to gentlemen and contracts and bills of sale were scratched out in elegant cursive with quill pens. It’s a very vulgar process these days, what with social media and drones taking pictures and I don’t know what all else. Yes, I am a ghost, but I keep up with modern trends. My gravestone is in the little family cemetery behind the house. It’s a bit mossy now, but still legible. Eleanor Norton, born August 3rd, 1780, departed this life November 10th, 1840. My body may have left this realm, but I always was stubborn and I refuse to depart this house. I have been here since it was new, built in a clearing hacked out of virgin forest, and I paid dearly for it.

Hearing voices, I drift downstairs and yank the front door open just as the realtor leans forward to put her key in the lock. She stumbles into the hallway as her clients exclaim in concern, dropping her folder of paperwork.

“Goodness, I’m so clumsy,” she says with a little laugh, trying to regain her dignity as she scrabbles to gather her papers. “Well, Jan and Brad, here is the historic home you’ve been looking for.”

I hover above them as she goes into her spiel. According to her sign, her name is Marabelle. She could be in her forties or early fifties. She’s had work done on her face and her teeth are impossibly white. I shake my head in sympathy. In some ways it’s easier when you no longer have a body. There’s no need to worry about all that upkeep. I drift past as Marabelle points out the hardwood floors and the original windows with their wavy, distorting glass panes. Jan shivers. She must be sensitive to the supernatural. Some people are, while others wouldn’t notice if an army of specters trampled over them. Brad puts his arm round her shoulders and pulls her close.

“Are you okay, darling?”

She nods and smiles. In my day, she would have been considered a beauty, pale and slender. Nowadays people probably wonder if she’s anemic.

“That was weird. It felt like someone was breathing on me, but it must have been a draft.”

He looks professorial, with dorky owl-like glasses. Unless he’s prematurely bald, he’s quite a bit older than she is. There’s something there I don’t like. I trust my intuition after centuries of dealing with the male species. We women can’t be too careful. Marabelle shepherds them through the parlor, dining room and kitchen. I laugh to myself, picturing them trying to prepare food as we did in my day, lighting fires and hauling water. They’d be lost without their modern gadgets and gizmos.

“Marabelle, we heard that the house is haunted. Did anything bad ever happen here?” says Jan.

Brad rolls his eyes.

“Come on, Jan. You have too vivid an imagination for your own good. Supernatural stories are for entertainment, not historical fact. Let’s remember that.”

Aha. Now his true self is starting to show, condescending and impatient.

“All the same, I wouldn’t mind looking for a more modern house,” Jan says, pulling her jacket tighter around her.

“Let’s not go over all that again. It’s a rare opportunity to obtain a property like this.”

This is obviously well-trodden ground.

“Well,” Marabelle says carefully, obviously not wishing to spook Jan or to reignite an argument. “It’s a very old house. People have died here, but to the best of my knowledge there haven’t been any dastardly deeds. The house was built by Eleanor Norton in 1800. She was widowed young and inherited her husband’s fortune. Everyone expected her to look for another marriage, but she came here, to what was then the back of beyond, built the house and lived in it by herself for the rest of her life.”

Not a bad summary, though she missed a few details, like my father forcing me to marry his gambling buddy Jerome in lieu of his debts. Jerome was a widower old enough to be my grandfather. He had porcelain teeth and a potbelly and slapped me around when he felt like it. He was also greedy as a hog, so no one was surprised when he collapsed and died after stuffing himself with a meal of pork, oysters and mushrooms which I, his loving wife, had prepared for him. Resolving never again to be controlled by a man, I had the house built, supervising its construction myself which was considered most unladylike. Father came to see me after Jerome died, groveling for money to pay yet more gambling debts. I entertained him as a dutiful daughter should, with his favorite brandy. Unfortunately, he must have become a little inebriated because as I showed him around the house, he lost his balance, fell down the stairs and broke his neck. Other than that, nothing terrible has happened here. As a spirit, I admit to nothing more sinister than occasionally moving things, slamming doors and rapping on the walls. The occupants’ reactions can be very amusing. Fortunately, Marabelle doesn’t seem to know about any of that.

 Brad starts droning on about the Revolutionary War and the militias in the area as Marabelle leads them into my pride and joy, my library.

“Stop lecturing me. I’m not your student these days,” Jan mutters under her breath.

So that was how they met. An inappropriate academic relationship. Jan does not need to be tied down with this old bore who loves the sound of his own voice. Marabelle tries to divert him.

“Eleanor was considered very eccentric because she was a voracious reader and book collector.”

Indeed, I was. Too much education was thought to be dangerous for women. The last owner of the house left some books behind which I have read with varying degrees of bewilderment. I hover above Jan who shivers again.

“Marabelle, why do I keep feeling cold drafts? Are the windows not properly sealed?”

“There you go again, Jan, imagining things. Neither Marabelle nor I feel anything… ouch!” says Brad as I drop a book on his head.

It is just a light paperback, before you think I concussed him. Really, he is getting on my last nerve. Marabelle and Jan look around nervously. Brad is standing in the middle of the room nowhere near the bookshelves. Marabelle picks up the book and hastily returns it to its place.

“Let’s go upstairs,” she says, clutching her folder of information.

They troop into my bedroom and are admiring the wooden paneling when I shut the door behind them.

“How did that happen?” Jan says. “I really don’t like this place.”

“It’s probably just the wind,” says Brad, still rubbing his scalp.

“What wind? The windows are shut. Brad, for once will you stop mansplaining?”

I have never heard of mansplaining before, but I know exactly what she means. I gently caress her hair and she squeals.

“Brad, that is not funny. Don’t mess with my hair.”

She is almost in tears. Brad looks bewildered.

“I didn’t touch you,” he protests.

I pluck the folder of information out of Marabelle’s hand and toss it across the room. Sheets of paper fly out and flutter to the floor. Marabelle turns pale.

“Sorry. I told you I’m clumsy.”

Jan helps her gather the pages.

“Can we finish up? I’m not feeling very well.”

“Yes, yes, of course. There are just two more bedrooms…”

I begin tapping on the wall as I follow them. Jan screams and runs downstairs.

“Wait, wait,” says Brad, catching her arm. “You’re overreacting.”

Jan stops so suddenly that he collides with her.

“No, I am not overreacting. I didn’t want a historic house in the first place, never mind one as creepy as this. Go ahead and buy it for yourself if you’re so keen.”

I recoil in horror. I have not considered this possibility. The thought of sharing space with Brad is awful. He’s not as bad as Jerome, but close. I look around, hastily seize a vase from the mantelpiece and dash it to the floor at Brad’s feet where it shatters. He stares, speechless. Jan runs outside. Marabelle hustles Brad after her and locks the front door as fast as she can.

“I never thought I’d say this to a client, but I don’t think this is the house for you,” she says. “I certainly won’t be showing it again. Thank you for coming.”

Gravel sprays as she accelerates down the drive. Jan and Brad look at each other.

“You might be right,” he says. “A historic house like this would be too much to maintain. We can look for something more contemporary.”

“We are not looking for anything,” says Jan. “I don’t want to hurt you, Brad, but this relationship is not working for me. I need some time alone. Let’s go.”

I return to the house, satisfied.

“You go, girl,” I murmur, as I drift upstairs to enjoy my peace and quiet