Halloween Haunting

Halloween night; it’s an unofficial holiday that honors the day when the barriers between our realm and the next blur. It’s a time of bumps in the night, of howling winds and rustling branches; a time for every home to become a haunt, a dark house filled with ghosts, spirits and spooks. I was powerless to resist. I entered the building.

“Boo.”

I jumped and turned. There was a figure standing in the shadows. I peered into the murky dimness and asked what manner of creature this was.

“I’m a spook,” it replied.

“A gh-gh-ghost?”

“No, a spook. I work for the CIA. Keep your hands where I can see them.”

I did not expect that. I needed proof. So he gave me Karl Rove’s phone number. It seems he’s willing to tell anyone who’s a spy and who isn’t. But seeing how it was Halloween and I was expecting a haunted house, I asked him if he could scare me.

“I could scare you,” he replied, “then I’d have to kill you.”

I passed. He then pointed out that the conversation never took place and with that he was gone, as swift as a whisper. It was something like out of a dream, but I think he also drugged me somehow. I continued into the house when a little further along a voice cried out:

“Beware!”

“Who are you?” I cried out.

The voice responded, “I’m the Invisible Man!”

“Prove it,” I demanded.

“Seriously?”

“It’s kind of hard in literature, you know.”

“Well, do one of those descriptive passages,” he replied.

It was true. I was face to face with a disembodied voice. So to speak. I suddenly realized that I was able to locate his position by the sound of his mouth breathing. I mentioned that to him.

“Oh, right. I have to work on that. My wife keeps telling me to,” the Invisible Man replied.

“You’re married? I had no idea. Who’d you marry?” I asked.

“The Invisible Woman. Duh.”

Duh, indeed. I inquired as to if they had any offspring. He stated he wasn’t really sure. Just then, we heard a woman’s voice and we turned to look. At least I assumed he turned to look when I did. It was his wife.

“Honey?” she called. “Where are you?”

“Over here.”

“Where?”

“Here.”

“Where?”

“Here!”

They finally located each other. I can’t help but think it must be difficult for them to, you know, “do it.” So to derail that train of thought, I mentioned to the Invisible Woman that her husband and I had just been talking and were discussing family matters. I again asked if they had any children. She said they did and produced a photo.

“Here’s a photo all of them. Two girls and a boy.”

All I saw in the photo was a giant crayon and a young boy. I noted the family resemblance of the girls. But I had to ask about the boy who I could see.

“He’s adopted,” the Invisible Man informed me. He then pronounced to his wife, “Come, honey, we have to get moving, we’re late as it is.”

They were headed to a costume party of all things. Naturally I had to ask what they were going as. She was going as a pane of glass and he as cellophane tape. Adding, “It’s only natural she’d go as a pane. She is a pain!”

The Invisible Woman was miffed as she made her exit. “You’re terrible. I don’t know what I ever saw in you.”

With that I heard the door close and decided to press forward into the bleak house. It was dark, dank, desolate and other “d” adjectives. Before long I was face to face with a ghost.

“Ebenezer! Ebenezer Scrooge! Come and know me better, man.”

“Excuse me,” I interrupted, “I’m not Ebenezer. I think you’re in the wrong story. This is a ghost story.”

“What am I, chopped liver?” the spirit asked.

“Point taken.”

“Well, since I’m here, could you pass along this message to Ebenezer?”

I agreed to and with that the phantom rattled a chain. “What kind of message is that?” I asked.

“It’s a chain letter,” he replied. “Farewell!”

Thus ended my interaction with this out-of-season ghost. Interesting. Exploring further, I heard bones rattling. I opened a door to see a skeleton. So, this house had bats in the belfry and skeletons in the closet.

That’s when the realtor stepped out.

“And that’s not all: this kitchen is huge, with a double refrigerator. You have 3 bedrooms, and look here…” She opened a door to reveal a stoner selling loose joints and nickel bags. It was the cellar. The she pointed up the stairs and there stood an emaciated figure, nodding off in the corner. It was, of course, the attic. I attempted to tell her that these jokes would work better aurally, but she pressed on.

She attempted to show be the yard with the built-in pool, when I was frozen in place by an unnatural roar. There was something in the pool!

“That’s a creature from the Black Lagoon,” the realtor explained.

“You mean THE creature from the Black Lagoon.”

She shook her head, explaining, “No, as it turns out, the lagoon was infested with these things. So with truth in advertising laws, we have to call it “a” creature from the Black Lagoon.” Then she took a breath and leaped into her spiel, “It’s just a fabulous place. It’s a steal at 400 thousand. And you better get it now, before the housing bubble starts all over again.”

“I’d have to think it over,” I replied.

“Okay, but just so you know, I had a couple from Transylvania here this morning and they loved the place. If they come back before you, I’ll have to let them have it.”

And that’s when I fled from the house, screaming in terror. For the tale had become too scary. Real estate is not for the faint of heart.


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