Room for Rent

By Charles Vander Vennet

The house was perfect. It was a gorgeous, two-story, white Victorian with a bright red door and a raised roof allowing room for a small attic, perfect for storage. Two large windows had been placed on the second floor. A porch spanned the entire front of the house, which seemed to give a friendly smile at passers by. Those same people always commented on how nice the house looked and often wished they themselves lived inside the seemingly warm walls.

     It's perfect, thought Jon as he walked up three steps and across the porch to the front door. A brass raven was perched at eye level. Jon took a small newspaper clipping from his pocket to make sure he was at the correct address. When he was sure he had it correct, Jon took hold of the raven and knocked its brass beak against the solid, oak door. The red door creaked open to show a small, white-haired woman.

     "You must be Jonathan," she said in such a way Jon was immediately at ease around the old woman, who Jon found to be very similar to his own grandmother. "Come in, come in."

     "Thank you," Jon said as he stepped over the threshold and into a small entryway that was adjacent to a small parlor and the dining room.

     "Would you like some tea? Or coffee? What about a small bite to eat?" she asked, a smile spreading across her face. Jon sensed that she hadn't had company in quite some time and was enjoying having him in her house.

     "Oh, no thank you, ma'am. I ate before I came over, and I couldn't possibly fit anything else in my stomach, but perhaps a cup of tea would be nice since you're offering."

     "Oh, call me Margaret. Ma'am makes me feel so old," she said as she walked through the dining room and into the kitchen. Jon rolled his eyes. You are old, he thought, bringing a smirk to his face.

     "So you're in need of a room, are you?" Margaret asked as she put the kettle on the stove, and the water came to a simmer.

     "I'm just looking for a place to call home until I find my own apartment. The market's really slow right now. I was lucky to even see your ad in the paper."

     The kettle began to whistle, and Margaret took it off the stove and poured the boiling water into two cups. She took the cups in her wrinkled, shaking hands and slowly made her way into the small parlor. Jon followed closely, making sure the old woman made it safely into the room without dropping the hot tea.

      Once they were in the parlor, Margaret placed the two cups on the table and sat in a rocking chair. Jon sat on the sea green settee.

     "I have a good feeling about you," she said with a wink. "So you can have one of the extra bedrooms."

     "Oh, wow! Thank you so much," Jon said after taking a sip from his piping hot cup of tea.

     "Do you have any bad habits that might make it uncomfortable for me?"

     "I've been known to do a bit of sleepwalking, but I haven't done that for about a year now, so it shouldn't be a problem."

     "My late husband was a sleepwalker too. He would get up in the middle of the night, walk down to the kitchen, and just stand there for half an hour, but he would always come back upstairs around two in the morning. He did it every night until the day he died."

     "I'm so sorry to hear that," Jon said with a sincere air of remorse to his voice.

     "It's quite all right. He passed away about 25 years ago so I've learned to cope with him gone, but it will be such a pleasure having a man around the house again. You can move in whenever you like. There's a bed, dresser, and chair in the bedroom next to the kitchen. It should be perfect for you if you're just looking for a place to stay until you can get out on your own."

     "Are there any house rules I should be aware of?"

     "Only one," she said after a long sip of tea, "I would prefer you remain downstairs. There's nothing upstairs that would interest you, Jonathan."

     "Please, call me Jon."

     "All right. Jon, there's nothing upstairs. Only two bedrooms: my room and a guestroom in case any of my family or friends drop by. Besides, you wouldn't want to see me or my personal effects." Jon shuddered at the thought of the old woman in her undergarments.

     "Okay, I think I can handle that. Is there anything else I should know?"

     "Oh yes, I almost forgot. Rent is due on the tenth of every month. Just place it on the kitchen counter. I'll make sure there are extra sheets and a towel in the room for you when you move in."

     "Thank you so much, Margaret. This means so much to me."

     With that, Jon said goodbye to the sweet old lady and made his way to the hotel he'd been staying in to grab his clothes and other personal items. Margaret watched through the window as Jon made his way down the tree-lined street. When he was out of sight, she smiled and disappeared into the depths of the smiling house.

     Jon reached the big red door with the raven-shaped knocker an hour after sunset with a duffle bag that was holding enough to get him by until he found his own place. He didn't even have time to knock when Margaret opened the door to let him in. She had a big smile on her face. That's kinda creepy, thought Jon, but he flashed a quick smile anyway.

     Margaret showed him to his room and quickly left him to his business after Jon told her he was tired and would likely turn in for an early night. When Jon heard the door click shut, he threw his bag on the bed and pulled out a bottle of whiskey and a glass. He poured himself a generous portion and downed it in one swig. When the burning sensation in his throat faded, Jon slipped out of his clothes and slid under the covers. He felt perfectly at ease as the heavy comforter hugged him, welcoming him to his new home. As its weight pushed down, all of Jon's worries faded away and he fell into a relaxing sleep in the dark, seemingly empty house. The only sign that someone else lived there were the footsteps walking up the steps as Jon drifted off to dreamland.

Jon woke up, covered in a cold sweat and with the feeling that someone was watching him from the chair in the corner of the pitch-black room. It felt like someone was looking straight into his soul, searching for the dark secrets he kept locked in his heart. Jon frantically searched for the source of his discomfort, but when he turned on the light he found he was alone in the small bedroom so he ignored the feeling, turned out the lights, and fell back into his whiskey-aided sleep.

     His dreams after the inexplicable discomfort were filled with horrific images of shadowy figures shrouded in a thick fog. Jon was running towards the figures to discover their identity, but no matter how close he got he couldn't see any discernable facial features. The only thing he knew about the shadows was that one was a man and one was a woman. The other figure was unidentifiable. Whenever Jon got too close, the mystery figure disappeared into the mist. In his dream, Jon felt an uncontrollable desire to unmask these mysterious figures.

     The following couple weeks went by with few nightly incidents. Every so often, Jon would wake up and feel the intense stare from the chair in the corner. He couldn't help but feel bugged out, but no matter how uncomfortable he felt, he couldn't bring himself to talk to Margaret about the strange sensations he felt late at night.

     Other nights, Jon would wake up to the sound of footsteps going up the stairs. When he asked Margaret about them, she told him she didn't know what he was talking about and that she had been asleep all night and hadn't woken up until sunrise the next morning. Jon couldn't stop himself from thinking something was horribly wrong with this seemingly perfect house.

This was one of those nights.

     ThumpÖthumpÖthump!

     Jon sat up in his bed, his heart racing so fast he thought it might explode. He took three deep breaths and slowly counted to ten, a meditative exercise the marriage counselor had taught him when Jon's wife had broken down and finally told him she'd been cheating on him for a year. Jon had wanted to rip her head off, but the counselor stepped in and took him into the hall to calm him down. Back then in the taupe hallway the exercise worked, but this time it didn't.

     After a minute of breathing heavily, Jon finally noticed he could see his breath as if it was one of those brutal winter nights when everyone looks like they're smoking a cigarette. The hairs on the back of his neck were standing at attention, goose bumps dotted his arms, and his heart was racing so fast he thought it might explode. Jon was scared out of his wits.

     When the thumping reached the top of the steps, the house fell completely silent. Nothing made a noise, but then he heard it. A faint whisper was barely audible, breaking the eerie silence that had fallen over the house. Jon held his breath so he could focus on the sound wafting in from under the door. What the hell is that, he thought as visions of demons and monsters raced through his mind. He felt like a little kid again, afraid of the unknown through the closet door, except this time it was the kitchen door.

     Throwing the covers off his body, Jon prepared to go out in search of the mysterious whisper. His legs were drenched in sweat, his thick leg hair matted down by the salty residue. He slowly inched his feet towards the hardwood floor, praying to God nothing reached out from underneath the bed and pulled him into a world of nightmares and ghostly figures like those in his recurring dream.

     His foot hovered above the floor. Jon sucked in a big breath and held it while his foot hit the floor. Immediately, his foot shot up, and all the breath in his lungs left in a flash. He tried to calm himself as his breathing rose steadily. Goddamn that floor is cold, he thought, getting out of bed, preparing to explore the bizarre whisper that had gotten louder. Now Jon could tell where the noise was coming from, the parlor.

     Little by little, Jon made his way to the door. Before reaching for the handle, he swallowed the small amount of saliva he had, making his Adam's apple bounce up and down in his throat. He wrapped his slender fingers around the doorknob and cracked the door just enough to peer into the kitchen.

It was pitch black, making it impossible for Jon to see anything. The whisper was loud enough now that Jon finally realized it was music. Eerie, ghostly jazz that sent a chill up Jonathan's spine as he stepped onto the linoleum floor.

When he recovered from the supernatural chill, he flipped on the switch to shed some light on the world around him. That's enough of this creepin' around in the dark shit, he thought as he looked around the kitchen in a complete state of fear. What he saw was horrifying. Jon had never seen anything like this.

     "OhÖmyÖGod," he managed to squeak out as he took in the ghastly sight. "I should have left the lights off."

     All around the kitchen were open drawers and cabinets. The chairs around the table were hovering half a foot off the floor, revolving counterclockwise around the antique heirloom. The hands on the wall clock were spinning so uncontrollably Jon was afraid they would fly off at any moment. Jon wasn't so sure he wanted to see why music was playing or who had started it anymore. This was infinitely worse than the feeling he sometimes got in his room.

     Holy shit! This is nuts. Am I having an acid flashback? What the fuck! This is some crazy ass shit. I meanÖwhoa, get a hold of yourself, Jon. Just go back to your room, forget you ever saw this. Should I tell Margaret? No way, she might have a heart attack, and then where would I be? I'd be out on the streets, rambling about floating chairs and strange feelings in the middle of the night. I'll get locked away for sure. I'll just forget this ever happened. Yeah, that's what I'll do.

     Despite his senses telling him to run and scream from the house, his curiosity got the best of him so he headed to the parlor. His heart raced as he poked his head into the room. The music was louder now and was coming from the record player. Jon turned his head to survey the room, and to his surprise, Margaret was sitting in the rocking chair.

     "Margaret?" Jon asked, walking into the parlor.

     "My husband doesn't like you, Jonathan," she said with a glassy stare.

     "Your husband? But I thought he was—"

     "Dead? That's right. He's been watching you, sleeping in your nice comfy bed."

     Jon's heart leapt into his throat. He swallowed hard and regained his balance, shocked at what he was hearing.

     "W-why doesn't he like me?" He couldn't believe he was asking this. The situation felt surreal. I can't believe what Margaret's saying.

     "Because you bear resemblance to the man who gunned my husband down. He had the same black hair, the same inquisitive eyes, even the same mannerisms. If I didn't know better, I'd say you were the murderer reincarnate. But I do know better."

     "Is your husband the reason behind the disturbances in the kitchen?"

     Margaret didn't answer right away. She remained silent, letting Jonathan soak in the information before telling him what was going on around him.

     "Margaret? Is he the reason for floating chairs and the crazy clock?" Jon asked, but still Margaret did not answer. "Tell me! Tell me right now!" He said getting louder, his voice cracking the louder it got.

     "Jonathan, my husband wants to kill you, exact his revenge on the man who killed him."

     "But that's not me!"

     "Yes, but you look so much like him that my husband doesn't care. He won't listen to me."

     "But if he wants to kill me, why'd he bother doing all those things in the kitchen? Wouldn't that just scare me off? Make me run away?"

     "Yes. That's exactly why I made all those things happen. I've grown to love you like the son I never had. I couldn't bear seeing you die, so I thought it best to scare you off."

     "You? But how could—"

Jonathan wanted to ask so many more questions, but Margaret faded away into nothingness, and Jonathan realized what was going on.

She's a ghost! What the fuck! I'm renting a room from a ghost?!

Jon heard a loud thud come from upstairs. He stepped out of the parlor and looked up the steps. He was curious as to what it was, but his feet stayed planted. He reached for the handrail to help pull him up the mountain of stairs. His heart was pumping faster and faster. He wanted to know what had made the thud, but the rest of his senses told him to run. This time curiosity lost the battle of wills. The hand holding the railing flew to the doorknob.

He gave it a jerk, but the solid door didn't budge. A shock ran from the door, through his hand, and up his arm. Wincing in pain, he pulled his hand back. Jonathan stepped back as the door began to flex and twist. When the door flexed so much that Jonathan thought it was on the brink of breaking in half, a face passed through the door; Jonathan took a few steps up the stairs as the body of an old man walked through the door.

There was a gaping hole in the man's chest. Jonathan gagged at the sickening details of the inner workings of the dead man's chest. The part of heart that was still there was motionless. The visible part of the lung was black, as if from years of smoking.

"You, boy, picked the wrong house!" the old man yelled. A shotgun materialized out of thin air as the man started up the stairs.

Jonathan started running up the long staircase. With each step, the house began shaking more and more violently. Pictures fell off the walls, some coming extremely close to hitting Jon in the head. When he reached the top of the stairs, the house was shaking so fiercely the railing came off the wall and the stairs collapsed. There was no turning back now.

Throwing the door to the master bedroom open, horror surrounded him. Behind him, the old man was floating up through the floorboards. In front of him, Margaret dangled from a rope hanging down from the rafters.

"Look what you did! My wife hung herself after you killed me! After you shot me!"

"But, but, but I didn't shoot anyone," said Jon, backing into the room.

"Don't deny it! You killed me, Thomas Allan!"

"My name is Jonathan! Jonathan! Not Thomas Allan. I don't even know who Thomas Allan is," Jonathan pleaded.

Margaret's head looked up, her eyes wide and bewildered. She was looking straight at Jon now.

"Thomas Allan was your father."

"That's impossible. My father's name was Savage, Thomas Savage."

"That's what he changed his name to after the murder," said Margaret, her eyes bloodshot.

"How could you possibly know this?"

Before Margaret could answer, a searing pain rushed through Jon's chest. Looking down, he saw the ghostly shotgun at pointblank range. There was a gaping hole in his chest. His hand reached up, coming away bloody and pale. All the color had flooded from his body. His legs gave way, and Jonathan collapsed on the floor as the house came crashing down all around him.

Fire trucks and ambulances screamed down the quaint, tree-lined street at six in the morning as a fog rolled over the dreary scene. Neighbors had called 911 after they felt a shaking from the collapse of the abandoned house. Old women in their nightgowns were huddled together in clusters of 4 or 5 women, talking quietly about the last tenants, Margaret and Paul.

"Such a shame what happened to them 25 years ago."

"They sure were a sweet couple."

"Margaret used to make the most delicious chocolate chip cookies."

"Paul was so handsome. The prettiest eyes I've ever seen."

Some of the husbands had come out as well but were talking about local football team and seemed disinterested in the old couple who used to own the now destroyed house.

As the emergency vehicles pulled up in front of the rubble, some of the neighborhood children wandered out of their houses, wiping their eyes and wondering where their parents were.

"Mommy? What's happening?" one of the little girls asked, pulling on her mother gown.

"Oh nothing sweetheart. Looks like this old house finally just collapsed. Go back inside and go to bed," her mother said, but the little girl was fully awake now and didn't intend to go back to bed, so she went and sat on the curb across from the ruined house.

Firemen and paramedics rushed into the rubble and started to remove debris, looking for any signs of life. As the piles of rubble were moved and it became clear that the house had been abandoned, the paramedics wandered off the property and mingled with the growing crowd, asking about the history of the house.

"It's been vacant for the past 25 years, ever since the husband was killed and the wife committed suicide," said one of the many women crowding the street.

"Are you positive no one else was living here? Not even a squatter? We want to cover all our bases before we bring in a bulldozer and clear the lot."

"No, not that—"

"Paramedic! We need a paramedic over here!" screamed one of the firefighters as a group lifted up a large beam.

A paramedic rushed over and found the body lying face up. The man was clearly dead, but the paramedic checked for a pulse out of routine.

"Get a stretcher and a body bag. We need to get him out of here before any of these people see him. We don't need any of these little kids seeing a dead body."

The little girl was playing with a pebble on the side of the road when she heard the fireman scream for a paramedic. Her blonde hair blew in the cool, early morning breeze as she looked up to see a tall man running towards a small group of firefighters lifting up a large piece of wood. Even though she was only seven, she knew something bad had happened to whomever they had found.

A few minutes passed as the paramedic knelt over something that was out of sight from the little girl. When the man stood up, he waved to some of his buddies, and they rushed over with a black bag and something that looked like the cot her mother and father kept in the basement in case of unexpected company.

When the men got to the small group, the little girl sat up straighter to get a better view and kicked the pebble away with her bare feet. Just as the group began to lift the mysterious object, a group of parents moved and blocked her view. With curiosity raging within her, she tried to move so she could see better, but one of the neighborhood dads ushered her out of sight, telling she was too young to see this and for her to stand on the sidewalk until the adults told her it was okay to move.

She stood on a cement square, watching the backs of all the adults that had lined up to block all the children's view. A rush of disappointment rushed through her as she hung her head on her chest.

"I wish I knew what was happening," she muttered to herself as her feet played with a piece of grass that was sticking up through the crack in the sidewalk.

"Trust me. You don't want to see it."

The little girl looked up to find a man standing next to her.

"Mister? Did you know you're see-through?"

"Yeah, that's what happens to ghosts. Luckily, you can't see how I died. It was pretty nasty."

"You're a ghost?" she asked, her eyes as wide as a quarter. "How'd you die?"

"That's me they're putting in that ambulance over there. Let's just say I was in the wrong place at the wrong time."

© 2007 Charles Vander Vennet

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