This Was Not in the Listing

The farmhouse was listed as a "fixer-upper", which is all I could afford after my fiancé dumped me for his yoga instructor (Cydni… with an 'i'. Seriously.) and took all our money with him. But the house was big, and it was private.

I thought it was private.

I was minding my own damn business, scrambling eggs, which was the extent of my culinary prowess.

"Your technique, if one were to be so generous as to call it such, is abysmal." The voice came from behind me. Yes, I was startled. No, I was not scared, despite what he'd have you think. He wishes he were scary.

("You were terrified," he informs me as I write this. "You turned the kind of white that can only be seen on 50-something divorced men on the beach wearing socks with sandals and owing three months of child support.")

I pivoted on the spot, dropping my egg-covered spatula onto the floor like any reasonable woman would when confronted with a strange man in her new fixer-upper farmhouse in the middle of nowhere.

"You whisk like you're trying to punish those eggs for some unforgivable betrayal," he said.

"What," I asked, "is happening?"

The stranger frowned. "It's almost like you can hear me," he mused.

"You've got to be kidding," I said. "That's why it was so cheap. It's fucking haunted."

"You can hear me!" he crowed, and he was laughing like a complete lunatic.

("I was laughing in relief," he tells me now. "I hadn't talked to anyone in 10 years. You try going a decade without any human interaction, and we'll see how sane you are."

"A whole decade without having to deal with backstabbing fiancés and unreasonable bosses?" I say. "Where do I sign up?")

"I can hear you and see you," I said. "I knew that eggroll tasted funny. That's what I get for buying my dinner at a gas station."

"You think I'm a hallucination."

"I mean, obviously," I retorted. And now I was talking to it like it was real. Definitely food poisoning.

The stranger picked up the dropped spatula, holding it out to me. His expression was somehow…hopeful? I plucked the utensil from his hand and simply stood, waiting to see what he'd do next.

"You need a whisk, not a spatula," he explained.

"Oh. You're a real, actual ghost," I whispered.

His wary expression bloomed into an almost-charming smile. Crooked grin, hint of laugh lines around the mouth. He was handsome, this ghost, which was inconvenient.

"No," I said, in what I hoped was a firm, no-nonsense tone. "I've sworn off men forever, and even though I didn't know I needed to specify, that means all men, living or dead. You have to go."

He huffed and leaned against the bookshelf behind him, crossing his arms over his chest. "Go? You're the intruder here," he said. "This is my house."

"You're dead," I retorted. "You don't get to have things anymore."

"Rude," he said. "I'll have you know that this house has been in my family for five generations. It was literally built with our blood, sweat, and tears."

"Ew," I said.

"So if anyone has to go, it's you," he continued, ignoring me.

"I have a mortgage," I said.

"That is not my problem," said the ghost. "You have until tomorrow morning to vacate."

"And if I don't?"

For the first time, the ghost looked flustered. "I… you… " he stammered, and now he was biting his lip and wringing his hands.

"You're not very good at this, are you?" I asked, feeling an unwanted twinge of empathy.

"I haven't had much practice, but I'm a fast learner," he said, and disappeared.

—

There was no sign of him the next morning, and I made the mistake of thinking that was the end of it.

Until I returned to my laptop from a coffee break and found my quarterly report had been edited to within an inch of its life. Which, considering I hadn't submitted it yet, was decidedly odd.

Whoever my mysterious editor was had a deeply personal relationship with the Oxford comma and a clear vendetta against the word "utilize."

"Just say use, for crying out loud," read one of the margin comments. "Who are you trying to impress?"

There were more—precisely nineteen more, which I counted while practicing my deep breathing.

"Passive voice," read another one. "Own your statements, Valerie."

I glared at the screen, then looked up slowly, the way you do when you know exactly what you're about to see.

He was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching me with a look of deep satisfaction.

"What," I asked through clenched teeth, "do you think you're doing?"

"Helping, obviously."

I blew out my breath. "How do you even know how to use tracked changes?" Which was far from the most important question I had, but it was slightly less combative and a bit clearer than "What the hell?"

He huffed. "I've had ten years and a WiFi password. I'm not a Neanderthal."

I turned back to the screen. In the top right corner, the revision history read: Last edited by Henry.

"Henry," I said.

"Valerie," he replied, with a slight bow.

"Val." The correction was automatic, sheer muscle memory and habit.

Henry grinned like he'd won something.

I stood, pointing at him. "We are not friends," I said. "You call me Valerie."

"As you wish," he said. That ridiculous smile was the last thing to disappear.

—

"What unholy amalgamation of Crayola and late-80s airbrushed neon hell is that?"

"That," I said, without turning around, "is Satin Hibiscus, by Sherwin-Williams. With accents of Forest Glade."

Satin Hibiscus wasn't just pink. It was as close to an actual visual assault that I could find in the paint aisle of the local hardware store. Clearly meant for psychopaths and children's nurseries. Definitely not meant for the farmhouse's rustic, polished living room, with its cozy stone fireplace and dark wood floors. The bright green on the crown molding and baseboards added a festive air, I thought.

"It looks like Pepto-Bismol and Christmas had a baby," I said.

"This is a significant escalation," Henry pointed out.

"My ex-fiance said I was dramatic and over the top," I said, still admiring the newly painted walls. "But I don't see it."

That actually drew a chuckle from him. "It's on, Val," he said.

"Bring it… Hank," I replied.

—

First, Henry put all my socks in a tub of water and stuck it in the freezer. I retaliated—after I observed him reading several nights in a row—by carefully removing the last two pages of every book on the massive wooden shelves in the second-floor bedroom.

"They're in a safe place," I assured him as he fumed.

He then helpfully enrolled me in several email newsletters with names like Bigfoot Hunters International and Exciting Weekly Doily Patterns.

Twenty-three newsletters. I didn't know email newsletters still existed.

I responded by promptly crocheting a doily for every available flat surface in the house. Every time he'd remove one, another would replace it within hours.

(I actually found the crocheting to be pretty calming. Henry takes full, undeserved credit for the reduction in my anxiety attacks. He forgets that he's the one who caused several of them in the first place.)

"That's it," I said, after finding all of the pictures and graphs in my due-the-next-day presentation replaced with increasingly ridiculous photos of Nicolas Cage. "I'm calling an exorcist."

I was sitting at the kitchen table, gritting my teeth while I corrected the presentation. Henry stood at the stove, a towel tossed over his shoulder as he stirred something that smelled heavenly.

He'd taken to cooking after realizing that my diet consisted mainly of (incorrectly) scrambled eggs, diet sodas, alcohol, and Chex-Mix.

("It was depression food!" I tell him now. "I was in mourning. I don't always eat like a broke, stoned college student."

"Not anymore, thanks to me," he replies.)

"I'm not a demon," he informed me. "Also, I'm not Catholic."

"Do you have to be Catholic for an exorcism to work?"

He turned away from the stove, frowning as he pondered. "Only Catholics do exorcisms, right? So, it would stand to reason."

"Your logic is flawed."

He set a bowl of stew in front of me and shrugged. "Feel free to give it a shot."

—

Googling "how to exorcise a ghost that's haunting my house but is also a really good cook" led me down some rabbit holes I'd rather not discuss.

Calling the local Catholic diocese wasn't much more fruitful.

"Is this entity currently possessing you or any member of your family?"

"No, he's just really, very annoying. He keeps hiding my toothbrush. Yesterday I found it in the dishwasher."

There was a long pause.

"The dishwasher?" the deacon asked, sounding as if he were re-considering all the life choices that had led him to this moment.

"Clearly demonic," I said.

"I told you they wouldn't help," Henry said, after the line was disconnected rather abruptly.

"I'm going to the paint store," I said.

—

"Weren't you supposed to, like, go into a bright light or something?"

I was scouring the house for my cell phone while Henry played "hot or cold," which is not nearly as fun when it's done against your will.

"I didn't get a light," he said. "And you're very cold. Freezing, actually. You may die of hypothermia at this rate."

I moved from the kitchen to the living room. "Why no light? Oh! Do you have unfinished business? Do you need to track down your murderer and go all ghostly vengeance on him before you can move on?"

"You're slightly warmer," he said, while reclining comfortably on the sofa, watching me open drawer after drawer. "And no. My life—or, errrr… afterlife—is not some cheap paperback mystery novel, Val. Warmer."

"A ha!" I cried, pulling my phone from its hiding place under a sofa cushion. I stomped off to my bedroom, ignoring his stupidly adorable grin.

—

I'd just finished putting the last vinyl record into the wrong cover when he appeared, brows pulled tight over his eyes, lips thinned in anger.

"What have you done?" His voice carried nothing of the warm, teasing tone I'd come to know over the past few months.

I held up one of the covers. "Is it Fleetwood Mac's Greatest Hits or Polkapalooza? You'll have to open it to find out!"

He was moving, scanning the literally hundreds of records on the custom-made shelves and muttering under his breath. He sounded like he was unravelling at the seams.

"Where is it?" he asked.

"Um. Where is what?"

He shook his head, more agitated now, running his fingers through his hair.

"It was an old Glenn Miller pressing, kind of warped at the edges. It was right here, first shelf, third from the right. What did you do with it?"

I eyed the stacks and shelves of records with trepidation. I'd switched covers on almost all of them and had no idea where that one had landed.

"It's in here somewhere," I said, in what I hoped was a soothing voice. "I didn't get rid of any of them."

"Valerie."

Ah, my full name. Not a good sign.

I cleared my throat. "I, um… didn't know it was that important."

He was very still. Still and serious. The complete antithesis of the ghost I'd come to know.

"Henry. I—"

"These were my sister's records."

The way he said it—sharp, immediate—shut me up.

"She loved them. Hated CDs, hated digital music entirely. Only vinyl was true music for her."

I was quiet, barely breathing.

"I kept them safe and organized, even after she died. It was… I guess… an act of respect. Or—or reverence. Or whatever. The Glenn Miller was her favorite. We used to practice dance steps, right here in the living room."

"What happened to her?" I whispered.

He glanced up, lips starting to curve in a familiar smile. "Nothing dramatic, Val. She had cancer. It was relatively quick."

"What—" I stopped, unsure of my next steps.

"What happened to me?" he asked. "Is that your question?"

"Is that rude? Is that, like, the ghost equivalent of asking how you voted in the last election, or how much money you make?"

He laughed, and I felt the tightness in my chest loosen.

"Standard car accident," he said. "Nothing newsworthy or scandalous. A drunk driver, who has served his time and visited my gravesite. Goes to AA every week."

"Have you told him you forgive him?"

"I tried. He can't hear me, just like everyone else. And before you ask, I have no idea why you can."

I chose not to dwell on that. Not yet. "So, this house. It was yours and your sister's?"

"Inherited after our parents' death, yes. When she died, it was mine. When I died, well, it went to her next of kin. Her husband."

"Who sold it to me."

He nodded, and something clicked into place. No unfinished business, he'd said. No murderer to vanquish, no dramatic unresolved tragedy. Just a man who loved his house, and his sister's records, and apparently couldn't quite bring himself to leave either one behind. I understood that more than I wanted to admit.

I didn’t say anything for a moment, which, for me, is rare enough to be medically concerning.

“Henry—”

“Don’t,” he said, not unkindly.

Naturally, I did the only thing I was emotionally equipped to do. I was starting to understand him, this man, alive or not. I already knew how he would respond.

“He killed you,” I said, nodding sagely. "For the family home. Staged a drunk driving accident. That's why your soul is attached to the house. You won't have peace until you destroy him, utterly and completely."

His lips twitched. Very slightly, but I noticed. "Val," he said, attempting to sound stern.

"He knew," I continued. "Knew he'd never inherit the family fortune, not until all of the legitimate heirs were dead. He never suspected that you'd overcome the very grave to seek your vengeance."

Henry shook his head, lip-twitching turning to a full smile. "You're ridiculous," he said.

We both paused, smiling at each other like idiots.

"I'll find her record," I said, finally. "The George Mason one."

"Glenn Miller," he corrected, obviously stifling a laugh.

"Whatever."

—

After that, the change was gradual.

One day, I'm rearranging all of his carefully ordered books by the color on the spine while he's filling my liquor bottles with mouthwash.

("It still has alcohol in it, so ha!" I'd told him. "Now where's my whisky?"

"It's in a safe place," he'd said, a bit too smugly if you ask me.)

The next thing I know, I'm coming home bearing some stupid book that he happened to mention three days ago, presenting it to him with a scoff. "I found it in a bargain bin at the thrift store for fifty cents," I said. "I think someone threw up on it. It's kind of sticky there in the middle."

"It's a brand-new publication," he said, grinning for no good reason. "It just came out this week."

"I guess it sucks, then."

The next thing I know, he's making dinner every night, sitting with me while I eat, and regaling me with tales of books he's read, shows he's watched, and plays he wants to attend. He's listening to my stories about histrionic co-workers, that one guy who stands outside the grocery playing only Queen's Greatest Hits on his guitar, the voicemails from my ex imploring me to call him, to give him another chance.

Henry can't eat, so he asks me to tell him how everything tastes.

It always tastes great. I don't always tell him that.

Then, I'm a bit emotional after finally telling my ex to stop calling me, realizing that it's really, truly over. I may have shed a tear or two on Henry's jacket.

("You sobbed on my shoulder for an hour," he says now.

"I was very slightly leaking from my eyes," I retort.

"I can't replace these clothes," he says. "They are literally the only thing I can wear."

"Ew," I say.)

I told Henry that my tears weren't necessarily about the ex; they were about relief, loss, sadness, excitement, and all the things that go along with a major life change.

"Made worse by being haunted by the world's most stubborn ghost," Henry said.

"Or maybe made better by," I replied, just to see that absurd smile.

—

I repainted the living room. I let Henry choose the color.

It took three coats of primer to cover up the pink and green. But we'll always know it was there.

That was eight months ago. I'm still here. So is he.

I'm writing this down mostly because Henry suggested it. Maybe he thought it would be cathartic. Guess what, Hank, it's not. I don't need catharsis.

He is reading over my shoulder as I write, which is exactly as annoying as it sounds.

"There's nothing wrong with an appropriate release of strong, suppressed emotions," he says.

"Never say any of those words in a sentence again," I order him.

Henry smiles. That dumb, infuriating smile.

"As you wish," he says. "But I will correct your run-on sentences and abysmal cooking techniques until the end of time."

And I am weirdly OK with that.