#ShortStorySaturday: “When You Buy an Old House…” by Steve Rouse

Please enjoy our first Short Story Saturday submission from Steve Rouse.

When You Buy an Old House…

Home from college for the weekend, I was anticipating a serious night of drinking and revelry with my old friend, Frank. He and I stopped to see the new “old” house of some friends. They’d been there about three months.

After a detailed tour, we huddled in the kitchen, complete with Miller Light, as the newlyweds began to elaborate on some peculiarities they’d experienced since moving in. I was ready to leave, not to be antisocial, but due mostly to being allergic to their cat, Simon.

“Seriously,” Lynn said, “I’d set the pictures out just that morning. When I came home after work, they’d all been rearranged! Bob leaves before I do and hadn’t gotten home yet. Everything had been moved.”

Bob swallowed his beer hard. “To be sure! But we get the usual, too. We’ve been down here eating and heard footsteps upstairs. You can track it walking across the rooms, through the hallway, and down the stairs.” He pointed as he spoke, ending his gesture at the bottom of the steps that emptied into the very room we were in.

“Don’t forget the time –“ started Lynn.

“That’s the one that always gets me!” Bob grimaced.

“Wait a minute,” I interrupted.  “You guys seriously expect me to believe you’ve got, what, a ghost? C’mon!”

“Yeah. we call her Evie. Pretty cool, huh?” Lynn smiled. “But, listen. Bob tells this better than I do.”

Bob wasted no time. “Okay, so, Lynn was upstairs painting the front room and I was down in the basement hanging some florescent lighting. We’d been here about a week. Lynn comes down. ‘What do you want?’ she asked.

‘Nothing. I’m good, I told her.’

‘So, you didn’t need anything?’

‘Nope.’

‘Screw you! I’m too busy and too tired to play games.’ And with that, she went back upstairs.”

“Okay, I thought, she’s had a long day. About half an hour later, I heard her call me. So, mindful of her mood, I dutifully trucked upstairs. She’s painting the trim on the window.

“Yea, hon. What ya need?”

“What? I don’t need anything.”

“Why did you call me?”

“I did no such thing.”

“But I heard you.”

“Just like I heard you?”

“But, I swear, I didn’t call you, I said.”

“Same here,” she said, looking at me like I’m supposed to be reading her mind and just, like, you know, understanding.”

“That’s when we decided we had our own poltergeist. Lynn’s convinced it’s female, since most of the things that happen involve rearranging stuff.”

Frank was scratching the cat’s neck as it sat on the countertop. “That’s pretty weird. If I were you, I’d put the FOR SALE sign back out in the front yard.”

“No way! This is too much fun. Okay, a little inconvenient, I mean, having to rearrange all the things she moves. But it’s amazing to know someone’s spirit is still in this house and is interacting with us like this. I love it! So does Simon.” I could tell from the tone of her voice she was sincere.

Frank’s eyes widened. “The cat does? How do you know?”

Bob’s turn again. “He seems to know where the ghost is. Sometimes he startles and runs out of the room. Other times, he’ll just sit and look, like he’s watching someone walk across the floor.”

“Really, the cat knows where the ghost is? Fine.” I walked over to it. Despite my need to sniff and sneeze, I faced the cat, just inches away. “Okay, cat. Where’s the ghost? Show me the ghost.”

Just remember that a cat is, well, a cat. Their genetic independence does not allow them to be ordered around. This one was no exception. Simon basically ignored me. To help, Bob and Lynn joined in the chorus. Lynn came over to us and put Simon on the kitchen floor, prompting him all the time.

Simon finally stretched and then, in his cat-like coolness, casually sauntered into the next room, the laundry room, through its half opened door. We stood there, dumbstruck. The silence, though complete, thickened when the cat poked its head out of the room as much as if to ask “Aren’t you coming?” and then withdrew behind the door.

All three looked at me. My palms were sweating, but I accepted their unspoken challenge, walked over and opened the door. The cat stood in the room’s center at an impossible angle. Its back was arched, and it was leaning against…nothing. By all rights it should have fallen over on its side. But it stood there, leaning against thin air. Within thirty seconds, I was in the car and headed for home.

A month later, on my next visit home, I found myself parked outside Bob and Lynn’s. Back in their kitchen, I apologized for my rude departure and asked Lynn’s permission to wander the house to search for… something, anything that’d help me come to grips with what I’d experienced. I’d never believed in ghosts and wasn’t ready to do so now. She smiled and gently encouraged me to take as much time as I needed.

I wandered each room and hallway. I touched picture frames. I spent over an hour trying to connect with this place. I felt no vibes, no connection; even the cat ignored me. I found myself in the living room, standing in the archway next to the couch. I scanned the room, chagrined that I couldn’t find something I didn’t want to admit was real.

Then I froze, eyes wide.

Across the room was the TV. It was off. I saw my own reflection in its screen. I also saw, seated on the end of the couch nearest me, an older woman. She wore a yellowish floral dress and a white apron. Her hair was gray and tied up in a bun. She was looking up at me.

If I moved my hand a few inches, I would have brushed her cheek. But I knew if I turned to my right, she wouldn’t be there. After a long minute of finding that I couldn’t breathe, I mustered up the courage to look. She wasn’t there. Glancing back at the TV proved that as well. On the way out, I told Lynn about her ghost.

Image by Benjamin Balazs from Pixabay

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About the Author

I’ve always loved words. However, crafting them into a viable story that carries the full weight of emotion, action, or scene description to the reader that resided in my brain at the time of its writing is another thing altogether. I whittled away at this craft while teaching middle schoolers to love words and stories, too.

Now that I’m retired from teaching, my wife and I enjoy quiet times at home in Northwestern Wisconsin. She with her recipes, me with my stories. The love of kids, grandkids, pets and an occasional zoo trip fills the void.