WINTON'S WRAITH

Everything about the house was normal, which, Eric knew, meant that one thing would have to be out of the ordinary, and probably extremely so. That was just how it went. Appearances were deceiving. Surfaces were not uniform. Every day was not like a holiday. Eric lagged a few steps behind his parents, who were oohing and aahing at what his mother liked to call “features”: a large closet, an additional drink refrigerator, touchpads to turn off lights. “So there is no fumbling for a switch,” hie father said. None of these features were anything but normal. Eric had seen them so many other houses that he hardly saw them in this one. Eric had fallen behind his parents. He turned left upstairs despite knowing they had turned right. And then, suddenly, he saw it, right in front of him, a ghost with white hair waving like seagrass. Was this Arthur Winton, who had built the house that once stood on this site, the house that had been torn down in the nineties despite pressure from historic preservation types? Eric had read about it in the newspaper though when he had tried to tell his parents about it his father had waved him off and his mother had said something about how the past did not have enough features. She was wrong. Here was one of those features, hovering in a hallway, white hair waving. And then the figure spoke: “I mean to kill someone,” it said. Eric nodded. He somehow knew that nodding was the proper response. “Not now,” said the ghost. “But one day. When all of you are settled, when the outcome is not expected.” Eric nodded again. “For now,” the ghost said, “I will show you the rest of the floor.” Eric nodded a third time and held out his hand, where it was greeted by a icy sensation. “The guest bedroom,” said the ghost, “has a television built into the cabinet. Apply pressure here, along the front edge, and up it will come.” Eric applied pressure, heard a whir, and waited as the TV rose like a morning sun. “A thousand channels,” said Winton’s wraith, temporarily proud, for the moment not thinking about the murder to come.

©2020 Ben Greenman/Stupid Ideas