― Gina Marinello-Sweeney
“I’ve always been the kind of woman who rebelled against gender stereotypes and I carried that attiude into my real estate career.
That’s why I bought an 1850’s house—simply because most of the male realtors in my area would back off making such a huge investment. They preferred to play it safe and deal with maketable properties, but not me—I had to make a point, that I was willing to play in the big leagues with the best of them and prove I could turn a good profit.
So, I went ahead against Vi’s expert legal advicea and a month later, was standing beneath the portico of the nation’s capital—actually, it was Blair house but it was a reasonable, though tired, facsimile of the stately capital building.
“Why hasn’t the maid service finished the job?”
Vi looked flustered. “They said they wouldn’t even charge for the work they did—no way were they going back into that house.”
“Ah, c’mon. You don’t believe it’s haunted, do you?”
“Apparently, the Blair family did—that’s why they were tickled pink to get their price.”
“That’s utter nonsense.”
“Maybe so, but I’m leery of crossing the threshold myself after what they told me.”
“Don’t be silly, Vi,” I chided her, “I brought champagne.” I waved the Dom Perignon bottle under her nose, “—don’t tell me you’re not going to come in and drink a toast with me.”
She hesitated, gazing up at the imposing edifice towering over us. “Oh, very well—at least I don’t have to sleep here.”
“Sheesh. I was hoping we could have a P J party and watch some old flicks on TV.”
Vi shivered, “I love you, Clare—but not that much.”
“Traitor,” I teased.
We sat in the great room, lit a fire and toasted my acquisition. The house wasn’t equipped with knob and tube wiring as Vi suggested, but it was gas jet. Vi was delighted at that.
“I warned you, Girl—the family probably never set foot in this place and now you’re living in the 19th century.”
“Actually, I like it,” I sniffed. “I love the ambience—it really suits the place. Electric lighting would seem garish and out of place.”
Vi studied me intently in the glow of the gas lamps. “Actually Clare, the house does suit you—you don’t look at all out of place.”
I ran to her and gave her a big hug. “Oh thanks Vi—you know that’s what I needed to hear.”
“Are you going to move in?” She asked.
“Here?” I replied, horrified. “Oh no, I have no intention of living here. I mean I like it and all, but I intended to flip it right from the start—sub-divide the land into lots and turn it into the Blair Estates.
“You go Girl,” she smiled, lifting her glass in toast.
After she left, I stayed behind to put out the fire and tidy up a bit and that was the moment when my life took a sudden change.
I was just moving the fireplace implements to the left side of the fireplace when a voice startled me.
“I wouldn’t do that, if I were you.”
I turned and saw a handsome man about my age, slowly shaking his head.
“Who are you and how did you get in here?” I demanded.
“Oh, pardon me,” he smiled charmingly, “I’m Harry Blair and I have to warn you, you’re taking liberties with my great room.”
Damn! Just what I needed—a member of the Blair clan, who evidently still wanted to contest the title.
“Look, Mr. Blair, I own title to this property—I purchased it through The Mercantile Bank and Loan of Greater New York. Any objections you have, need to be addressed to your family members, not me.”
“On the contrary, Miss Jennings, I am the one who owns title to this property. I bought the land and built the house.”
“That’s patently absurd. The house was built in 1856.”
“Yes, September first, to be precise—but let’s not quibble over trivialities.”
“Listen, Harry—or whoever you are—you’re trespassing on my property and if you don’t leave, I’ll call the police.”
“And what will they do?”
“They’ll arrest you.”
“Really? And how would they do that?”
“The way they always do. Some brute of a copper will slam you into the wall and cuff you and cart you off to jail.”
“To gaol, Miss Jennings? How delicious!”
I glared at him angrily. “I wouldn’t joke if I were you.”
“But how would they cuff me, let alone confine me? You see, I have a slight problem—I can’t catch hold of things.”
He made an attempt to pick up my champagne flute and his hand passed right through it, as if it were a television image.
“Oh my God! You’re a ghost.”
“I prefer to call myself incorporeal.”
“This can’t be happening,” I moaned, —you can’t be real—because if you are, I’ll never be able to sell this house.”
“That’s what I’ve been telling, you Love—I am real, but I’m also as you see, slightly indisposed.”
He went to lean on the fireplace and his elbow passed through the mantle.
“Oh, great! I always thought it was just art that required a willing suspension of disbelief.”
“Heh, heh. I don’t care if you don’t believe in me at all—it doesn’t work that way.”
“What do you mean?”
“I exist, whether you believe it or not.”
He had a point, but I also had a sizeable investment, ghost or not.
How on earth was I going to solve this dilemma?