“As you can see, this home meets all of your needs,” the realtor said, jiggling a large, brass key in the lock. The house was massive. Old brick walls stretched over three stories, ending in metal spires that reached toward the sky. Narrow, castle-like windows were covered in wavy glass panes separated by jet-black lines. As if the house knew that its facade would not be complete without it, it also provided a lovely curtain of ivy draped over its North-facing wall. It crept up and over the house, the dry, sticky remnants of ivies past still clinging to the wall in a mess of tan lines just visible beneath the new growth. “It’s charming,” said the woman as she pulled her fur coat a bit closer around her neck. The crisp and cloudy fall day was even colder in the shadow cast by the big house. Her perfectly set curls flounced prettily over her coat collar. They’d tried New York. They’d tried all of New York. But she’d never been able to escape the feeling that someone was lurking in every corner of every house they’d lived in. Her husband said it was the horror pictures she’d been in. She said it was the way people in America yelled and honked their horns and shot off their guns in back alleyways. The woman pulled her coat tighter against the cold feeling of the house. It was beautiful. That much was undeniable. And it was quiet. That part was important. She took a step sideways closer to her husband. The man put his arm around his wife’s shoulders and asked the realtor, “When was it built?” “There is no exact record of a completion date, but sometime between 1800 and 1802. It has, of course, been well-kept and renovated four times, about every thirty years since. You’ll notice stylistic changes in different rooms reflecting this.” The wife’s heels clacked on the great tiled entryway, echoing off the high walls. It was even colder in the entryway than it had been outside, and the light inside the house was tinged blue. Probably from those old windows, she thought. She gawked at the large elk-head mounts on the walls, the suit of armor in the corner. The rooms were large and square and quiet. The house felt open and inviting, even if it did send a chill into her bones. She looked to her left at the large fireplace in the wall of the entryway. Well, there’ll be enough fire anyway, she thought. “They don’t make ‘em like this in New York, Honey,” she said to her husband. He smiled. “No, they don’t.” The realtor swept them through the house, room by room. Her head craned up to take in the details on the ceiling. She noted with gratitude that there was a large fireplace in every room, not just the entryway. The blue tinge of the light seemed to fade as they wound through the house. It was perfect. The perfect home for their perfect new life. She could feel her nerves settling as she drifted through the golden-lit rooms. The man looked questioningly at his wife an hour later as they stood in the kitchen. She nodded and winked at him. “We’ll take it!” he said triumphantly. “Wonderful!” said the realtor, clapping his hands together. He whipped out a folder from a nearby cabinet and removed a sheet of paper from it. “If you would just sign here.” The man obliged, smiling. “And you’ll take this back to the firm for us?” “Oh, yes. The two of you can stay here. I’ll send this to the Baroness.” “The Baroness?” asked the woman. How quaint, she thought. The realtor smiled. “Yes, the firm is just myself and the Baroness. We sell the house together. It’s made us quite a lot of money.” The husband signed the last page and looked up from the contract. “What do you mean?” The realtor gestured generally around the house. “This house,” he said, “was built for and by the Baroness. She’s been selling it and reselling it for some time now.” “But you said the house was built in 1800,” the wife said. “Yes, I did,” said the realtor, gathering the paperwork and shuffling it straight against the countertop. “Well, that’s all of that settled. Here’s the key,” the realtor said, producing the large brass key that he’d used to open the great door from a pocket in his jacket. He handed it to the husband who took it, his eyebrows furrowed. “You’ll know when the funds have gone through,” said the realtor with a smile. The husband and wife looked at each other. “What do you mean ‘We’ll know?’” asked the wife. The realtor smiled and moved toward the door. “Ta!” he said as he shut the door behind him. The husband swung the key in circles on his finger. “Odd chap,” he said. “Mmm,” said the wife. “And a bit of an odd house,” she continued. “But you know something, darling?” “What?” he asked. “I haven’t looked over my shoulder once since we arrived.” Over the next week, the husband and wife began to think that they’d merely imagined the odd things the realtor had said, the cold feeling in the house. This Baroness, they decided, must be the great-granddaughter of the Baroness who’d build the home. Yes, that was it. And the coldness could be avoided if one simply kept the fires lit. The wife’s nerves had calmed greatly in the spacious and quiet home. The sunlit grounds provided ample room for quiet walks together. Their things looked pretty in the house, and they were growing to like it very much.
... “Thanks, Joe,” the man said a week later as he hung up the phone. “The money went through, honey,” he said to his wife. “It’s ours, outright.” He wrapped his wife in an embrace. “Topping!” said the wife, giggling at her outlandish faked accent. The husband laughed. Then they both fell silent. The woman looked up into her husband’s face. “Did you hear that?” she whispered. He nodded slowly. The light in the house that had begun to look so golden and warm over the last week was turning blue and dull again. They both jumped as the sound came again. A far away scratching sound coming from somewhere in the upper floors of the house. “Did the realtor say anything about bats?” asked the wife with a half-hearted laugh, unable to hide a slight tremble in her voice. The husband shook his head. The woman turned her head slowly to look over her shoulder. Lights flashed in the dark outside the house. Someone was pulling up in the driveway. The wife felt her husband relax. Her own shoulders dropped, and her breathing slowed. “No house can be quiet all the time,” the wife said with a smile. “I’ll get the door. Probably Terry with that bottle of champagne she promised us,” she said, her voice fading into the entryway. The husband took a cigarette and lighter out of his coat pocket and fumbled with it as he looked out the window. It was a car he recognized. The realtor’s car. “Darling?” came his wife’s voice, sounding uneasy. “Darling, the door’s stuck. I can’t get it open.” “Coming, honey,” said the man, looking over his shoulder as he walked toward the entryway. Out in the driveway, the realtor sat smoking in his car. He could hear the couple pulling at the handle of the door. A smile swept across his face as a blood-curdling scream came from inside the house.
...
“As you can see,” the realtor said, putting the key into the great door of the big house. “This home has everything you’re looking for.” A middle-aged man and his wife stood behind the realtor. “It’s lovely,” said the wife. With a sickening smile, the realtor opened the door to the big house. “Yes, it is,” he said. “The building was completed sometime between 1800 and 1802…"
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