[Not Just Any Other] Ghost Story

Chapter 18

May, 1939

A burgundy Plymouth coupe slowly rolled up the dirt road and stopped in front of an imposing Colonial-style house. The engine sputtered before cutting off, leaving an eerie silence in the otherwise empty landscape. A woman in a light green dress with a pleated skirt and bubble sleeves got out from the passenger seat, the brim of her felt cloche hat shielding her eyes from the sun. Meanwhile, a man in a crisp suit rounded the hood from the driver's side, slapping his fedora on his thinning head of hair.

"What's the matter, doll? Don't ya' like it?" he asked, noticing her hesitation as she took in the sight.

Turning to him, she forced a smile. "I don't know, baby. I want to, I really do. But there's this feeling I get. It's just so dark . . .."

"Well, that we can take care of, easy peasy," he said, putting an arm around her waist to draw her close. "I'll call the paintin' company next week and we'll get the siding looking good as new in no time. What would you like? Cornflower blue? Or pea green? Or how 'bout canary yellow?"

"Oh, Arthur. That's not what I meant," she said, gently pulling out of his grip. Facing the house again, she pointed at the midnight hue and eye-like windows. "The color's a bit unusual, but it'll do. It's the crummy vibe I'm gettin' off this place that's even making the hair stand up on my arm. Look."

She held up her arm, the sun glistening off the light fluff covering her milk white skin.

"Don't be silly, sugar," he said, dismissing her concern with a kiss on her hand. Nodding toward the front door, he gave her his brightest smile. It could melt her heart any day of the week and twice on Sunday. "Come inside and take a look around. I bet you'll change your tune right quick after you've seen how much space there is."

"More space is great until you're the one cleaning it," she muttered from behind as he pulled her along.

He glanced over his shoulder. "What was that?"

She bit her lip, wishing she'd kept her fat trap shut. But there was no way to take it back, so she tried to appeal to what she knew he couldn't dispute. "Nothing except that . . . well, I was hoping our first home would be something smaller. Like one of those cute little Cape Cod style bungalows in Beantown with a view of the Charles River."

"I didn't wanna end up living in the sticks neither, but Boston's still too rich for a simple salesman's salary, ya' know what I'm saying?" he said, while fiddling with the lock. The key was archaic and the mechanism likely rusty, doing its best to keep what was behind the door a secret for a little while longer. "Maybe once I'm promoted to regional manager we can afford to move closer to the city."

"Of course, baby. And if anyone can convince diners to stock Nehi soda pop instead of that overrated Coca Cola, it's you. Oh," she let out a sound of surprise as the lock finally gave way and they stepped inside.

"Didn't I say you'd like it? Look at all this light," he said, spreading his arms wide as the sun streamed through the windows from the far wall, bathing everything in a soft, afternoon glow.

For a moment, she thought that maybe she could be happy here. "That is nice," she said as her eyes took in the layout. A long hallway to the right likely led to the kitchen, an open parlor and dining area were directly ahead, while a narrow staircase wound itself upward on the left. It had everything needed for a home, but yet—

"There are three bedrooms upstairs and a bathroom with full indoor plumbing," he said, passing the banister with a wave of his arm and making a beeline to the fireplace. "But I have to say that this might be my favorite part. C'me here and look at this craftsmanship."

Urging her to stand beside him as he drew his hand along the carved woodwork of the mantle, he seemed to forget everything else.

"I'm told this house was built sometime in the 1700s, and I gotta say, they don't make 'em like they used to, do they?" he asked, still admiring the frame surrounding the hearth. "I would wager that this will still be standin' in another hundred years, easy."

"Whatever you say, baby," she replied, less interested in the glitz and more in its practicality. She'd need to stock up on a vat of linseed oil to polish all the natural wood in this place!

"You don't agree?" he asked with a dour expression, finally looking at her again.

Sensing his turning mood, she cozied up to him and stroked his face with her elegantly manicured hand. "It's not that. But don't ya' think it's too much house for us just yet?"

He pulled away. "Dontcha wanna fill them rooms with kids for me? Or are ya' too good for motherhood?"

"No. You got me all wrong—"

"It's always something with you, ain't it? Nothin's ever good enough for Little Miss Perfect," he said, taking his hat off and hitting it against his palm.

She held back the tears that were on the verge of erupting. Emotion was weakness, and she had to stay strong.

"You're right, Art," she said, taking a deep, calming breath. "I was just overwhelmed. The house is perfect. When do we sign the papers?"

He stared at her for a long moment before softening his gaze once more. After putting his fedora back on, he grabbed her by the waist and pulled her close.

"Already done, baby doll. In fact, the movers should have the first of our furniture delivered within the hour," he said, leaning in. After a soft peck on her lips, he continued, "I'm so glad that I changed your mind. You're going to love it here. Just you wait and see."