This is a teaser for a ghost story novella that I am writing.
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Kyle and Jen Jacobson, stood in the partially furnished solarium room of the mansion they were considering to purchase. Jen looked up at the walls and ceiling that were paneled with a reddish wood.

“Cedar or redwood?” she asked her husband, brushing her hands along the wall. She rubbed her fingers together and made a disgusted grimace at the dust that clung to her hand.

“For three-mill it had better be ancient redwood,” he answered, sarcastically.

From somewhere in the other end of the house the sound of a slamming door made the woman jump, and turn a curious eye to her husband. “That’s the third time,” she said as though accusing him.

He shrugged. “Air flow. The seller needs to fix all these doors. The slightest bit of air will cause them to slam that way. Haven’t you noticed? Every time we leave a room the door slams behind us. I suppose we could use doorstops, but for this price…”

“True,” she agreed, “but that's a good point to negotiate for dropping the price.”

“You know, I could break through here and open these rooms up,” he said offhandedly, while surveying the wall. “I wonder what idiot designed this house? It's all corners and hallways. The loft is nice I suppose. Still, the traffic pattern is a nightmare.”

The door to the solarium slammed hard, causing the windows to rattle.

She jumped and spun on her heel, “See! It happened again, and no one left the room. I'm not sure I like this place.”

He laughed at her slightly, making a mocking wave of his fingers. “What's the matter, Jen, are you afraid it's haunted? You've been reading too many Stephen King novels. It's just a house, made wood and stone, with an air flow problem.”

She scowled and turned away from him. “I think I'd like to keep looking around the area. Let's go now, there are other places to look at in the valley.”

“I suppose you’re right,” he said and headed to the door to open it. “There are plenty of mansions at this price that don't need half the work done to them. Talk about a true blow-up job.” The doorknob pulled from his hand, as again the door slammed shut. Beyond that, the sound of another door further down the corridor slammed as if in response. A neglected house plant teetered on the window ledge and crashed at Jen’s feet.

“That's it!” she said throwing her hands in the air. “There is no way I could ever live here. The place has to be haunted!”

“Nonsense,” he said, cautiously reopening the door, “It's air flow, too many walls and corners in this place.”

“All the windows are closed, Kyle! It's ten degrees outside, how can it be air flow?” she argued, rubbing her palms against the cashmere sleeves of her sweater.

He laughed and slipped his arm around her shoulder and led her out of the room. They walked past the library, to the main gathering room, to where a tall woman, armed with a big patronizing smile, stood with a look of eager anticipation on her face.

“Ah, Mr. and Mrs. Jacobson, isn't this a marvelous house?” the woman said, grandly making a sweeping motion with her hand toward the skylight. “And perfect for entertaining and privacy, and the best view in...”

“We're really not interested. Thank you for your time, Carol,” Jen said, with half a nod, as she hurriedly donned her silk-quilted ski parka, and practically ran toward the door. Kyle flashed an apologetic smile and a shrug, and followed his wife out.

Left standing in the deserted room with the words to her unfinished sales pitch still on her tongue, Carol Reade, realtor to the stars, flipped the clasps on her designer briefcase closed with a dejected click. “Another one bites the dust.”

A stocky young man strolled out of the kitchen with a half-smirk, half-frown on his face. “They lasted ten minutes longer than the last people who looked.” He absentmindedly removed the baseball cap he was wearing with one hand and raked his fingers through his hair with the other, then replaced the cap. His customary motion that usually precluded a declaration of defeat. “I should just give up you know. No one will spend more than fifteen minutes here before deciding they don't want it”.

“Now Denny, we just have to be patient.” Carol assured him, with a big patronizing smile. “Houses like this sometimes take months or even years before they sell. I think they were looking for something a little more, oh, modern perhaps. I'll find out what it was that they didn't like.”

“I sometimes feel as though I’m trying to sell ice in Alaska.” Denny laughed half-heartedly.

The realtor packed her papers and put on her gloves. “I'll be in touch. Would you like to lock up or shall I?”

“You go ahead, I'll be along. Thank you, for your help, Carol. Goodbye now”.

Carol gathered her belongings and headed toward the door, pausing to give him a sympathetic motherly look. “Chin up, we'll sell it.” She turned and walked out the big wooden front door. He watched her walk past the front window, down the walk to her BMW. Finally, she was gone and he was alone.


Denny paced the floor, brooding over the parade of prospective buyers who had invaded his boyhood home. Some he knew right away were merely curious tire kickers, more interested the notoriety of the former owner than in the house itself. He looked around the familiar room, cozy with a friendly inviting fire dancing on the hearth and meticulously arranged furnishings. The baby-grand piano, once the most festive object in the room, stood comatose in the alcove, the glossy black finish muted under a patina of dust. The open lid caught the last of the afternoon sunlight and reflected it back into the room, casting an eerie shadow on the fireplace. Denny stared at the fire, lost in thought. He knew the problem well enough. He had no doubt at all why the house hadn't sold.

A slight draft from down the hall reached his face. A glance in that direction confirmed his suspicion, as he watched the doors to the bedrooms and library quietly swing open and come to rest in the normal position. The fire jumped a bit as a log split and fell through the grate. He waited for a moment watching the fire, feeling the breeze on his face. “What was wrong with them?” he asked aloud, to the empty room.

They wanted to tear down the walls.

He tensed his jaw, then relaxed. He had only half expected an answer to his question. He didn't think he would ever really be used to these conversations. “Well, most people change things when they buy a house. It's what makes it theirs!”

They called me an idiot.

“No, they called the designer of the house an idiot, not you. They didn't know who designed it. They were the first ones to come that didn't even know who the house belonged to! They just want to live in the area.”

They didn't care about the heart of this place. They just wanted a trophy, not a home.

“Why are you making this so hard on me? I just want it over, and sold. You think it's easy for me to be here? You think I want it to just go to trophy seekers! I've been fighting those types off for over a year now and I can spot them a mile away. Why don't you just tell me what kind of people you want this place to go to and help me out instead of making it harder on me?” Denny dropped down onto the over stuffed chair by the fire and scowled. He knew the house would never sell as easily as the realtors had led him to believe, and he had a stubborn streak in him that would not allow him to reduce the price, as they had suggested.

Maybe you should rewrite the listing.

“Sure, how’s this sound? For Sale: Custom built mansion with mountain view, Jacuzzi and five car garage. Seller willing to pay for new carpeting and exorcism.”

What’s wrong with the carpeting?

Denny shook his head, and half laughed in spite of himself. “Not a thing.”

Have faith, Denny.

Silence took over the room again as he watched the last of the fire dwindle and die. He got up and poked the embers into darkness. With the fire out, the room darkened. He glanced at the green-glow of his sportsman’s watch, doing a double take of the time it displayed. It had been almost an hour since Carol had left him. “I’ve got to get going.”

Please stay.

Once again he fought the tears he knew were coming and said to himself he was dreaming. No one would believe otherwise so why should he. He hadn't even mentioned these odd conversations to his mother, who would have been the one most likely to at least listen objectively for a minute before telling him he was dreaming. No, this was not something he was going to share with anyone. “I can’t stay.”

Why?

“Because I don't believe you're really here!” he shouted to the empty room.

If you don't believe in me, why are you still standing there?

“I'm going. But before I go, could you just tell me when I can plan on selling this place?”

I know who will live here. They don't know it yet, but it will be soon. I'll let you know when the time comes.

Sure, he thought, by not slamming all the doors and making the cupboards stick or floor sag or the toilet backup. “That would be nice. See…uh, hear you later.” He walked out through the kitchen door, flipping on the porch light timer on his way, and activating the security system. He laughed at this last bit of work. “Yeah right, like anyone would have a snowballs chance in hell of breaking in there.”

Struggling to put his gloomy mood aside, he walked down the snowy drive way to where his Cherokee was parked. He was suddenly aware that he was all alone outside the walls of the house. He turned and looked back at the windows of the living room. The whole place just seemed to be looking out longingly over the valley, and he knew the melancholy would not be leaving him for some time.

“Sorta ironic, isn’t it Dad? You being stuck indoors like that.”
He put the truck in gear and drove down the hill, back to town.