What would it take to make you believe in ghosts?
"The Showing" by Laura J. Campbell
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The Showing by Laura J. Campbell
Mariette Sanquhar Chuter, the listing real estate agent for the house, entered the code on the lockbox, removing the brass key. She turned the lock on the heavy wooden door and entered the house at 999 Canto Street.
The owners were already in the process of moving to Fort Worth.
“Fort Worth is smaller,” Douglas Koenig explained. “Less crime than this big city. I’ve already accepted a job there. Please sell this house quickly. I don’t want to get stuck paying two mortgages for long.”
While Douglas seemed excited to be going somewhere else, Susan Koenig just looked anxious to get away.
She confided in Mariette later, after Douglas left to go to Fort Worth ahead of her and start his new job.
“There is a problem with this house,” Susan had whispered.
“There’s no problem with the house,” Mariette replied. “The inspection passed with flying colors. The neighborhood is great, the local schools are awesome. Plenty of top-notch shopping and fine dining just minutes away. You live in a very historical and very exclusive neighborhood. This house is spectacular.”
“This house is haunted,” Susan blurted out. She regained her composure. “Do you have to tell people that?”
“We don’t have to report paranormal activity associated with a property,” Mariette had replied. “And besides, no one has ever asked me that question. What makes you think the house is haunted? Have you had anybody inspect the house for paranormal activity?” She now needed to know; in case anyone did ask. A haunting might be a material factor in a potential buyer’s purchasing decision. One way or the other.
“No,” Susan answered. “I haven’t told anyone. Not even Doug. He doesn’t believe in ghosts. He wonders why anyone believes in them. I do believe. I think there’s more to us than a mortal flesh-and-blood machine. But he thinks that ghosts are just a delusion, a hallucination on the part of the person seeing the ghost. I couldn’t tell him. He’d say that I am seeing and hearing things that aren’t real. Or if they are real, that these are just noises or natural shadows; certainly not spirits. It doesn’t help that the haunting happens when I’m here all alone.”
“When did you first notice the odd occurrences?”
“They just started recently. Since we put the house up for sale. I know it sounds crazy, but it’s like the house is trying to tell me something.”
“This house was built in the 1920’s then renovated in the 1970’s and again in 2017,” Mariette pointed out. “Doug has a point. Things settle, make noise. The stairs may creak, and the water pipes may rattle a bit. I wouldn’t be concerned. You’ve moved a lot of furniture out. That can create hollow sounds in a house, as sound bounces off tilework and these gorgeous hardwood floors. I assure you, that there’s a perfectly rational explanation for anything you’ve experienced.” In her mind, Mariette thought that Susan might be just a little hysterical.
“Do you believe in ghosts?” Susan had asked.
“Yes,” Mariette replied. “My parents, and my brother and sister, have all reported encountering spirits. My sister, Diana, on quite a few occasions. My family are not the type of people to lie. So, based on their reports: yes, I believe that ghosts exist.”
“Have you ever experienced anything like that yourself?” It had been a probing question. There had been something accusatory in Susan’s tone.
“No,” Mariette had responded, realizing it was more of a confession than an answer. She had wanted to be able to answer ‘yes.’ Mariette felt oddly left out, almost wondering if there was something about her that discouraged paranormal contact. Her family was part Scottish, and Diana wove tales about how it was good luck for a Scottish home to have a ghost. After all, what kind of person were you if not even a ghost wanted your company?
“You will see,” Susan had said. “Just wait. Tell me that it is pipes rattling after you’ve been here alone.”
Rattling pipes notwithstanding, Mariette considered that it would not be difficult to sell the grand house with its opulent features. There was high demand for houses with an address in the highly respected neighborhood. The area had a deep historic allure; it was over a century old, and had been home to politicians, oil men, diplomats, entertainers, rehabilitated gangsters, lawyers, doctors, bishops, philanthropists, and playboys. Many of the current residents still practiced many of those occupations.
Mariette was prepping 999 Canto for an open house. During the COVID pandemic her house showings had been by appointment only; since then, the restrictions had relaxed. If Mariette observed limits on how many people could be in the house at one time, provided face masks, and hand sanitizer, they could provide a robust showing. Ralph Noleon was due to arrive soon, after picking up extra hand sanitizer.
Mariette put some expensive looking statues of a lion, a panther, and a wolf, not yet packed and moved to Fort Worth, in a drawer. They looked like they were made of malachite decorated with gold. They also looked like the sort of items that someone could easily sneak into an oversized purse. There was more last-minute work required to get the house ready than Mariette had expected. A lot of little things were scattered throughout the house, completely out of their places.
Her cell phone rang.
She answered it by activating earbuds paired to the device. It was probably Ralph, saying he was running late.
He usually was.
“Hello,” she answered cheerfully.
There was static on the line.
Mariette thought that odd. It was a cell phone, not a dial-up, yet the archaic noise of static buzzed on the other end.
She hung up the phone by pressing the button on her earbuds.
The phone rang again.
She pressed the button, again. “Hello,” she commanded.
Static.
She glanced at her phone.
The screen showed an active incoming call, but no caller identification. Nothing. No telephone number, no contact name, no listing of ‘Spam Risk’ or ‘Unknown Number.’
She hung up and called Ralph, noting that his contact name appeared on the cell phone screen.
“Did you just try to call me?’ she asked.
“No,” he answered. “But I’m glad that you called me. I’m running a few minutes behind schedule. I’ll be there in about ten. Apologies.”
“Okay,” she said, as he hung up the phone.
She put a few more things away. The house was very quiet. She started her open house playlist on her phone, knowing that relaxing music helped stage the house. She placed an apple-cinnamon candle on the fireplace mantel and lit it, giving the house an enticing homey aroma.
She sat down in the front formal room, looking out of a large glass window, so she could observe anyone pulling up to the house. Soft sunlight filtered through the arching branches of the very old oak trees that lined the street.
There was a noise. Static. It caught Mariette’s attention.
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