I was a Ghostwriter for a Haunted House

I was a heroin addict, and it was only getting worse. My boyfriend of six months had broken up with me, and I was evicted from our one-bedroom flat in a crappy part of town. I still managed to use heroin the whole time I was homeless. I panhandled and stole to get what I needed, moving from one place to another whenever I wore out my welcome. I wasn’t beyond breaking and entering, shoplifting, or even selling my used panties or the occasional blowjob to get my next fix. I was at rock bottom, and I didn’t even care anymore. One day, while I was sitting in the park doing the usual – trying to look pretty so men would throw money my way – I saw an ad in the local paper. It was for a job, and it paid well. House sitting. Live in. Discreet. Only catch was that the house owner wasn’t around often, and didn’t like to be bothered with emails or text messages or phone calls. No, I would need to keep a written log and mail it to him at the end of every month. That’s fine. I wasn’t in any shape to work customer service, and this kind of job would let me stay home and not have to worry about driving anywhere when I was high. Hell, I didn’t even need to leave the house to get my fixes. There was a guy in the park who would sell me my heroin, and then some boy would show up once or twice a week to collect the money I had managed to scrape together. I was still homeless when I took the job, so I immediately moved in to the house. It was a beautiful house, and the guy had spare keys waiting for me at a neighbor’s house, along with a thousand dollars in cash and an address to send the money each week, and my first month’s pay in advance. I bought my first batch of heroin with the cash, and then moved in to the house. It was a rickety old Victorian thing with a big wrap-around porch and tons of windows that creaked in the breeze. I got nostalgic, because my grandma had a house that looked like this. I’d had so many happy memories in that house, and I thought of it as I walked through this one. I had been high when I thought of this, but it stuck with me. The house was like my grandma’s house. There was a notebook on the kitchen counter. *Dear occupant,* *Please keep a log with anything that happens in or around the house. I don’t care what it is, just write it down. Make sure you mail it to me every month. Keep your log as long as you want, just keep it neat. Make sure the house is clean whenever I come. Don’t try to contact me. –Mr. Solomon* There was an address beneath his signature. It was a PO box number. I memorized it and then put the note aside. I spent the majority of my time high. But I had to sober up to do the housework, and I was always aware that Mr. Solomon could drop in at any time and see the place in disarray. The house had previous occupants, and I’d inherited a few things they had left behind. A vase on the second floor landing, a stack of records in the living room, a few pieces of furniture that I thought had been left over from Craigslist sales that hadn’t been picked up. I enjoyed the house. It was big enough to wander, but small enough that I still felt cozy. My heroin guy and my boy stopped by without incident, and I even managed to panhandle a little bit on the street outside, letting people think I was a college student in need of funds. It was harder to pretend I was a college student than I thought it would be. Once I’d been homeless for a while, I stopped seeing myself as a normal member of society. But when I was in the house, I felt normal. I felt like I was part of society again, even if I wasn’t allowed outside of it. I kept myself neat while I was in the house, and showered fairly regularly (as regularly as a heroin addict can). The house had a routine, and I thought it was just the creaking of the wood in the changeable weather. But sometimes I’d be sitting in the living room, or wandering the halls, and I’d hear footsteps. Either on the floor I was on, or another floor. Either above me or below me. I recalled a story about houses settling, and especially older houses, and the pressure of the foundation shifting as the weather changed. I’d lived in an older house before, and it had been the same. I’d lived there my entire life, before moving in with my boyfriend. I wrote my first log entry a few days after I moved in. *Dear Mr. Solomon,* *Thank you for the house, it is beautiful. I have no complaints. I will continue to log as much as I see, and I will try to keep the house up to your standards. Thank you again.* *I heard the floors creaking in the thunderstorm yesterday. It sounded like someone was walking around upstairs.* *Thank you again.* *Sincerely,* *Ava* I addressed the envelope and stamped it, then forgot about it until I got my next heroin fix. “Hey,” I said. “Can you drop this in the mailbox on your way out?” “Sure thing,” said the heroin guy. I didn’t see him again for a week, and by then I had lost the envelope. I didn’t think much of it, and crumpled it up and threw it away. I’d just mail it next month. I had started noticing things. Little things. I’d moved the records in the living room, but I found them out of place a few days later. I’d put the vase on the landing, but it was down on the first floor a few days after that. I’d recalled a story about houses settling, but this was different. It sounded like someone was walking around, someone was touching my things. I moved the vase again, back upstairs, and then I took the records into my bedroom. I found them back in the living room a week later. I decided to play along, and arranged them by color. I woke up the next morning, and they were back to being arranged by artist. It still could have been the house settling, but it felt like a presence, like I had a roommate. I still felt safe. I still felt like I was at home. But I had stopped wandering the halls at night. I found the notebook again, and flipped through it. The pages were blank, except for my initial entry. I was about to write another entry, but then I hesitated. I’d thrown away the last one. I had a sinking feeling in my stomach. Who had thrown away my letter? I sat down at the kitchen table and stared at the wall. What did I know about Mr. Solomon, anyway? I had his first name, but not from him. I’d found it on some papers in the filing cabinet. *Robert Solomon.* *Robert.* I didn’t remember thinking about his first name before. I stood up and walked to the filing cabinet. I opened the second drawer from the bottom and rooted through it. *Robert Solomon.* His name jumped out at me. I didn’t remember seeing it before, but of course I had. It was on the first form I’d filled out, the first papers I’d found. But why had I forgotten? Why didn’t I remember it until now? I didn’t answer myself. I went back to the kitchen, sat down, and grabbed the notebook. *Dear Mr. Solomon (Robert)* *The house is nice. I appreciate it. Thank you.* *I have been moving things around the house. I thought it would be nice to redecorate. I moved the vase and the records. I moved a few pieces of furniture around. I put my things in the refrigerator. I changed the sheets on the bed.* *I’ve heard footsteps in the hall at night. I guess it’s just the house settling, but it sounds like someone walking.* *I hope you don’t mind the changes.* *I have been using the stove.* *I have been using the shower.* *I have been doing my own laundry.* *I am going to send this in the mail today.* *Thank you.* *Sincerely,* *Ava* I folded up the letter and put it in an envelope again. I printed out the address neatly. I walked out the door and down the street to the mailbox, and dropped the letter inside. I walked back up the street, and stopped in front of the house. I looked up, and saw a face in one of the windows. It was a woman. She was blonde and pretty, with a white dress on and her hair flowing behind her. She was looking right at me, and then she was gone. I froze. I stood there, unmoving, as the wind whistled through the trees. What the hell had I just seen? I looked around. There were other people on the street, but they didn’t seem to notice me. I didn’t want to ask them if they had seen the face, because I didn’t want to seem crazy. So I just walked back inside. I locked the door, and went back to the filing cabinet. *Robert Solomon.* Nothing else. Just his name, over and over again. *I am Robert Solomon, and I still wish to inhabit this house.* *I am Robert Solomon, and I still wish to

I was a Ghostwriter for a Haunted House

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