I stare at the flyer, a sense of dread pooling in the bottom of my stomach like wet cement. I could still move while it was fresh, but soon it would start to harden and I’d be stuck under its weight. It was just a matter of when not if.
House for Sale; NOT HAUNTED
Open House Saturday and Sunday from 1-3PM
My eyes skimmed over most of the listing and kept settling on the same line.
“Why would he do this?” I ask, the words hoarse and soft.
“Let me see it,” Elaina says over my shoulder, making me jump.
“Shit! I wish you’d make some noise when you walk up behind me,” I say clutching my heart with one hand and holding the flyer up with the other.
“Sorry,” Elaina apologizes, not looking sorry at all. I throw the flyer back down on the pile of junk mail I had pulled it out of for her to look at. She stretched up on her toes to look at it up on the dresser, tucking some of her chestnut colored hair behind her ear as she peaked over at it. Her straight but permanently messy hair was about half the length of her petite frame and always hung loosely to her side, complimenting her scuffed converse, grass stained jeans, and oversized tee shirt. At nine years old fashion was more about functionality than style. Not that I looked much better at twenty-five in my black skinny jeans, worn in boots, and side slouching maroon sweater.
“Tre’von is here,” Elaina said just before the doorbell rang. I gave a little groan but started padding out of the room to meet him. Tre’von was already in the entrance by the time I made it out of my room. More than just my real estate agent, Tre had been my best friend for close to thirteen years. He had spent almost as much time as I had in this house, especially during high school so knocking or ringing the bell was basically a formality to let me know he was here before walking in at this point.
“What the hell is this?” I ask, before he even has a chance to finish hanging his coat in the front closet.
“I was hoping you would be gone already and then wouldn’t care once I had your house sold before the open house was over,” Tre calls, not even looking over at the listing.
“Shouldn’t we just focus on the kitchen remodel and the number or bathrooms? People love bathrooms,” I plead, knowing it was already too late. It had probably already been printed in the paper, left in a little stack at the counter of the gym, and put up on the bulletin board of the Piggly-Wiggly. That’s what I get for trying to eat through my pantry this week instead of going shopping.
“Do you trust me?” Tre asks, grabbing my shoulders and turning me around to face him.
“Depends on the context. With directions? Never again, especially after Austin,” I say with a smirk. “But to do what’s best for me? Always.”
“Listen, everyone in town already knows this house. We’ve all been talking about it since we were kids. The best way to get ahead of the whole-“Tre says waving his hand around in a broad circle.
“Decades of the town telling spreading ghost stories about my house?” I supplied helpfully, the sarcasm thick in my voice.
“The past negative perception spread through unsubstantiated rumors about this historic home with original craftsman wood details but modern upgrades and high end finishes,” Tre corrected as he steered me into the parlor.
“Right…” I agree doubtfully.
“This will work. The flyer is going to draw in all of those rubberneckers who have been dying to get in here for years. They’ll post about it on their social media and spread word of the listing to their friends in other towns who will be too blown away by the AMAZING kitchen and walk in closet in the master to put much stock in the small town rumblings.”
“It’s true. I wouldn’t care if a murder cult used to live here with a closet like that,” Elaina chirped from her chair in the corner.
“Besides, you need to move Tori and Seattle isn’t cheap. The quicker we get this place sold the less time you’ll be carrying the taxes and all that. An open house is the best way to expose you to the market,” Tre reminds me as he fixes the pillows on the couch to sit at an angle only ever seen in showrooms or magazines, not fit for real life use.
“You’re right, but I’m going to get out of here anyway before they start showing up,” I say with a little wave on my way to the kitchen. I grab my wallet off of the island and made sure to push in the barstool to line up with the other one like Tre liked.
On my way back through the house I found him still fidgeting with the placement of the decorative blanket and tray sitting on the ottoman that was hiding all of the unsightly everyday items I kept on the coffee table like my remotes, reading glasses, and various barely read magazine subscriptions that always seemed to be in the mail. Elaina saw me leaving and pushed up out of the chair to follow, passing by the mirror in the hallway in such a way that caught Tre’s attention.
“Is someone here already?” Tre called as I paused to grab my key off the holder by the door.
“No just us,” I assure him as we walk through the front door and out onto the covered porch. Across the street Mrs. Forgoes was out watering her lawn by hand to get a better look at the commotion happening at my place. I wave politely as I walk down the newly laid stone path, stopping long enough to glare at the little red sign at the end of the driveway Tre had apparently added when he pulled up. ”House For Sale; Not Haunted.” The urge to kick it over was strong but my need to flee before an early bird drove up to block up my car was stronger.
“I can’t believe he didn’t run that by you first,” Elaina notes as I unlock the car. She climbs into the backseat out of habit and waits silently for me to start the car.
“I told him I didn’t want to be involved with the process,” I say as I turned around to look down the drive as I slowly backed up. Out on the street I change the gear from reverse to drive and check the mirror to make sure a car isn’t coming up the street behind me, the backseat of the car empty in the reflection.
“Besides, it’s not like it’s a lie. The house isn’t haunted, I am.”
The Try Hard Writer 