Mark dropped his overnight bag down in the foyer of the large, dark house. The keys in his hand jostled as he set them down on the dusty entrance table.
A breeze passed through the foyer, chilling him. The air conditioning wasn't on, and the windows were closed. Where could a breeze come from? Local rumors called this house haunted.
Ridiculous. There was no such thing as a haunted house.
After standing in this house for all of sixty seconds, Mark decided he hated it. Who was he kidding? He hated it as soon as he’d discovered that his investment partner had bought this hundred-and-fifty-year-old house immediately prior to taking off with their shared company’s funds. All of them.
Mark hadn’t always hated the house. In fact, it had once been love at first sight when he’d originally seen pictures of the broad windows and steepled roof. Two stories of sturdy, aged wood was topped by a quaint, windowed attic. Mark had thought all she needed was a little TLC and elbow grease to be returned to her former glory. However, six months had passed since seeing pictures of this house for the first time, and now it just reminded him of everything he’d lost.
Mark had seen dollar signs when he’d envisioned fixing this place up, but he hadn’t been able to get contractors to commit to the work. They’d claimed that ‘strange activity’ occurred there, and locals from the nearby coastal town had talked of the presence of ghosts.
Mark had tried to resell the home, but nobody was interested in buying a run-down house rumored to be haunted.
He had other properties, of course, but because his partner had cleaned out their bank accounts, Mark needed to sell this place quickly to cover the mortgages on all his other holdings. Everything depended on the sale of this house.
Mark had even gone so far as to hire ‘ghost-busters’ – so he could at least claim the house had been ‘cleansed’. They’d all been charlatans, though—a waste of money.
The wood-flooring creaked—even though Mark hadn’t moved. He felt a nervous thrill, and glanced around at the dust, the tarp-covered furniture, the planks of fresh wood, and the unopened cans of paint. The last contractor had left in a hurry.
Mark wasn’t so easily spooked, though. He spoke irritably into the empty house, “Ghosts or no ghosts, I need you in shape to sell within the next six months.” Mark had about six months worth of liquid assets in his personal account—and nothing more. His only hope was to turn a quick profit from this house through his own blood, sweat, and tears.
Willow arranged the diabetic test strips carefully on the counter and checked the prefilled syringe of insulin. How did such tiny supplies cost so much? How had the cost of insulin risen four-hundred-percent since its discovery? And how was someone older, with poor eyesight, even supposed to read these tiny numbers on the syringe?
“Willow?”
Willow looked at her phone on the counter. Right. Erika was on speakerphone.
“No. I’m not coming to the hospital. I hate that place." Willow shuddered.
“I really need you,” Erika pleaded.
Erika was a geriatrician Willow had first met when her diabetic grandmother had been admitted with hypoglycemia. Dr. Erika Patel had been exceptionally kind and patient with Willow’s grandmother. Willow berated herself for her grandmother ending up requiring hospitalization. The woman had diabetic retinopathy and couldn’t be trusted to give herself the right amount of insulin. That had been a lesson learned.
Willow thought back to the day that had happened—when Dr. Patel had placed a hand on Willow’s shoulder as she’d sat beside her grandmother, and promised: “She’ll be okay. We’ll have her fixed up and out of the hospital in a few days.”
Willow nodded numbly.
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