This was a toughie, since ghost stories are not what I might consider a common theme for my. But the challenge was there, and I saw it through.
Here's my entry:
"When Opportunity Knocks"
Synopsis:
The housing market is in freefall, forcing many homeowners to do anything to sell their homes. But when a visitor offers the answer to your prayers, should you wonder if his asking price is too steep to afford?
• • •
“Well, that’s the last of them,” George Miller said dejectedly. “Eighteen potential buyers, and eighteen polite ‘no thank you’s.’ ” He closed the front door, then turned to face his wife, Martha. “I’m beginning to think your brother had the right idea.”
“You mean, burn it down for the insurance claim?” Martha frowned. “I don’t think he was serious, George.”
“Maybe not, but I am.” He walked dejectedly into the front room, which contained the remnants of three deli platters, a hollowed-out watermelon and a half-dozen plates of cookies, brownies and other desserts. “I don’t know what else to do, honey. With the market the way it is these days, I don’t think we’ll ever sell this house.”
“Oh, come on, dear, don’t talk like that.” She moved closer to him and put her arms around his shoulders. “It just takes some time to find the right buyer.”
George lifted his gaze to the ceiling as if the answer to their trouble would be written there in glowing script. “Martha, we can’t go on like this. Paying for two mortgages is eating up all of our savings. And we still haven’t put away anything for the roof for the new place. Hell, maybe the whole idea of moving back to the city was just one big mistake.”
“Listen here, husband,” Martha said, with a feigned air of superiority, “you convinced me that taking that new job downtown would be a great opportunity for us. And I agreed that getting a place nearer your work would shave ten or twelve hours off your commute each week, hours you could spend with me and the new baby, when she arrives.” Martha patted her slightly bulging stomach.
“Don’t you mean, when he arrives?”
Martha smiled, realizing she’d gotten through to him. “I most certainly do not. Every one of my sisters had a girl when they carried this high, and I plan on hanging up those pink lace curtains Sarah gave us at the shower. So you’d better get used to the idea.”
George smiled in reply, though his was less sincere. “Yes, dear. Whatever you say. You’re right. As usual.” The singsong manner in his voice betrayed his true feelings.
He broke away gently from her hold to stare out the front windows at the idyllic suburban scene. Lawns as green as a Kentucky race track stretched in both directions, surrounding McMansions and starter castles as far as the eye could see. There were few trees larger than saplings, since most of this area had seen little more than corn and soybeans for the past hundred years. A pair of lawn mowers droned in the distance, competing with the yells and screams of joy from a dozen kids playing on a trampoline behind the Baker house down the street.
“It’s no use, Martha. We’re just going to face it: if we don’t sell this house by the first of the month, we’re going to have to consider filing for bankruptcy.”
“Oh, George, not that.” She joined him at the window. “You know how that would kill our credit rating. Not to mention the fact that I’d never be able to show my face at the hair salon again.” She ran her fingers through George’s slightly graying brown locks, conservatively cut just above the collar. “There’s got to be someone out there looking for a nice home. We just have to keep looking ‘till we find them.”
“We’ve found plenty of buyers. We just can’t find one that wants to buy the smallest, oldest house in Maple Shore Estates.” He held her hand tightly. “Let’s face it: either we discover some kind of miracle, something that makes our house stand out from all the larger, newer, more appealing homes around us, or we’re sunk.” He shook his head. “Martha, I’d give anything to be out from under this mortgage.”
As they looked out upon the idyllic Eden, one figure caught their eye: a small, brown-suited man, walking jauntily along the sidewalk on the far side of the street. His smile was so broad they could see it even at this distance, a smile so warm and appealing that it seemed capable of banishing all their worries just by gazing upon it. On his head was a bowler of the same earthy brown color as his suit, and he carried a large black suitcase in his right hand, a suitcase almost as big as he.
“Huh,” was all George could manage as he stared at the funny little man. “Wonder where he’s going?”
He didn’t have to wait long for an answer, for just then, the little man crossed the street and headed straight for their house.
“You don’t suppose he’s a real estate agent, do you?” Martha said.
George shook his head. “Doesn’t look like any real estate agent I ever saw.”
The little man came closer, bearing down on their home as if he had nowhere else in mind. His smile seemed to radiate a combination of relief and amusement, and it hypnotized them so that when he turned to walk up the sidewalk to their front door, both George and Martha had to shake themselves out of their stupor to answer.
Ignoring the doorbell and the ornate knocker, the little man rapped a melodious series on their door with his smallish hand, a percussive set that might have been part of a tune. George opened the door and immediately found that the little man appeared even smaller in person, and his suitcase even larger.
“Greetings, master and miss,” the little man said, bowing so low that as he flourished his bowler, it scraped the threshold. “My name is Bondtrager, Ulysses S. Bondtrager, at your service.” He returned to an upright posture and dropped the bowler back on his head, securing it in place with a gentle tap of his fingers.
George and Martha were too stunned at his appearance to even begin to ask why he was there, so the little man spoke for them. “I understand you’re having a wee bit of difficulty in selling this wonderful domicile of yours. Is that not so?”
“Uh, well,” George stammered, “um, I mean, that is—”
“You’ve had one buyer after another turn you down, and now you’re at your wit’s end.” His voice sounded Irish, yet held an air of other-worldliness that was hard to place. “You need something special to set your place apart from all the others on the market. Something unique, something amazing, something that’ll be the envy of all the other folk in your area.”
Martha said, “You’re not selling vinyl siding, are you? Because we really don’t need—”
The little man waved the rest of her sentence away. “Perish the thought, good lady. Nothing so banal as cheap plastic cladding! No, ma’am, what I’m offering is something truly unique. Think of the Great Pyramids, Stonehenge, Machu Pichu, Angkor Wat!”
“You mean, like lawn decorations?” George asked. “Because there’s a neighborhood beautification committee we’d have to run that past, and I doubt—”
“Nothing of the sort, good sir.” The little man grabbed his case and elbowed his way inside. “What I’m offering is as rare as the Auburn Hills, as ancient as the druids, and as valuable as the finest diamond.” He lugged the black case into the living room and heaved it onto the sofa.
George and Martha followed, noticing for the first time that the case had a series of catches along the top, consisting of locks and straps and clasps of all kinds. The little man began working on them as he continued. “In this day and age, people are looking for something that sets them apart, something with provenance but without the price tag. Anyone can have a Jaguar in the driveway or a bathroom for each bedroom. Where’s the challenge in that? But this,” he said, as he turned around to appraise them, “this is something that’ll get you talked about at every coffee klatch from now until the next millennium.”
He dropped the final hasp, and the top of the case flew open, flinging a smoky haze into the air. George and Martha coughed a bit as they waved the smoke away, only to catch their breath as they spied the contents of the case.
Inside were a dozen or more glass vials, each with what looked like an ancient label pasted on its front, with writing the likes of which neither George nor Martha had ever seen before, strapped to the walls of the case with the darkest blue ermine. Each vial was shaped differently from its neighbor. Some were thin and narrow, others fat and bulky. Some were swirled while others were squared off, with stoppers of every shape and kind. And inside the walls of each vial, there appeared to be a moving, writhing tornado.
The little man allowed them a few moments of wonder before he continued. “From ancient times, the one thing that every house of repute had was a spirit, a phantom, a ghostly connection between their world and the next. Every castle had them, and every lord and lady of any significance could point out to their guests on cold, windy nights, where their very own haunt walked the parapets.”
“I can’t believe what I’m hearing,” George exclaimed. “Are you seriously suggesting that we let a ghost loose in our house? That’s the most insane idea I’ve ever heard!”
“Now, George,” Martha said, squeezing his hand while staring at the bottles, “we’ve tried everything else. Goodness knows, we’ve gone through a thousand buyers without so much as a nibble. Where’s the harm in listening to Mr. Bondtrager’s pitch?”
“Spoken with the wisdom of Athena herself,” the little man said, bowing low again. “Now, for a house like yours,” he said, looking up and around, “I’d recommend...this fellow.” He reached in and removed a thin cylinder that seemed to have been twisted violently just before it solidified. “This fellow is from Madagascar. An elderly pirate born in Portsmouth who fell afoul of his own crew, and was left to die on a distant shore. Imagine the stories he’d tell as he flies from room to room, whispering in the night.”
“You can’t be serious?” George said.
“You’re right,” the little man agreed. “What was I thinking? You can’t pair up pirates with Arts and Crafts.” He replaced that bottle and withdrew another, smaller than most of the others, barely large enough to hold a decent shot of brandy. Its exterior was a patchwork of crackled glaze and inscribed detail, like a miniature sarcophagus. Inside, the swirling, smoky cloud flew and danced like a captive bird, bouncing first off one side and then the other.
“Now, this one here, this is one of the true gems of my collection. This is the ghost of Ten Trees, one of the last of the great Blackfoot warriors. Held up the pacification of the Oregon Territory almost single-handedly, until he was tricked into surrendering by some of his own tribe. He prefers old wooden furniture and trim, which your house has aplenty. He specializes in poltergeist activity, so he wouldn’t do in a house with too many glass artifacts, which I’ve noticed you’ve had the good sense to avoid.”
George was about to ask the man to leave, but Martha spoke up first. “How about something more genteel? You know, less Martin Luther and more Martha Stewart?”
“Ah, a woman of true sophistication!” the little man replied with a twinkle in his eye. He scanned the contents of the valise carefully, touching first one bottle, then another, before settling on one in the bottom corner. He withdrew it slowly and held it close to his eyes.
This vial bore a delicate pattern engraved on its exterior, and was stoppered with an elegant crystal rose. “Now this one, she’s a lady in the truest sense. Traveled from St. Louis west with the wagon trains, only to be waylaid by the fiercest snowstorm ever to hit the Sierras. She’s got style and education unequalled, and she’s mighty keen on appearing in mirrors and windows when the moon is full.” The little man stroked the bottle like an old friend.
Martha couldn’t contain her excitement. “Perfect, Mr. Bondtrager! We’ll take her!” Then, realizing they hadn’t discussed the details, she asked, “How do we—I mean, how does it—”
The little man carefully placed the vial in Martha’s outstretched hand. “After I’m gone, just place the vial in a dark corner of one of your least used rooms and pull the stopper. She’ll come out, look the place over, then find a spot where she’s most comfortable. It might be a parlor, it might be the master suite. It could even a corner of the basement. You’ll hear her rummaging about during the night, but pay no never-mind. She’ll be no more a burden to you than a goldfish in a bowl.”
The little man began packing up his case, making sure each bottle was tucked back into its particular nook and locked into place with its own ermine strap. “And the next time you have an open house, just casually mention how sad you are to have to leave behind Mrs. Murtaugh. That’s her name, Elise Melanie Murtaugh. Once the buyers get wind that you’re selling an actual haunted house,” he finished closing the clasps, “I wouldn’t be surprised if you get more for your house than the asking price.”
“But, Mr. Bondtrager,” George said, still unsure as to how they had come to purchase the ghost in the bottle, “we haven’t talked about a price yet.”
The little man smiled an odd smile, tilting his head as he did. “Well, now, you look like fine, trustworthy folk. I’m willing to let you have Mrs. Murtaugh here until after your home sells, which should be an easy thing now. We’ll talk price later.” He looked sideways at Martha’s enlarged belly. “Shall we say, nine months from now?”
He bounced happily to the front door, reached up and turned the knob.
Martha held the bottle with its dancing, swirling contents up close to her face, before she realized the little man was almost out the door. “But how will you know where to find us, after we move?”
“Oh, don’t worry about that,” the little man said with a wink. “I’ll know exactly where to find you.” He stepped outside and had almost closed the door, when he poked his head back inside. “One last detail: don’t name your son until I return!”
The click of the door closing sounded as ominous as thunder, and the little man skipped happily down the sidewalk, back the way he came.
=============
