Chapter One: The Deal Man
The night was dark, a light rain misting the windows as the car wound up the gravel driveway. The estate sat ahead, Victorian, with a peaked roof and a wraparound porch that sagged slightly with age. One window on the third floor glowed. The rest of the house stood dark.
Headlights swept the overgrown lawn. A possum froze mid-step, eyes catching the glare, then scurried into the brush. A squirrel bolted up a trunk. Birds stirred and scattered into the trees. From the third-floor window, a figure watched the car pull to a stop, hatred burning in its eyes, old and endless. The passengers had no idea.
The engine died. Rain pattered on the roof. The driver's door opened.
Mike stepped out with a pop-up umbrella, his suit sharp and his smile sharper. He hurried around to open the passenger doors for his clients.
"Welcome!" Mike said, gesturing through the mist. "Great property, right? Right on the water. You can fish."
The couple climbed out — newlyweds, still glowing, the wife clinging to her husband's arm as she took in the looming house.
"Seven hundred thousand," the husband said, rain running down his face. "For all this land?"
"You're looking at an absolute steal," Mike said, clapping him on the shoulder and steering them toward the porch. "Seller's motivated. I'm motivated."
"Let's get inside, I'm freezing," the wife said, bouncing on her heels.
Mike pulled an old brass key from his pocket and turned it in the lock with a heavy click.
"Get out."
A whisper. Small, childlike, and somehow much too heavy for either.
The wife's hand shot to her husband's arm. "Did you hear that?"
"Hear what, honey?"
"A whisper. It said 'get out.'" She pointed at the dark entryway.
Mike laughed, loud and practiced, and pushed past them to swing the door open. "Ah — the record player. Old parts, very finicky. Also my favorite song. 'Get Out, Get Out Baby, Outside in the Rain.'" He started singing.
I need this commission, he thought, smile locked in place. I really, desperately need this commission.
The record player was indeed spinning, crackling out distorted music in the foyer. The husband chuckled and patted his wife's hand. "See? Just a record player. Place has history."
Mike jogged over, dragged it off the table, and muttered under his breath, "I told you idiots not to start until we were upstairs."
"It does look like a genuine antique," the wife said, watching him. "Must be worth something."
"Everything in this house has value," Mike said, already moving them along. "Furniture, art, historic fixtures. Move-in ready."
Their footsteps echoed on the marble floor as they entered a living room with a two-story ceiling, ornate crown molding, and a dusty chandelier. The husband studied the plaster, doing renovation math in his head. The wife ran her fingers along the mantel, already picturing dinner parties. They traded a look of pure greed.
Passing the record player on her way to the stairs, the wife noticed the power cord — unplugged, coiled loose on the floor. The turntable kept spinning anyway. She opened her mouth, thought better of it, and shook her head. Just an old house.
They started up the grand staircase. The wife leaned in close to her husband. "Ask him about the story."
He cleared his throat. "Mike. I looked up the address. Triple murder-suicide? The whole family?"
Mike's stride didn't break, though his left eye twitched. "Unfortunate event, years back. Original owner got mixed up in some cult stuff, kept his family isolated, snapped one day. Tragic. Ancient history." He turned the landing, tone sliding straight back into sales mode. "The wife's nephew inherited the title. Wants it gone fast. Just wants the cash."
They reached the second-floor hallway, and the wife froze.
A figure stood at the far end — tall, wearing a tattered burlap mask, dead still in the shadows.
She screamed and grabbed her husband's arm hard enough to whiten her knuckles. He stepped in front of her. "Hey! What are you doing in here? This is private property!"
No response. No movement.
Then the masked figure unhinged its jaw and let out a shriek that didn't sound human — it tore through the hallway like it was coming out of a well, multiplying as it went.
"What is that?" the husband said, voice cracking. "Mike, what is that?"
Mike's face twisted with fury for half a second before he wrestled his professional mask back on. "My mistake. Uninvited guest. I'll handle it." He charged down the hall, hands up like a boxer. "Get out! I told you not to come in during a showing!"
He grabbed the figure by the ear and marched it back past the couple, the thing grunting and complaining like a scolded kid. Up close, the wife thought it looked almost like a doll.
Then it screamed at them. "The master won't like you here for long!"
They both jumped back.
Mike hauled it down the stairs, scolding it the whole way, then came back up smoothing his jacket and laughing a little too hard. "Just a squatter. House is so nice people try to move in for free. Can't really blame the guy."
The husband's shoulders had gone slack. "Is there a squatter problem in this neighborhood?"
"Look," Mike said, the words coming out fast, "I'm a deal-maker. Because of this small — security oversight — I can give you a massive discount right now."
The husband glanced at his wife. She was trembling, pale, legs pressed together, terror plain on her face. Behind her, though, he could see the chandelier. The molding. The marble. Dollar signs.
"We might still be open to it," he said slowly.
"Just needs a little extra security," Mike pressed. "Cameras, motion detectors — this is one of the richest neighborhoods in the country. Think about the networking."
"We care about our safety, Mike," the wife said, voice shaking.
"One hundred thousand dollars," Mike said. "Off, right now. I make deals happen. Let's close it."
The husband's face did the math before his heart could argue. "Deal."
Relief hit Mike like a wave. They're staying. He tried to look anywhere else, but the dark stains spreading down both their pants were hard to miss. Neither of them mentioned it. Neither did he.
"Good choice," Mike said, waving them forward. "Let's see the master bedroom."
He pushed open the double doors at the end of the hall. Moonlight filtered through heavy velvet curtains, rain lashing the glass and throwing watery shadows across the hardwood. A carved four-poster bed dominated the room, canopy hanging like a shroud. An antique vanity sat by the window, its mirror thick with dust.
The wife dragged a finger through the dust. "Can you imagine waking up here? The morning light would be perfect for my posts."
"Original oak floors," the husband said, eyeing the ceiling. "A light sanding and this room doubles in value."
"Reading nook right in that corner," the wife said, pointing into the shadows. "Lounge chair, small bookshelf—"
Hovering eight feet off the ground in that exact corner was a large kitchen knife, blood dripping steadily from the blade.
Mike lunged, planting himself directly in her sightline. "Hey — look at that view!" He pointed hard at the window. "Look at the water."
"Wow," she said, attention successfully hijacked.
"It really is beautiful," the husband said, walking to the glass. "Moon on the lake. We could raise kids here."
While their backs were turned, Mike backed toward the corner, snatched the knife out of the air, and jammed it under his jacket, arms crossed to hold it flat. Too close.
He turned around and his eyes landed on the oil painting on the wall — an old-fashioned woman, her painted eyes now tracking him. Her mouth curled into a smile. Her hand started to lift off her lap.
No. No, no. Keep it together.
Mike rushed the wall and started slapping the canvas. The woman's head tilted, confused. He punched the frame. She winked. He grabbed the sides and shook it against the drywall. Her mouth opened in a silent laugh. He kept hitting it.
"Mike? What are you doing?" the husband asked, turning.
"Nothing — bug. Giant house spider. Got it. Good for the house, probably, they eat other bugs." Mike spun around with a wide, sweating grin. Behind his back, the painting went still.
The ceiling wasn't done with him yet. A dark red liquid began seeping through the plaster above them, trickling down the wallpaper, pooling on the floor. Slowly, deliberately, it formed letters. A G. An E. A T.
The wife looked down and screamed. "It says 'get out.' In blood."
"Was that there when we walked in?" the husband said, color draining from his face.
Mike's composure cracked for a second before he forced out a high, frantic laugh. "Talk about a commitment to the bit. Kids these days."
"A joke?" the husband shouted. "This is demonic, Mike!"
"Demonic's a strong word," Mike stammered. "Probably syrup and red dye. They use it for movies all the time."
The husband knelt, touched the liquid, smelled his fingers, and went stark white. "That's real blood. Might be human."
"Oh my god," the wife whispered, tears finally coming.
Mike dropped to his knees with a handkerchief, scrubbing frantically. "You don't know that. Could be goat blood!"
The wife backed away, hand over her mouth. "The whisper, the masked guy, the ceiling — I want to leave."
The husband opened his mouth to agree, but his eyes drifted back to the lake view. Greed and survival instinct went to war on his face. Mike saw his opening.
"Two hundred thousand," he said quietly, still on his knees.
The wife spun around. "What did you say?"
"Two hundred thousand off. Four hundred total. For a house this size, that's a steal."
"I don't care about the money," she said. "I care about our lives."
Her husband took her hands, gripping tight. "It's a hiccup. This place is worth it."
She looked from him to the bleeding ceiling, opened her mouth to argue, saw his face, and sighed instead. She nodded once.
"Deal," the husband said. "Two hundred off."
Relief flooded Mike again. They bit. I can pay rent. I can clear the ledger. "Now that's how you close a deal," he said, beaming. "I'm the deal man."
He led them out. "Study's down the hall — go ahead in. I need to check the bathroom, back in sixty seconds."
The couple walked into the dark study, their nerve held together entirely by the price cut. Tall bookshelves, deep shadows.
The wife wrapped her arms around herself. "This place feels like it wants us out."
"For three hundred thousand off, it can want whatever it wants," the husband said. "We'll bring in a crew before move-in."
"We also need entirely new clothes," she muttered, glancing down at her urine-soaked slacks.
A muffled, angry whispering drifted through the wall from the adjoining closet. Mike's voice.
"What's he doing in there?" the wife said, stepping closer.
"Checking pipes. Old plumbing echoes weird," the husband said, though he didn't look sure.
"No," she said, tilting her head. "That sounds like yelling."
Inside the closet, Mike had his back against the door, hands shaking.
"Why are you doing this to me?" he hissed into the dark. "I had them. They were on the hook."
Mist gathered in the corner, the spirit's form unstable, its voice coming from everywhere at once. "Nobody is welcome here."
"I told you not to scare these people!"
The closet door was yanked open from outside. The couple stood there in the hallway light, the wife shaking, teeth chattering.
Mike spun around, heart in his throat, and smoothed his jacket in one motion. "Ah! The master closet. Great depth, as you can see."
"Were you talking to someone?" the husband asked, voice low.
"No — no, of course not," Mike said, sweat cutting through his makeup. "Rehearsing my pitch. High-stakes business, you know how it is."
"We heard a second voice, Mike."
The closet door blew open on a rush of cold air.
"GET OUT!"
The spirit exploded into view, its voice no longer singular — thousands of screams layered on top of each other. The walls shook. The study windows shattered inward.
The husband didn't waste a word. He grabbed his wife around the waist and ran for the stairs.
The spirit surged after them, floating horizontal, limbs stretching, black eyes locked on the fleeing couple.
"GET OUT!"
They flew down the staircase as picture frames tore off the walls. The wife tripped at the bottom, scraping her knee; her husband hauled her up without breaking stride. The air went ice cold, their breath fogging.
They hit the foyer. The spirit lunged, smoky fingers reaching for the wife's coat. The husband threw his shoulder into the front door and they tumbled out onto the porch together.
The spirit slammed into something at the threshold, unable to follow, frost spreading across the door frame as it stared through the glass.
"GET OUT!"
They didn't look back. Down the steps, through the rain, into the idling car. The engine roared, tires tore up gravel, and the taillights vanished into the dark trees.
Mike came tearing down the stairs after them. "Wait! The price is negotiable! Three hundred off!"
He burst onto the porch just in time to watch the taillights disappear past the gate.
"Wait, no—" He ran to the edge of the steps. "That's a rental! Stop, that car is a rental!"
He dropped to his knees on the wet porch boards, rain soaking through his hair, his face collapsing into horror.
"It's not even my car," he said to the empty driveway. "I'm paying four hundred a week to Hertz for that Malibu. They just stole it. Now I have to pay for the whole thing."
The spirit drifted out through the front door and settled beside him, watching the gate.
Mike looked up at it, rain running down his face. "I can't afford this. I cannot afford to exist right now."
The spirit tilted its head.
"You," Mike said, pointing a shaking finger at it, "legally owe me a car. And four hundred bucks a week for the foreseeable future."
"You could always call the cops," the spirit said mildly.
Mike dropped his head into his hands. "I drove them here. I was the ride. Now I've got no car, no ride home, no money."
He sat there a long time in the rain while the spirit watched the gate with him. Eventually the cold drove him back inside. Whatever was left of his salesman polish had come off completely. He walked into the dark living room, dropped onto a dusty velvet sofa, and put his face in his hands.
"Ten clients," he muttered. "Ten clients this week, and every single one runs."
The spirit drifted in after him, the terrifying presence from minutes ago entirely gone — no screaming, no shaking walls, just a floating shape with nowhere else to be. "Sorry, man. Can't help it. I'm a haunted spirit. It's what I do."
It floated up near the chandelier, then dropped back down with sudden energy. "Hey — what if you changed the business model? Haunted house tours. Real spirits, real scares. People pay stupid money for that now."
Mike pinched the bridge of his nose. "Permits. Licensing. The Board of Paranormal Activities does not mess around. Liability insurance alone would bankrupt me. One tourist has a heart attack on the property and I'm buried in lawsuits."
"Just trying to help," the spirit said, sounding wounded.
"Some help." Mike slumped deeper into the cushions, staring at the water-stained ceiling. "How am I supposed to make four grand a month for the office lease? Landlord thinks I run my business out of the front room. I'm sleeping in the back."
"Isn't using an office as a bedroom a code violation?"
"You're a dead man haunting a house, and you're lecturing me about code violations?" Mike glared at it. "Yes. I live in a closet. Nobody knows."
"You could always make a deal with a demon."
"Last demon I dealt with, I scammed. They're not exactly lining up to trust me again. And my soul's not worth much these days — they'd just inherit my debt." He rubbed his face. "I have to call the seller and tell him another one fell through."
The room went quiet.
The spirit drifted closer, its edges softening. "Look. I know I cost you the deal. And the rental car. But I think I picked something up — a lead, on the spiritual frequencies."
Mike's head snapped up, exhaustion gone in an instant. "What kind of lead?"
"Millionaire in New York," the spirit said, dropping to eye level. "Wife's got some old family curse on her. He's offering a flat one-point-five million for anyone who brings him a specific mystic flower."
A slow, greedy grin spread across Mike's face.
"A million and a half?" He stood, wringing out his ruined jacket, already halfway back to himself. "I am absolutely finding that flower."
END OF CHAPTER ONE
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