Haunted House Hunters

"Now this home," said Robin Foster, pushing open the front door and waving her clients inside, "is a three-bedroom ranch with two full baths, a two-car garage and a fenced back yard."

"Nice," said the Husband. He was late twenties, early thirties.

Still wearing his hair long, thought Robin, but starting to realize it makes him look like a hipster asshole.

"And the . . . history?" asked the Wife.

She was young, pale and fat.

Like a bloated corpse squished into a designer label, little black dress, thought Robin, a tad unkindly. She could already tell the Wife would have the final say in the sale.

"The history is bloody," said Robin. She consulted her file. "The original owners died in their sleep, but the second owners were killed during a home invasion."

"And they’re still here?" asked the Husband.

"Yes," said Robin. "On the Barrett-Bender Scale the entities are class three."

Strong enough to do party tricks, thought Robin, but not strong enough to suck anyone into a hell dimension.

"The house certainly has a strange atmosphere," murmured the Husband.

He was walking around the foyer, peering into corners. Robin had to fight the urge to smack the back of his head. Instead, she smiled and gave them the tour and the usual spiel.

In the formal dining room, the Wife paused. She tilted her head to one side, dog-like, and frowned.

"Do you hear that?"

"What, dear?" asked the Husband.

"I’m not sure," said the Wife. "I. . . ."

Suddenly, the woman went as stiff as a board. Her eyes gaped wide, her mouth opened and she made a long, gasping noise.

"Honey?" The Husband’s eyes were wide and pale.

Oh crap, thought Robin.

"Your wife’s a Medium, isn’t she?"

"What?" The Husband’s eyes darted here and there, as if looking for a way out. "Don’t be ridiculous!"

"Then how do you explain that?" said Robin.

The Wife was rising from the authentic hardwood floor of the formal dining room, drifting toward the plaster ceiling with the faux wrought iron chandelier.

"Oh hell," muttered the Husband. "How do we get her down?"

With a sigh, Robin dug a vial of holy water out of her purse and sprinkled some on the Wife’s designer knock-off footwear. Trembling, the possessed woman dropped to the floor with a weighty thud.

The Husband swept in and wrapped his arms around her.

"Darling, are you all right?"

"What a rush!" said the Wife, eyes open, pupils blown. "We have to buy this house, darling! You have to feel what I felt!"

"I’m sorry, but that’s not going to happen," said Robin, coldly.

"What?" The Wife struggled to her feet. "Why?"

"I can’t sell a haunted house to a Medium," said Robin. "It’s against the law."

"Only if you report me," said the Wife. "If you don’t, you make the sale, your commission and a little extra on the side."

"Yes," said Robin. "And when you open a gateway to the Other Side and legions of angry ghosts descend on this neighborhood, I lose my licence and maybe go to jail as an accessory after the fact." She shook her head. "That is not going to happen."

She tucked her folder under her arm and gave the couple a withering look.

"You’ll have to find something on the mundane market."

"Surely we can work something out, Miss Foster," wheedled the Husband.

This time, Robin did smack him.

Author's Notes:
My life tends to inform what I write about and, since I've been looking for a house, this is the second short-fiction that I've written involving real estate.  Heaven help us if I ever decide to go on a diet.

What I'm Reading and What I'm Writing....

Good morning, gentle readers.  It's Monday morning and here I sit, eating an iced Honey Bun, sipping a Coca-Cola and finishing up a short story involving time travel.
The story is called Tempus Necat and I'm submitting it to 365Tomorrows.
In other news, this month marks the one year anniversary of the release of my first book, Dawnwind: Last Man Standing.  I had hoped to have the sequel, Dawnwind: Resurrection, finished and ready to publish by the end of this month, but, alas, circumstances have conspired against me.  I'm roughly halfway through Resurrection but the going is slow.  I have a full-time job now and am house-hunting.  When I get home, all I want to do is sit down, have a drink and sleep. 
Still, I persevere, ladies and gentlemen. I keep at it.  Some progress, after all, is better than none.
An odd thing about Resurrection is that the story hasn't twisted on me.  Usually, when I write, I start off with one story but, about a quarter of the way in, the narrative will twist and I'll find myself writing another story entirely.  That hasn't really happened with the current book, which is odd and somewhat alarming.  I don't think this has ever happened to me before, and so I am not sure if that is a good thing or a bad thing.
I suppose only time and the reviews will tell.
In other news, I have managed to read a few things.  I just finished Gregory Maguire's What-the-dickens: The Story of a Rogue Tooth Fairy.  It's one of Maguire's lesser-known books and, even though it was interesting, I thought it lacked the polish of his other works.  Honestly, my biggest complaint about the story would be the framing device he used, telling one story within another.  Other than that, it was a decent read.  On a scale of 1 to 5, I'd probably give it a three.
I've also returned, after a long pause, to Catherynne M. Valente's The Girl Who Fell Beneath Fairyland and Led the Revels There.  It's a sequel to her previous book, The Girl Who Circumnavigated Fairyland In A Ship Of Her Own Making.  Cumbersome titles, I'm sure you'll agree, but entertaining reads.  Ms. Valente is very imaginative and you get a very clear sense of her main character, September.
And, finally, the other day, I picked up a new book, Blue Blazes by Chuck Wendig.  Wendig is a great author whose previous books, Blackbird and Mockingbird, I thoroughly enjoyed.  Those were gritty, urban fantasies starring a rather unlovable protagonist.  Blue Blazes is another urban fantasy, set in a criminal underworld that knocks up against a supernatural Underworld.  I'm only a few chapters in so far, but it's a damn fun read mainly because Mr. Wendig does a great job making his main character, Mookie Pearl, sympathetic.  If you're looking for a good read and urban fantasy is your thing, you could do worse than picking up this book.
I'm off now, to work on Resurrection. 
And maybe have a Fuzzy Navel.
^_^

The More Things Change...

Twenty years from now...

Gwen knows there’s going to be fireworks the minute Mia shuts the car door. She can tell by the slight furrowing of her partner’s brow, the pursing of auburn-painted lips. As soon as the door shuts, Mia draws a deep breath.

Wait for it, thinks Gwen.

"Is that guy fucking serious?"

"Mia. . . ."

"I mean, really! Really?"

Mia waves a well-manicured hand at the house they came to see. It’s a turn of the century ranch. Brick exterior. Black shutters. Nicely raked front yard. Ornamental stones places here and there, to break up the sandy lot.

"Shit."

Mia huffs, winds down, her venom spent.

"I liked it," says Gwen.

"Why?" Mia looks at her as if she’d admitted to liking gum surgery.

"I don’t know. It’s cozy."

"It’s dumb as a box of hair. Not even a real AI! My phone is smarter than that place!"

"Why do we need a smart house?"

"Why do we need indoor plumbing?" scoffs Mia. "Or electric lights? Because it makes life better!"

"No," says Gwen, starting the car. "It just makes things easier. Easier isn’t always better."

"Look, sweety. . . ."

"No," says Gwen. She grips the steering wheel tight; she hates confrontation. "You look. You said you were tired of living in apartments and you didn’t want to get a condo. You said you wanted a house. Well, Mia, this house is what we can afford."

"We can do better than a dumb box," protests Mia.

"Smart houses cost money," says Gwen. "More money than I’m willing to pay just so some overblown computer can start the coffee maker in the morning and screen our phone calls."

"It’s not just your decision, Gwen."

"I never said it was."

Mia huffs, sits back, crosses her arms. "Are we going anywhere or are we just going to sit here and kill the batteries?"

Gwen hits her turn signal and pulls away from the curb. She guides the car down the street, passing boxy brick houses sitting in manicured, sandy lots. In the rearview mirror, she watches the house they came to see, getting smaller and smaller.

The perfect metaphor for my life, thinks Gwen. Everything I want gets smaller and smaller until it vanishes and I’m left with nothing.

She glances at Mia, still pouting, head turned, glaring at the passing street.

Well, thinks Gwen, almost nothing.

Nothing to see here...

Since it's a holiday I am going to take a little break from the blog.  Enjoy the day, gentle readers, but do take a moment to think of all the soldiers who have died in battle.

Visiting Grandpa

"Geez, the ‘40s were a weird time, grandpa."

"Kit, what are you lookin’ at?"

"Just some old pictures, grandpa. See?"

"Oh good Lord. Where’d you find those pics, son?"

"On an old flashdrive."

"How’d the hell you access it? That’s deadtech. Totally inorganic."

"I found an old tablet at the junk shop in town. Mister Ross gave me a real good deal on it."

"What you doin’ messin’ around with deadtech, Kit? I thought kids these days were all into them squid lookin’ things they walk aroun’ with on their heads."

"I don’t like usin’ the squid."

"Why not?"

"It always leave a bad taste in my mouth when I take it off."

"So you’d rather mess around with PreBio tech?"

"Sure. It’s cool. Kind of retro."

"Uh-huh."

"A lot of my friends are into it too."

"Is that a fact. Well, will wonders never cease."

"Grandpa, can I ask you something?"

"I reckon so."

"What was the Internet really like? We hear all kinds of stories ‘n stuff, but. . . ."

"Well, Kit, to be honest, it was mostly used for porn ‘n e-mail."

"So, it was sorta like the hivemind."

"I don’t rightly know, since I never used a squid."

"Never?"

"Nope."

"Wow. That’s . . . . Wow."

"Heh. Finally impressed you with somethin’, eh grandson?"

"Even mom and dad use the squids."

"I know. I seen ‘em, sittin’ on the couch, holdin’ hands with them things on their heads. They look like a right couple a fools, if you ask me."

"Oh!"

"You all right, Kit? You look like you sat on a tack."

"I’m fine, grandpa. Just realized what time it was. I have to go now."

"All right, son. You say howdy to your folks for me and be careful out there. All right?"

"Yes, sir."

* * * * *

Kit opened his eyes to the all-too familiar sensation of menemopede footsteps tickling his spine. He turned his head and saw an attendant scoop the creature up and wrap it around his neck like a fat scarf.

"Enjoy your visit?" asked the man.

"Yeah," said Kit. He sat up and the attendant passed him his shirt. "I wish I could stay longer."

"Sorry but everybody comes to the Archive on the weekend. And we only have so many mnemopedes to go around."

"I know," sighed Kit. "I wish grandpa didn’t have to live here."

"Happens to everybody eventually," said the attendant, shrugging. "Our bodies wear out and we wind up archiving our minds. It’s better than the alternative."

"Death."

"Yes," said the attendant. "You know about death?"

"I’ve read about it, but I don’t know anybody who’s actually done it."

"And that’s a good thing," said the attendant, smiling.

Kit shrugged and walked out of the Archive.

He’d stop by Mr. Ross’s store on the way home. Maybe he’d find something else really cool to show grandpa the next time he went to visit.

Grinning in anticipation, Kit ran all the way to the store.