The room was empty. Ms. Ames, the real estate agent, shivered as she entered. Brent paused at the threshold, imagining the solarium filled with lush tropical foliage. Still, as he stepped into the room he also had a feeling. Eeriness was the only word to describe the sensation that both stimulated Brent's imagination and intimidated him. "Someone died here," he said.
Ms. Ames stepped back, staring at Brent's characteristically stoic face, trying very hard to get a read, but found him uncooperative. "Yes, one of the past owners died here," she admitted.
"He died in this room."
"I'm afraid I don't know all the details. It was a very long time ago."
"Forty-seven years, right over there," Brent pointed to one of the supporting beams for the solarium. "He hung there, dead for three weeks until a caretaker came to tend to the landscaping and saw the body through the glass."
"Obviously, you have more knowledge about the history of this house than I do. Have you spoken to the people in town?"
"No, should I?"
"Well, not unless you want to, of course," she said nervously. "No doubt their versions of things will be more colorful, but probably not all that accurate."
"I haven't lived in the area for long, but I have done some research," Brent said. "I also know there is a kernel of truth to every legend, especially those about haunted houses."
"Yes, well, the manor has a reputation, as I told you before."
"This room has a wonderful view of the bay," Brent offered her a chance to change the subject.
"It is the best view of anywhere. The family who owns the estate lived here for well over two hundred years. They were prominent and well respected in the community."
"And no one lives in the area any longer?"
"They have all moved away."
"It's a pity. This is a solid, well-built house," Brent allowed. "Obviously, it has withstood many nor'easters. It's a bit large, though."
"The price is negotiable."
"Because of its history."
"Mr. Woods, as you must know from your research, many houses in this area are considered haunted."
Brent laughed. "But none rival this one's reputation."
"Would you like to see any more of the house or are we ready to move on to the next property?'
"You know what, I love this solarium and the view. And the adjacent room would be perfect as my study. What is the asking price?"
"Six hundred thousand, which is very reasonable considering the location and the size of the property."
"That's too rich for my blood."
"As I said, it is negotiable."
"How negotiable?"
"Frankly, the house has been on the market for a while. The family would like to sell the property, of course. As you can imagine, the expenses and taxes without any income from the property are burdensome. They have considered making it a museum and charging admission but are concerned it would increase the maintenance costs. I think if you make a reasonable offer, they would consider it."
"Tell them four hundred thousand. They are not responsible for any improvements to the property, and I pay closing costs."
The agent jotted down her notes, then looked up, smiling broadly. "The house's reputation does not concern you?"
"It concerns me, but it is not a determining factor," Brent replied. "Look, it's an old house. It has character as well as history. I like it. I like it a lot. Its reputation may benefit me."
"How so?"
"I am a writer, Ms. Ames. I thrive in quiet privacy. I am certain no one will disturb me here. Should any of my relatives care to visit, I have extra rooms."
"The existing furnishings are included. Some of them are rare pieces, of course."
"Of course."
"You're certain with the offer?"
"I rarely do anything I am unsure of, Ms. Ames."
"Great! We can return to my office and I will draw up the formal paperwork for the offer."
"The offer is considerably more than it is worth," Brent said as they walked toward the foyer. "The property is unkempt and the house needs repairs to both the electrical and the plumbing. I have considered that in my offer."
"I will be sure to mention that to the owners."
"They can take my offer or wait for the next. But that may be years in coming and it will not come from me."
* * * *
It was the first room Brent populated, not with furniture but with tropical plants brought by truck from Miami. He intended to turn the solarium into a virtual rain forest.
When the movers arrived with his other furnishings, the driver commented, "Do you have more things coming?"
"I always have more things coming," Brent replied. "What do you mean specifically?
"This is a huge house, sir. That is what I mean. You have twenty or thirty pieces of furniture on the truck."
"The actually number is twenty-five. Good estimate, though."
"If you don't mind my asking, what do you do with all this space?'
"Spread out!" Brent exclaimed, but then laughed. "Many of the rooms are already furnished. Obviously, I won't use all of them. If anyone cares to come stay for a bit, I can accommodate them."
"You are aware of what they say about this place."
"Yes, I am well aware that it is considered haunted."
"Well, it is. Everyone in town knows stories about this place."
"That is the very reason I want to live here."
"They say the last guy who lived here hung himself."
"Yes, I know. It was in the solarium. But his ghost or any others here don't discourage me. I have stayed here quite often already."
"Are you some kind of ghost hunter?"
"I have never needed to hunt," Brent said, then walked around to the back the truck and stood by the lift gate as the first pieces of his furniture were lowered to the ground.
* * * *
When everything was safely inside and where Brent specified, he paid the movers in cash for their services.
"Best of luck to you, Mr. Woods," the driver offered his hand.
"Same to you," Brent shook the driver's hand, and then added. "Sam."
Sam paused, staring at Brent for a moment, wondering when he had ever told him his first name. He shrugged as he returned to the truck cab. He dismissed the creepiness he felt, excusing most of it on the old house.
Brent stood at the doorstep, watching the truck progress down the long winding lane and through the main gate. He made a mental note to drive down the hill and lock the gate sometime before dark. Ms. Ames had warned him about the boys in town. They considered it a test of their manhood to walk up to the house at night, alone.
He stepped into the foyer and closed the front door behind him. For the first time since he bought the old manor, he felt it was his home. There was a coat tree along the wall to the left and a grandfather clock on the wall to the right. He hung his jacket on the first then turned to the latter and adjusted the counterweights to ensure it continued to maintain the correct time.
Into the solarium, he passed through the foliage to savor the spectacular view. He drew a deep breath and freed it slowly. Visually, he appraised a large open space he set aside for a hydroponics garden. Growing his food made a lot of sense. It would spare him a few trips into town.
Brent went into his study where most of his belongings were still stacked, sealed in boxes. He hated moving. It would take him a week to get settled! What if he left everything in boxes until he actually needed something? No, that was a bad idea. He did that once before. It added to the frustration of needing something later on and not being able to find it.
He went to the kitchen to unpack the few things. He unloaded the two coolers he brought from his former residence, transferring the contents of one to the freezer and the other to the refrigerator. Getting the canned food and non-perishables onto the shelves in the pantry seemed the next priority, especially if he wanted to prepare something later on.
Next, he unpacked the boxes containing his pots, pans, dishes, glasses and flatware and stored them appropriately in cabinets or drawers.
The original kitchen was too old to be serviceable. The sink was replaced along with the drains. The plumber also ran new pipes and drains and installed modern bathrooms both upstairs and downstairs. The work took a month to complete and cost a small fortune.
Once the plumber finished with the upstairs bathroom, Brent kind-of moved in. He had been sleeping in one of the furnished rooms. After several hours of dusting, cleaning and vacuuming, that one room was livable. He guessed the bed was made fifty years ago and hadn't been slept in since. He bought fresh sheets and a comforter for it. It was Brent's room, until his bed was delivered.
An antique shop in town hauled away a vintage icebox that was in good shape and probably would work, if anyone would care to try it. The shop owner begged him to sell several other pieces, including a working Victrola and a collection of seventy-eights, but Brent declined. The nostalgia intrigued him. His mother collected antiques. He recalled that she bought a Victrola at an auction when he was a boy.
The cooking stove was another matter. It was huge, made of cast iron and needed cleaning-up before anyone would want it, even for scrap metal. He spent a day scrubbing it with assorted cleaners before giving up and deciding to leave it where it sat. He made other plans for arranging the kitchen appliances.
Brent employed an electrician to rewire the house and install modern breaker boxes. The electrician told him Edison's company wired the house in the late 1800's. He had seen the work before in other old houses in town. Portions of the downstairs had been upgraded sometime in the 1930's, but the original exposed wires were strung from insulators along the baseboards or ceilings in many of the upstairs rooms. Brent decided to leave the old wiring in tact but disconnected.
The last thing the electrician installed was a vented hood in a vacant corner of the kitchen where he ran the power to an special outlet for the range.
When Brent finished unpacking in the kitchen, he broke down the empty boxes for storage in the attic. He separated the paper from the plastic and Styrofoam that had served as packing materials and filled garbage bags. When he completed all the unpacking, he planned to take the bags to the recycling station at the city dump.
It was late afternoon when Brent reentered his study. He knew in advance he would need several days to sort through the contents of those hastily packed boxes. The boxes that contained his computer were the easy ones to unpack. The remainder presented the challenges. Some contained junk while others were filled with memorabilia and souvenirs from his travels and adventures. The seventeen other boxes were stuffed with the sum total of his writing, everything prior to his acquiring a computer. All of his typewritten notes, drafts, journals and feinted attempts at novels or shorter pieces needed to be sorted. Much of it could be discarded. It was just something he kept putting off for more than twenty years.
Before he started with the boxes in his study, he drove down the hill to lock the front gates. On the way to and from, he made mental notes about the landscaping. Of course, the grass needed to be mowed. He would need to contract a landscaper to do the job. There were several dead trees that needed to be cut down. Others needed dead limbs trimmed and removed. Some of the shrubbery had grown beyond utility and needed to be torn out and replaced. It could take years before the estate was as he wanted it.
* * * *
Brent worked in his study for most of the night, opening and exploring the contents of one box at a time. It was cathartic in a way, rekindling his sensations and feelings from the past when he had more energy and desire to write about anything and everything. Most of the material was rubbish, he decided. Some was ghastly, thin and vane. There were a few pieces he kept, feeling they could be turned into something worthwhile.
When the discarded pages filled the trashcan to overflowing, he transferred the paper into a garbage bag and dragged it to the foyer. He staging it alongside the other bags of recyclable materials.
Throughout the night, he heard the same noises he'd grown accustomed to since the first night he'd stayed in the manor. He expected the creaking floorboards and random slamming doors. Occasional moans and groans did not disturb him. Footsteps running along the corridors upstairs were no concern. The sound of someone falling down the staircase, though, reminded him to research that to determine what happened in the house's past.
It was obvious that dozens of the previous occupants died in the manor. Considering its age, it did not surprise Brent at all.
Ms. Ames stepped back, staring at Brent's characteristically stoic face, trying very hard to get a read, but found him uncooperative. "Yes, one of the past owners died here," she admitted.
"He died in this room."
"I'm afraid I don't know all the details. It was a very long time ago."
"Forty-seven years, right over there," Brent pointed to one of the supporting beams for the solarium. "He hung there, dead for three weeks until a caretaker came to tend to the landscaping and saw the body through the glass."
"Obviously, you have more knowledge about the history of this house than I do. Have you spoken to the people in town?"
"No, should I?"
"Well, not unless you want to, of course," she said nervously. "No doubt their versions of things will be more colorful, but probably not all that accurate."
"I haven't lived in the area for long, but I have done some research," Brent said. "I also know there is a kernel of truth to every legend, especially those about haunted houses."
"Yes, well, the manor has a reputation, as I told you before."
"This room has a wonderful view of the bay," Brent offered her a chance to change the subject.
"It is the best view of anywhere. The family who owns the estate lived here for well over two hundred years. They were prominent and well respected in the community."
"And no one lives in the area any longer?"
"They have all moved away."
"It's a pity. This is a solid, well-built house," Brent allowed. "Obviously, it has withstood many nor'easters. It's a bit large, though."
"The price is negotiable."
"Because of its history."
"Mr. Woods, as you must know from your research, many houses in this area are considered haunted."
Brent laughed. "But none rival this one's reputation."
"Would you like to see any more of the house or are we ready to move on to the next property?'
"You know what, I love this solarium and the view. And the adjacent room would be perfect as my study. What is the asking price?"
"Six hundred thousand, which is very reasonable considering the location and the size of the property."
"That's too rich for my blood."
"As I said, it is negotiable."
"How negotiable?"
"Frankly, the house has been on the market for a while. The family would like to sell the property, of course. As you can imagine, the expenses and taxes without any income from the property are burdensome. They have considered making it a museum and charging admission but are concerned it would increase the maintenance costs. I think if you make a reasonable offer, they would consider it."
"Tell them four hundred thousand. They are not responsible for any improvements to the property, and I pay closing costs."
The agent jotted down her notes, then looked up, smiling broadly. "The house's reputation does not concern you?"
"It concerns me, but it is not a determining factor," Brent replied. "Look, it's an old house. It has character as well as history. I like it. I like it a lot. Its reputation may benefit me."
"How so?"
"I am a writer, Ms. Ames. I thrive in quiet privacy. I am certain no one will disturb me here. Should any of my relatives care to visit, I have extra rooms."
"The existing furnishings are included. Some of them are rare pieces, of course."
"Of course."
"You're certain with the offer?"
"I rarely do anything I am unsure of, Ms. Ames."
"Great! We can return to my office and I will draw up the formal paperwork for the offer."
"The offer is considerably more than it is worth," Brent said as they walked toward the foyer. "The property is unkempt and the house needs repairs to both the electrical and the plumbing. I have considered that in my offer."
"I will be sure to mention that to the owners."
"They can take my offer or wait for the next. But that may be years in coming and it will not come from me."
* * * *
It was the first room Brent populated, not with furniture but with tropical plants brought by truck from Miami. He intended to turn the solarium into a virtual rain forest.
When the movers arrived with his other furnishings, the driver commented, "Do you have more things coming?"
"I always have more things coming," Brent replied. "What do you mean specifically?
"This is a huge house, sir. That is what I mean. You have twenty or thirty pieces of furniture on the truck."
"The actually number is twenty-five. Good estimate, though."
"If you don't mind my asking, what do you do with all this space?'
"Spread out!" Brent exclaimed, but then laughed. "Many of the rooms are already furnished. Obviously, I won't use all of them. If anyone cares to come stay for a bit, I can accommodate them."
"You are aware of what they say about this place."
"Yes, I am well aware that it is considered haunted."
"Well, it is. Everyone in town knows stories about this place."
"That is the very reason I want to live here."
"They say the last guy who lived here hung himself."
"Yes, I know. It was in the solarium. But his ghost or any others here don't discourage me. I have stayed here quite often already."
"Are you some kind of ghost hunter?"
"I have never needed to hunt," Brent said, then walked around to the back the truck and stood by the lift gate as the first pieces of his furniture were lowered to the ground.
* * * *
When everything was safely inside and where Brent specified, he paid the movers in cash for their services.
"Best of luck to you, Mr. Woods," the driver offered his hand.
"Same to you," Brent shook the driver's hand, and then added. "Sam."
Sam paused, staring at Brent for a moment, wondering when he had ever told him his first name. He shrugged as he returned to the truck cab. He dismissed the creepiness he felt, excusing most of it on the old house.
Brent stood at the doorstep, watching the truck progress down the long winding lane and through the main gate. He made a mental note to drive down the hill and lock the gate sometime before dark. Ms. Ames had warned him about the boys in town. They considered it a test of their manhood to walk up to the house at night, alone.
He stepped into the foyer and closed the front door behind him. For the first time since he bought the old manor, he felt it was his home. There was a coat tree along the wall to the left and a grandfather clock on the wall to the right. He hung his jacket on the first then turned to the latter and adjusted the counterweights to ensure it continued to maintain the correct time.
Into the solarium, he passed through the foliage to savor the spectacular view. He drew a deep breath and freed it slowly. Visually, he appraised a large open space he set aside for a hydroponics garden. Growing his food made a lot of sense. It would spare him a few trips into town.
Brent went into his study where most of his belongings were still stacked, sealed in boxes. He hated moving. It would take him a week to get settled! What if he left everything in boxes until he actually needed something? No, that was a bad idea. He did that once before. It added to the frustration of needing something later on and not being able to find it.
He went to the kitchen to unpack the few things. He unloaded the two coolers he brought from his former residence, transferring the contents of one to the freezer and the other to the refrigerator. Getting the canned food and non-perishables onto the shelves in the pantry seemed the next priority, especially if he wanted to prepare something later on.
Next, he unpacked the boxes containing his pots, pans, dishes, glasses and flatware and stored them appropriately in cabinets or drawers.
The original kitchen was too old to be serviceable. The sink was replaced along with the drains. The plumber also ran new pipes and drains and installed modern bathrooms both upstairs and downstairs. The work took a month to complete and cost a small fortune.
Once the plumber finished with the upstairs bathroom, Brent kind-of moved in. He had been sleeping in one of the furnished rooms. After several hours of dusting, cleaning and vacuuming, that one room was livable. He guessed the bed was made fifty years ago and hadn't been slept in since. He bought fresh sheets and a comforter for it. It was Brent's room, until his bed was delivered.
An antique shop in town hauled away a vintage icebox that was in good shape and probably would work, if anyone would care to try it. The shop owner begged him to sell several other pieces, including a working Victrola and a collection of seventy-eights, but Brent declined. The nostalgia intrigued him. His mother collected antiques. He recalled that she bought a Victrola at an auction when he was a boy.
The cooking stove was another matter. It was huge, made of cast iron and needed cleaning-up before anyone would want it, even for scrap metal. He spent a day scrubbing it with assorted cleaners before giving up and deciding to leave it where it sat. He made other plans for arranging the kitchen appliances.
Brent employed an electrician to rewire the house and install modern breaker boxes. The electrician told him Edison's company wired the house in the late 1800's. He had seen the work before in other old houses in town. Portions of the downstairs had been upgraded sometime in the 1930's, but the original exposed wires were strung from insulators along the baseboards or ceilings in many of the upstairs rooms. Brent decided to leave the old wiring in tact but disconnected.
The last thing the electrician installed was a vented hood in a vacant corner of the kitchen where he ran the power to an special outlet for the range.
When Brent finished unpacking in the kitchen, he broke down the empty boxes for storage in the attic. He separated the paper from the plastic and Styrofoam that had served as packing materials and filled garbage bags. When he completed all the unpacking, he planned to take the bags to the recycling station at the city dump.
It was late afternoon when Brent reentered his study. He knew in advance he would need several days to sort through the contents of those hastily packed boxes. The boxes that contained his computer were the easy ones to unpack. The remainder presented the challenges. Some contained junk while others were filled with memorabilia and souvenirs from his travels and adventures. The seventeen other boxes were stuffed with the sum total of his writing, everything prior to his acquiring a computer. All of his typewritten notes, drafts, journals and feinted attempts at novels or shorter pieces needed to be sorted. Much of it could be discarded. It was just something he kept putting off for more than twenty years.
Before he started with the boxes in his study, he drove down the hill to lock the front gates. On the way to and from, he made mental notes about the landscaping. Of course, the grass needed to be mowed. He would need to contract a landscaper to do the job. There were several dead trees that needed to be cut down. Others needed dead limbs trimmed and removed. Some of the shrubbery had grown beyond utility and needed to be torn out and replaced. It could take years before the estate was as he wanted it.
* * * *
Brent worked in his study for most of the night, opening and exploring the contents of one box at a time. It was cathartic in a way, rekindling his sensations and feelings from the past when he had more energy and desire to write about anything and everything. Most of the material was rubbish, he decided. Some was ghastly, thin and vane. There were a few pieces he kept, feeling they could be turned into something worthwhile.
When the discarded pages filled the trashcan to overflowing, he transferred the paper into a garbage bag and dragged it to the foyer. He staging it alongside the other bags of recyclable materials.
Throughout the night, he heard the same noises he'd grown accustomed to since the first night he'd stayed in the manor. He expected the creaking floorboards and random slamming doors. Occasional moans and groans did not disturb him. Footsteps running along the corridors upstairs were no concern. The sound of someone falling down the staircase, though, reminded him to research that to determine what happened in the house's past.
It was obvious that dozens of the previous occupants died in the manor. Considering its age, it did not surprise Brent at all.
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