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We traipse after the couple as they inspect the guest bedrooms and ensuite bathrooms. As they climb the stairs to the second floor, the woman stops to admire all the gilded portraits in the hallway.
“This house comes with a fascinating history,” Sylvie says. “We have some books in our library that detail some of the more interesting owners, like the Van Wimple family, who left behind a lot of their fine Victorian furniture and curios.”
“Oooh, I love history!” says the woman. “Are there any friendly ghosts?”
“Not that I’ve seen,” says Mike, “but therearestories about the infamous Poet Prince Edward, a notorious rake who fell out of the upstairs window. Some people say that they can still hear his poetry whispered on the breeze—”
I wave at Edward. He drops to his knees on the top of the stairs and recites, “To the mortals dwelling within my haunted domain, Unaware they trespass, causing me great pain. My abode, once hallowed, now echoes with dismay. My great displeasure I seek to convey.”
“Did you hear that?” the wife gasps.
“What?” her husband snaps.
“It was just the wind,” Gwen says, although she glares at me as if I’m somehow responsible. I shrug, but I can’t keep my eyes off Edward, who is descending the stairs with that princely smirk on his face.
“Someone said that they are greatly displeased by our presence. It almost sounded…like a ghost.”
“Don’t be absurd, woman. There’s no such thing as ghosts.”
“I swear I heard it! He sounds really angry, and he is a terrible poet.”
“I heard it too,” Sylvie says to Mike. “How odd.”
“Ye who linger in this dwelling of mine. Take heed, depart, lest dark fates entwine,” Edward waves his hands through the man, who rubs his arms as goosebumps appear on his skin. “By the moon’s pale glow, I bid you leave. Or face the wrath that this pissed-off spectre shall conceive.”
I glance at Bree. She stares at Edward as he gets right up in the woman’s face. She covers her mouth with her hand. I hope she’s enjoying this as much as we are. We’ll get rid of these people, and Sylvie and Mike won’t be able to sell Grimwood.
The man starts trembling. “D-d-does anyone else hear that?”
Mike’s reached the top of the stairs. “I’m sure it’s nothing. I must have left my laptop open, and Moon has jumped on the keyboard and opened my podcast app.”
“Yes, that’s it!” Gwen says brightly. “Just a silly podcast of terrible poetry. Not a spectre at all.”
“The intruders, shaken, finally concede,” Edward intones, jabbing his finger in the direction of the front door. “Heeding the ghost’s warning, they take heed. Through moonlit shadows, they hasten away, Leaving the haunted dwelling, afore the break of day.”
He flings his arms at a side table, and has enough ghost mojo to fling the objects on top down the stairs.
“Argh!” the husband cries as a picture frame sails past his face.
“That was no podcast!” the woman shrieks.
The man grabs his wife’s arm and they tear off down the stairs.
“B-b-but you haven’t even seen the master bedroom!” Gwen cries out.
“I don’t think we’re interested. Thank you.”
The door slams shut behind them, echoing through the house.
Gwen leans against the wall, fanning her face with her hand.
“They didn’t even collect their coats,” Sylvie says forlornly.
“Whatwasthat voice?” Mike peers all around the landing. Edward moves aside before he can step through him. “It reallydidsound like it was coming from up here, but there’s no one here.”
“Maybe itwasa ghost,” I say. “He sounded pretty angry. I don’t think he wants you to sell the house.”
“I don’t care if it’s Jason Voorhees here for a murderous rampage,” Sylvie says with a hint of savagery that I admire. “We’ve got to do this. Mike, Bree – roll up the rug in the office and bring it into the foyer. We need to cover this stain!”
