The Backstory

I'm going to start with a confession: I'm a nutcase.

Don't believe me? Just ask any of my friends and they'll be happy to go into excruciating detail.

Want some examples? Sure you do. When I was about seven, the family went on a trip to England. My parents booked one of those bus tours of London to see all the famous sights. Me? I threw a fit when they tried to get me to go to the upper level. I was sure we would crash because there wasn't a driver up top.

Something more recent? Well… back in High School chemistry lab, the teacher strictly warned us that breathing Hydrogen Sulfide would kill you, so be sure that the fume hood was in place before doing the experiment. I was the guy that took a big whiff and went crashing to the floor unconscious. My head hurt for days.

Something current? I make my living by buying old houses as is, often furnished when some older person dies, then fixing them up and selling them. You have to be a nutcase to do that. Really.

I'm in no danger of becoming a robber baron and endowing great public works with my ill-gotten gains, but I do have a very nice bank account and my investment lady smiles whenever I come calling.

She's happily married. She may love my money but she doesn't love me - not that way!

This story starts when I had just returned from a month in the sun and surf in California, spending some of my profits from my last job. Actually, I came back a week earlier than I had planned because the Realtor I often worked with had found a gem. Built just after the Civil War and added to several times, it had nine bedrooms, four full tile baths, two half-baths, living room, parlour, dining room, a huge kitchen, full basement, three stories, and an attic to boot. Let's not forget the four car garage, tool shed and four acres of land. The septic system was recently checked, the well was good, there was a backup generator in case the electric failed.

What's the downside? The place was supposedly haunted.

Yeah, right.

The story sounded like those silly tales you hear around the campfire in scout camp; generation after generation the men were picked off, killed mysteriously, disappeared, jailed for unspeakable crimes with only the women surviving. All the usual stuff found in these tales.

The place had been passed down over the generations and was filled with the stuff those generations had collected. This included some interesting antiques which should bring a good price when I sold them.

So why was the place sold intact and as-is? For much of the recent past the main occupant was a woman who finally passed away at one hundred and three years of age. She had outlived her daughter and one remaining granddaughter. When her great-granddaughter married, everyone expected that she would move into the place when the old woman finally went into a nursing home.

To prove I'm not the only nutcase in the world, within a week of their marriage the couple went on a round-the-world voyage in their yacht. The last anyone heard of them was a letter to a school friend announcing the birth of a son, the first male in many generations, somewhere in India. They were never heard from again.

With no heir in sight the lawyers had a field day. The place sat empty for several years until the complications were uncomplicated. It was sold at auction for back taxes and the state unclaimed property fund received a windfall.

I'm the nutcase that bought it.

Sunday: Taking Possession

Cool chapter title for a story about a haunted house, eh? Not really - I'm talking about taking possession of the place.

To further prove I'm a first-class nutcase, I don't live in an apartment or own a house of my own. I do own a good-size RV that I set up in an RV park between jobs. When I start work on a new house I move the RV to whatever place I'm working on and live there. With a storage unit for my tools and the other stuff that doesn't fit in the RV, I'm perfectly happy to live the life of a rover.

So the first job was to cut in a new 50 Amp plug for the RV, run a hose to the outside faucet and set up a long tube into the septic tank. All the comforts of home and I can sleep in my own bed anyplace I'm working. That's the upside. The downside was I had to start working and stop procrastinating once I was hooked up.

I moved the rig in on Saturday night and goofed off for the rest of the day, but Sunday morning I was up and ready to start working. Like I said, nobody lived there for quite a few years so the place needed some things done right away. Like a total tear-off and replacing the roof. That meant it would be a damned good idea to take the stuff out of the attic so that the crud of ages and powdered asphalt shingles didn't cover whatever was up there. Problem was, the dust of ages already had covered everything. I had a less than elegant solution for that. First, I lugged up a good-sized filtration unit, then I shaved off my vacation beard and donned a mask with HEPA filters. The old place came handily equipped with a monster leaf blower in the shed, so I opened the windows, plugged in the leaf blower and created a massive dust storm.

Now that part was fun, at least until my filters clogged. It took three changes of filters to get most of the dust out. Job done, I was ready to play the part of The Dust Monster From The Crypt in a horror movie. Reaching the back porch I decided to remove my dust-infused clothing before entering my RV - I didn't want to have to take the leaf blower to my home. Since the place was off by itself with the neighbors a considerable distance away I just stripped off.

That's when the fire department showed up.

Apparently the cloud of dust from the attic windows looked sufficiently like smoke that some neighbor had called in the alarm. I had just enough warning as the siren wound down from its full scream to hastily don my underpants before several rubber coated figures came racing around the corner.

"There's no fire!" I hollered. "No fire! It's just dust!"

"Ho…ly…shit!" one of my erstwhile rescuers opined at the sight of the skinny, filthy long-haired man in his underwear.

"Sorry, guys. I was only clearing the dust out of the attic."

"Maybe you ought to hire a maid to do your dusting."

"If I ever get this place back in shape that might not be a bad idea," I replied.

"You must be the guy that bought the old place."

"That's me - Glen Stone at your service."

"Can't really say 'Nice to meet you' under the circumstances, but I'm glad the old barn wasn't really on fire."

"I'd offer you guys a beer, but I suppose you can't drink on the job."

"Too true. Thanks for the offer, anyway. What the heck were you doing, anyway?"

So I told them about the leaf blower and they got a good laugh. They packed up their gear and went back to the fire station.

That's when my neighbor showed up.

Now really - I'll admit I'm not much of a party guy, but when I have people over I have never been known to greet them clad in only my underwear. So how come I'm doing that very thing twice in one day?

Nutcase - I told you that.

"Hello?" came a tentative voice.

A feminine voice, soon followed by a feminine body. A quite pleasant and substantial feminine body, at that. She must have been close to six feet tall, well muscled in a very feminine way, and moved with both a power and grace like I had never seen before. Her chestnut hair was cut short but her blouse was cut deep, revealing a most considerable pair of breasts. Her short-shorts likewise revealed a very alluring pair of legs. If I weren't standing on the back porch of an old house covered in dust and clad only in my underwear I might have been more appreciative, but as it was…

"Ummm. Hi?" I stuttered.

"Was there a fire?"

"No fire, just a dust storm."

"Huh?"

So I told the story yet again. They say that a flexible man can get used to almost anything. I suppose if a woman can wear a bikini and a man can wear a speedo, I shouldn't complain about my present state of undress. Nice philosophy, but I was nervous.

"I was just about to take a shower and get myself clean when the firefighters came. I don't usually greet neighbors in my tighty-whities."

"So the gray hair isn't from old age…"

"Not yet, anyway."

"Maybe I should come back once you've had a chance to get clean."

"I have to say I'm longing for a whole lot of hot water and soap right about now."

"Maybe you ought to invest in a hazmat suit."

"Lady, you ever worn one of those things?"

"As a matter of fact, I have."

"Then you know damned well why I didn't want to wear one in an attic in the summer."

"Oh yeah. You'd be parboiled and dust coated."

"Sounds like a recipe for roast chicken," came her reply.

"Chicken a la dustmop graced with slivered almonds and baby peas?"

"Maybe I had better invite you over for dinner, being a new neighbor and all. I could give you a few more appetizing recipes."

"Really? I wouldn't want to put you out."

"Not a problem. I tend to cook several meals and then freeze them so I don't have to cook for myself every day. Do you like matzoh ball soup?"

"Don't know - never heard of it."

"Then my friend, you are in for a treat. It's a secret recipe handed down from mother to daughter for generations in my family. Sort of chicken soup with Jewish meatballs made from matzoh meal. Come to think of it, the matzoh meal is sort of like dust…"

"And you object to my recipes?"

"Well, goys have often compared matzoh to eating dust. It's known as the 'bread of affliction' at the Passover Seder."

"I hope nobody ever hires you to write those glowing descriptions of the dishes on a restaurant menu. They'd be out of business in a week. What the hell is a matzoh?"

"You ever bake your own bread?"

"Occasionally, when I have time between jobs."

"So mix up your dough, but don't let it rise. The story goes we Jews didn't have time to let the bread rise before we took a powder when Pharoh came after us. We just squashed it flat and shoved the dough in the oven to bake it long enough so it wouldn't rot and started running. Quite frankly, it's downright tasteless but it's traditional. Y'know, like Tevye in Fiddler On The Roof."

"Who would have thought that cleaning my attic would result in improving my culinary and religious education?"

"The Lord moves in mysterious ways. Seriously, you're invited for dinner. Come over when you get cleaned up - I'm the pink house to the left as you come out of the driveway."

"Then I'll be happy to accept. I'm Glen Stone, by the way, the new owner, construction boss, laborer and nutcase who now plans to rehab the place."

"Wonderful! I just hated to see such a wonderful old place sinking into the slime. And I'm Vonda Brayley."

"Uh, Vonda, silly as it sounds - do I dress for dinner?"

"Well, usually I tell folks it's a casual dress code, but in your case that might be misinterpreted if you greet people in your underwear."

"I'll tell you the story over dinner - both about the house and why I'm halfway to starting a nudist colony.

The Materialization

When Vonda took her leave I headed to the RV and was about to step into the shower when I realized that while the 10 gallon tank in the RV was perfectly fine for a normal shower, in my condition I was bound to need quite a bit more. I had checked out the 50 gallon water heater in the old house and it was working just fine. With four bathrooms to choose from I would be a fool to short myself on a long, hot shower.

I gathered up some clothes and a towel, then headed over, taking a quick peek to be sure I didn't have any more surprise guests.

I had been told that the old woman had the master bedroom installed on the first floor, complete with en suite bathroom when it got too hard to go up and down stairs. The room looked like your typical haunted-house room with all the furniture covered in dust cloths and the somewhat moth-eaten drapes drawn.

I opened the drapes and raised the sashes to let in the fresh air, then stripped the dust cover from the bed. I gave the mattress a bounce and it felt pretty firm, still in good shape. I laid out my clothes on the bed and headed for the bathroom with my towel and my shaving kit.

If I were a better author I would sing the praises of plenty of hot water, but Tolkien has already done it. Add copious amounts of shampoo and conditioner and I was fully prepared to turn into a prune if I hadn't been invited to dinner by a very interesting lady.

Emerging from the bathroom I flung my wet towel over the bedpost and came to a sudden halt. There on the bed, where I had left my tighty-whities, was a pair of red panties. Having had such recent experience with a fire engine, I can state positively that thy were fire engine red.

With black lace around the leg holes.

What the hell was going on here?