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t was a quaint little house.
The ad in the Star Ledger seemed to suggest as much: |
FOR SALE BY OWNER: 3 bedrooms, 2 baths, 1400 sq. ft,
full bsmt and attic, early colonial. Asking price $147k! |
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An incredible price—especially on an acre of beachfront property with a private dock off the Manasquakee Bay and a tremendous view of the Bishop’s Lighthouse a few miles off in the distance. To be sure, Sheldon Brenner’s interest was piqued, but highly suspicious of a prime piece of NJ shore real estate at such a paltry price—it was practically giving itself away! There must have been something wrong with the house; a leaky roof—if there was a roof at all—rusted out plumbing, infestation, rotted structure; the house was most likely condemned.
However, his wife and he had always dreamed of a summer house, somewhere to retire and grow old together, and this was the best opportunity yet. The thought of spending long days in the summer months, basking in the sun of his own private beach and sucking on crab legs caught off his own private dock, persuaded him to give the house at least a little look; it certainly wouldn’t hurt—just for curiosity’s sake.
To his amazement, the house was still available to see by appointment, which further increased his suspicions. Still, he kept telling himself it simply wouldn’t hurt to look.
From the outside, all appeared nice and normal; in fact, the house was in immaculate condition: freshly painted, new shingles on the roof, all shutters and awnings securely fastened, the yard well manicured with a charming white picket fence in front. So far, so good; yet Sheldon’s fears were not extinguished.
He was greeted at the door by an average looking gentleman approaching his golden years who went only by the name of Wilkins. Sheldon’s first impression was that Wilkins had a kind and trusting face, adorned with a warm and inviting smile. Yet, despite the cheerful exteriors, Sheldon could not shake the unmistakable feeling of something sad about the man; his mouth appeared to be smiling, but his eyes were distant and weary.
With a hearty handshake shared and some meaningless small talk (“How was the drive? Did you find the house all right?”), they were off exploring. The inside of the house was just as impressive as the outside; warm, cozy, and remarkably well preserved.
“As you can see, Mister Brenner,” Wilkins prattled on like some bored museum curator, "The house is in fine shape—good solid wall, excellent insulation . . . if you look up at the ceiling, those wood beams are all made from handcrafted oak—good and solid; they don’t make ’um like that anymore, do they?”
“No . . . I guess they don’t,” Sheldon concurred, “How old did you say the house was again?”
“It was built around 1908, if memory serves me correct.”
“That’s amazing!” Sheldon remarked, “I wouldn’t have pegged it being that old.”
“No—I suppose you wouldn’t,” the old man muttered and proceeded to show his guest around the house.
Sheldon followed his guide faithfully, never straying from the path laid out for him. Once finished with the first floor, they proceeded up the staircase. Sheldon followed patiently as his old guide struggled up the stairs; his tired knees crackled with age as they fought against the weight of gravity. Finally, at the top of the staircase, Wilkins directed Sheldon to the first room on the right.
“This is the master bedroom,” the old man continued dryly.“As you can see it is very spacious . . . has its own bath and walk-in closet—perfect for the missus, of course. If you walk over to the balcony, you can see the bay and the lighthouse clearly—best view in the entire house! Excellent view of the sun rising every morning. . . .”
Suddenly, there was a peculiar creaking noise from above—in the ceiling—like thick planks of wood being bent slowly. Sheldon wouldn't have paid the noise any mind if it weren’t for the startled expression on the old man’s face, his body nearly jumping out of its skin.
“Rats in the walls?” Sheldon jokingly inquired.
“No . . . no. . . .” the old man replied, shaken; he licked his lips fervently as he brushed his salt-and-pepper hair back with his shaking hand, attempting to regain his composure.“Have to keep in mind . . . the house is very old. Sometimes a brisk wind will make the old girl cry out a bit.”
Sheldon smiled and proceeded out onto the balcony. In front of him was the marvelous view Wilkins had spoken of, the bay and the lighthouse, simply breathtaking.
Again the old house began to creak, more ferociously than before. Sheldon looked inside to see Wilkins nervously wringing his hands and licking his lips. The house continued to creak and moan, which appeared to make his host more and more excitable. Strangely, Sheldon was standing outside on the balcony and could feel no wind; not so much as a mild breeze. The trees below him appeared to be still, their leaves not budging an inch.
Downstairs, Wilkins led Sheldon once more into the front hall; the afternoon sun’s rays were now penetrating through the window curtains, illuminating the room with a soft amber glow. The days of August were quickly depleting and the fall was beginning to rear its ugly face, yet the summer house maintained its rich and luscious splendor. Sheldon fancied sneaking in a few extra weekends past Labor Day when all the tourist crowds had vanished back within there obscurity to quietly fish and crab off the bay.
“Well, young man,” Wilkins sighed wearily, “that’s about the size of it. Feel free to look the house once over again if you wish. I’ll be in the parlor if you feel that you must ask me something.”
With that, the old man scuttled off into the next room leaving Sheldon to his own devices. Given a rare opportunity, Sheldon was more than willing to take full advantage, determined to find the slightest flaw with the house that was, as yet, too perfect. He went through the entire house thoroughly but came up completely empty. The house was indeed in excellent condition; all the walls were solid and without a single scratch, the windows were all properly insulated, the floors spotless and polished, the drains clean, the switches all in working order, all faucets running perfectly and hot water within seconds after turning on. For all intents and purposes, the house was perfect!
Sheldon walked to back to the front hall and approached the door leading into the parlor, but stop short of entering. Peeking through the door that lay ajar, Sheldon could spy Wilkins pacing about the room. As best as he could tell, the old man appeared to be whispering to someone, yet he was alone. The old man just kept whispering incoherently and gently rubbing his hand against the wall of the house as though calming an anxious dog.
“Excuse me,” Sheldon interrupted, “I done looking through the house now.”
The old man jumped slightly, startled by Sheldon’s sudden appearance, but quickly regained his composure.
“I hope you found everything to your liking,” Wilkins inquired blithely.
“Yes,” Sheldon answered, “I hoped, maybe, we could discuss the price.”
“I hope it isn’t too steep for you—I’m very flexible.”
“That’s the thing,” Sheldon said, “The price you’re asking for is very reasonable—in fact, its too reasonable.”
“Real estate round these parts is not what it once was,” the old man prattled nervously, “It’s really a buyer’s market down here . . .”
“I’ve been through this entire house looking for the slightest flaw and all I’ve been able to ascertain was that the house is in superior condition. This house could easily acquire five times as much as you’re asking.”
“I’m an old man, Mr. Brenner,” Wilkins wheezed, “What good is money when you have so little time to enjoy it?”
“Surely there must be something more than that,” Sheldon pressed. “Is the house infested with termites? Is the foundation faulty? Is the house next-door a reputed crack house? Certainly an old house in this good a condition situated on a prime piece of shore real estate at an asking price of less than 150K must have some serious problem with it.”
“No, sir,” Wilkins proclaimed rather proudly, “I caught the old girl in tip top shape . . . I’ve always taken pride in my house.”
The old man caressed the wood railing of the staircase lovingly, massaging it with his withered fingertips.
“Taking care of a house is a full time job,” Wilkins continued with a twinkle in his eye. “A house is like a fine woman. You got to pamper it, shower it with love and attention. And just like a fine woman, it is never satisfied—always wanting more and more. Never letting you sleep or even catch your breath. You got to keep on loving and pamper her or else you fear she won’t favor you anymore. So you keep on pampering and loving her, day in and day out, allowing her to bleed you dry until there’s nothing left of you to give . . .”
The twinkle faded away from the old man’s eye. Catching himself, Wilkins looked up at Sheldon and smiled meekly.
“A man’s got to take pride in his house,” the old man interjected. “It’s a quality I recognized in you right away. I said to myself: ‘Now there’s a man who knows about his houses.’”
“I don’t feel you are being completely honest with me, Mr. Wilkins,” Sheldon said bluntly.
“I told you no lies—the house is in fine order . . .”
“It isn’t what you’ve told me, Mr. Wilkins,” Sheldon interrupted, “but what you haven’t told me. I feel as though there is something that you are leaving out of the equation. It’s as though the house were haunted or something.”
Sheldon made the remark as a joke, an off-handed aside, but he could sense immediately that he had touched upon a nerve. The old man became very serious and quiet. The odd tick of ringing his hands had returned with the nervous smile.
“That’s it!” Sheldon exclaimed triumphantly, “The house is haunted.”
“Please!” the old man shushed with his hand, “I wouldn’t go so far as to say haunted, Mr. Brenner.”
“Really? This is quite remarkable. I’ve never been inside a real haunted house before.”
“Please, Mr. Brenner,” Wilkins said painfully, “Haunted is such an ugly word. It brings about the wrong connotation—poisoning the mind with all sorts of ugly thoughts. I would refer to it as more of a . . . presence that resides within these walls. Something in the woodwork beside the usual plaster and drywall.”
“Fascinating,” Sheldon muttered to himself.
“Oh, I hope I haven’t turned you off, Mr. Brenner,” the old man said nervously, “It is still a lovely house all the same.”
“If anything,” Sheldon added, “You have only increased my interest.”
Sheldon paced about the house with a renewed interest, racing up the staircase; Wilkins slowly attempted to keep up. Reaching the top of the stairs, Wilkins spied Sheldon with his ear pressed up against the wall and listening.
“I must say, sir . . . most people would have been half way down the street if they heard that this house was haunted.”
“Not at all, Mr. Wilkins,” Sheldon reassured the old man, “I find this all rather interesting. You see . . . the wife and me have always found the paranormal quite an absorbing topic. Most people would love to pooh-pooh the idea of spirits roaming about, but we find it quite fascinating—reassuring in a sense of the existence of an afterlife. In fact, just the other day I remarked to my wife what a thrill it might be to actually come face to face with the paranormal, experience that which could not easily be explained by scientific means.”
“I must say you came to the right place!”
Sheldon removed his ear from the wall and faced the old man vibrantly.
“Tell me,” Sheldon probed, “Does the spirit manifest itself often?”
“No . . . no, it’s not like that . . . you see . . .”
The ceiling above them began to groan once again, interrupting Wilkins into silence. The two men stood for a moment, both looking up to the ceiling; the old man’s demeanor changed again to stern seriousness.
“Oh, you see, sir—I’ve done it again,” the old man muttered with disappointment, “I planted a suggestion in your head and poisoned you. I didn’t want to say a word, but I’ve gone and done it anyway.”
“What on earth do you mean?”
“I’ve got you thinking that the house is haunted—that at any moment spirits in white flowing robes and chains are going to be roaming through the house like all holy hell. I knew I shouldn’t have said anything, sir—you will forgive me.”
“I don’t understand,” Sheldon stated.
“You are kind, sir—too kind,” Wilkins said, “but the fact is it isn’t true. There are no ghosts here . . . just a weird sort of atmosphere. Its like some sort of magnet, I suppose. People take in the atmosphere and begin projecting their thoughts and fears on it. It attracts that sort of attention. Once one has projected their thoughts on it, they never see it the same way again and I’m afraid I helped you along with that. I’ve poisoned you.”
“You’re wrong, Mr. Wilkins,” Sheldon reasoned, “You haven’t poisoned my mind at all. I love this house. I have since I first walked in.”
“You mean,” the old man pried, “you’re still interested in the house despite my foolish rambling?”
“Interested?” Sheldon laughed, “I take it! I’ll get my lawyer in the morning to draw up the necessary paperwork to get the ball rolling.”
“Oh, there’s no need for that,” Wilkins exclaimed enthusiastically, “I have all the paperwork down in my study. Wait right here and I’ll bring them up to you to sign.”
Before he could be politely rejected, the old man feverishly shook Sheldon’s hand and sprinted down the staircase as though he had suddenly shed twenty years of age. Sheldon just stood there in the hallway and laughed, admiring the handiwork of his newly acquired house. He feared that he should have consulted his wife before agreeing to buy an entire house, but opportunities such as these don’t come around every day, he reasoned with himself. Sometimes you just have to take the bull by the horns.
Downstairs, he could hear the old man racing about the house and rummaging fervently. It was quite comical how his eyes lit up and his face beamed like a child on Christmas morning. At that moment, Sheldon was not sure who was really making out on this deal—he or the old man.
Suddenly there was a loud thud from the hall as if the front door had been slammed shut. Then came the unmistakable sound of car wheels screeching out of the driveway and down the street. The house became deadly quiet.
Sheldon walked down the staircase into the front hall; the sun was now nearly setting and the house was falling under a shroud dim gray. All was still and peaceful.
“Mr. Wilkins?” Sheldon called out, “Are you all right?”
There was no reply.
Sheldon frantically continued to call out for the old man as he search to the rooms of the house, finding nothing and receiving no reply. The house was completely empty of any living presence other than his own.
Sheldon ran to the front door window and peered through the curtains. He spied only his car in the driveway; the old man was gone.
The phone rang in the parlor, startling Sheldon. He laughed at his foolishness, but the unmistakable feeling of dread would not escape him. He ran into the parlor and answered the phone.
“Hello, Mr. Brenner,” the old man’s voice greeted him on the phone.
“Mr. Wilkins? What on earth—”
“You must forgive my rather hasty exit,” Wilkins confessed apologetically, “But you see, my presence is no longer required.”
“I don’t understand . . . what about the paper work?”
“Paper work is all rather inconsequential, wouldn’t you agree? A rather unnecessary remnant of litigation—you said you want the house . . . the house is now yours!”
“But what of the money? The closing? The mortgage agreements?”
“I am an old man, Mr. Brenner,” the old man ignored, “A house needs love and care . . . total and undivided attention. I can no longer give that to her . . . but you can give that to her. We recognized that quality in you right off the bat.”
“We? I don’t understand?”
“Me and the house, of course.” The old man stated bluntly.
“The house?” Sheldon whispered, his eyes tracing the woodwork of the parlor.”
“Yes,” Wilkins replied, “she is quite fond of you. I’ve never seen her so fond of someone other than myself before. You will make her quite happy.”
“Mr. Wilkins . . .”
“You see,” Wilkins continued prattling, “A house is like any fine woman . . . they use you as long as they need you. I’m afraid she doesn’t have much use for an old man like me anymore. But you, Mr. Brenner . . . you have many good years left in you.”
“This is madness,” Sheldon replied with nervous laughter, “You make it sound as though the house were buying me!”
“Well,” Wilkins replied sullenly, “one can never be too careful in today’s marketplace. You don’t want to end up with buyer’s remorse.”
“This is insane,” Sheldon proclaimed. “Thank you for the wonderful offer, but I don’t believe I am still interested in the house.”
“Oh, it’s too late for that now,” Wilkins whispered. “She has chosen you. She won’t let you go now.”
“Well, you must forgive me to her,” Sheldon snapped back sarcastically, “I signed no contract and I am leaving.”
“You shouldn’t act so foolish, Mr. Brenner—”
Sheldon dropped the phone from his hear, leaving the receiver dangling by its cord. He marched over to the front door and twisted the knob, but it wouldn’t budge an itch. He pushed with all his might, but the door would not move. He checked all the locks but they were all unlatched; the door was not locked but still would not move.
He walked back to the phone in the parlor and grabbed the dangling receiver angrily.
“I don’t know what you did to the door, Wilkins,” he growled into the phone. “But this is not funny. I demand you open it and let me leave.”
“I wish I could,” the old man said sympathetically, “but I am no longer in control.”
“And I suppose the house is now?” Sheldon said wryly.
“You shouldn’t speak so imprudently—she can hear you, you know.”
“Well,” Sheldon replied. “She’s gonna hear a lot more from me.”
"Please—don’t do anything foolish—"
Sheldon picked up a neighboring lounge chair and threw it up against the window, shattering the glass and leaving a large hole in the wall.
“What was that?” the old man screamed through the phone.
Sheldon smiled and motioned towards his personal exits when he heard a large wooden moan from above his head. Angered, the entire house began to shake and rumble as though in the middle of an earthquake. The floor shook, throwing him down to his knee. Picture frames and other adornments began to fling across the room and whizzed past his head. Under attack, Sheldon cowered in a fetus position as the glass frames smashed upon his arms and back.
After a few minutes, the temper tantrum of the house quieted and the room settled back into its inanimate stature.
Looking up, Sheldon watched in horror as the walls around the broken window began to move upon their own accord and come together like a closing pore. Within second, the whole was completely closed shut trapping him once more.
“I wish you hadn’t done that, Mr. Brenner.”
Fearfully, Sheldon grabbed the phone and pressed it against his ear.
“Dear God! The window . . . the walls . . . it closed itself up! You have to help me, Wilkins,” he pleaded into the phone. “Dear God! You have to get me out of here!!”
“You done it now, I’m afraid,” the old creaky voice said wearily, “You’ve hurt her feelings. You will have to be punished now, that is . . . until you get on her good side again.”
“Don’t leave me here, Wilkins!” Sheldon screamed desperately in the receiver. “You have to help me!!!”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Brenner,” Wilkins replied quietly. “I am truly sorry. . . .”
Suddenly, the lights in the house extinguished and the phone line went dead. Sheldon was alone in the dark.
“Wilkins? Wilkins? Don’t leave me here! Don’t leave me here.”
Sheldon threw the phone down and sat motionless, listening. He heard the moaning creaking of the woodwork like had heard earlier. To the untrained ear it was only an old house settling, but Sheldon knew better than that now. It was the satisfied groan of spoiled woman finally getting her way. . . . |
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