November the 21st—an afternoon that had started just about as unremarkable as any other. It was one of those blustery days where winter had just begun to wrestle the hold of the weather away from fall. The sky blanketed in a bright but heavy shroud; a fog that inspired nothing but unease.
I sat on the couch, my elbows balanced upon my legs, my body hunched forward. I couldn’t decide what to do with my hands. Normally, I would’ve unearthed a cigar; but this wasn’t my house, and I didn’t want to earn a complaint about the smoke.
So instead, I clenched my fingers in and out of fists, then plucked the hat off my head and turned it over in my restless grip. The garment was sturdy and worn, the fabric a warm brown like melted chocolate. I’d had it since before people had been willing to hire me for this job.
A stray lock of hair tickled my forehead. I reached up to swipe it away in a stiff jerk. When was this thing going to start up with the dramatics? I twirled my hat in a flip, then replaced it on my head. I guessed it wouldn’t be coming to me after all. I’d have to work to get its attention.
I sighed and pushed up off the couch.
The family had claimed most of the activity happened on the second floor, so I headed for the stairs. With a grunt, I began to climb, listening to the dull clop of my footfalls as they echoed in the quiet building.
The top stair emitted the faintest creak as I lifted my foot up to the floor. A sigh of regret? A moan of dire warning? One way or another, I was about to find out.
The upper hall stretched in two directions—a quick dead end to my right, and a shadowy swallow to the left. The darkness of the corridor stared me down. Only a window at the far end let in any light—a dreary wash filtered gray through the curtains. It watched me like a ghost, cold and expectant.
The family had told me they’d only had to abandon a single room. They’d stripped the bedroom of its furniture when it had refused to stop rattling. They’d nailed the windows shut when they couldn’t be closed. And they’d peeled the wallpaper away when the blood had only kept on running.
I set off to the left, counting the rooms as I passed. The closed doors watched my careful steps, each huddled into the wall like a petrified bystander. I couldn’t blame them.
When I reached the correct space, I eased the door open, then squinted into the scarred shell that had once been a bedroom. The carpet raked with gashes. The walls splotched with paper. Light struggled to seep past the ragged curtains on the lone window.
“Come out, come out, wherever you are…” I murmured.
A faint breeze pulsed past the curtains, slowly dwindling away. The deadest silence yet spread throughout the house. I fought the urge to hold still, staying even my breathing.
Then the window exploded. The curtains billowed, their tattered strips flailing into the air like fingers. I flinched as glass shattered into the ground and pelted at my jacket.
In a whisper of trinkling glass, it all died down as abruptly as it had begun.
I bent down and scooped up a shard of glass, then poked my other hand into my jacket, unearthing the plain papered roll of a fresh cigar. Using the glass, I sliced off the end, then dropped the glass back onto the floor and fished free my lighter. In a flare of yellowed flame, the cigar lit.
I fitted the roll between my teeth, releasing a brief whiff of smoke. Then I shifted my stance, spreading my feet wider and nestling my hands upon my hips. “All right, you dramatic bastard,” I growled, “let’s get down to business.”
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