The Graveyard Shift by Brandon Meyers, Bryan Pedas Page B

down, to harden me. It put me in the darkest frame of mind that I’d known beyond my grief for the Evertons. I began to contemplate the easy flicker of the gas stove, of the simple kindling that comprised my strong bones. Night after night it called to me, urged me to end the pain and regret once and for all.
    And just when I thought I had reached the deepest, darkest bottom of my despair, I found a light.
    One morning, a solitary man came knocking at my door. I watched him stand on the porch. There was an easy, unrushed grace about him. The stance was strikingly familiar; it was the same as my dearly departed Mr. Everton’s. This man was perhaps in his mid-fifties and fit, a heavy satchel slung over his shoulder. He wasn’t dressed professionally, but was clean-cut in khaki pants and a blue denim shirt. There was a sharp intelligence in his eyes, and also, a glint of kindness.
    Again he rapped at the front door, cocking his head slightly, like a jeweler listening for the inner workings of a timepiece.
    The rumble of an engine caught the man’s attention, and he turned to find the fellow from the bank skid to a halt in the driveway. Dirt kicked up at the car’s tires and the banker got out slowly. He was much older than the first time I had laid eyes on him. He was gray and paunchy, a direct opposite of the man on the porch.
    “What an entrance,” the man said to the banker, extending a hand. “Jack Thorpe.”
    The banker looked down at the hand and offered nothing more than a weak attempt at a smile. “You’ll have to excuse my pessimism, Jack, but I’ve not had much luck with this house. Let’s just get inside and get this over with, okay?”
    The banker unlocked the front door and led Jack inside to the lobby. I could see the glazed look in Jack’s eyes as the banker prattled on in a monotone voice, the same speech he’d told a hundred times before. Jack was not interested in the banker’s thoughts, and made this apparent when he left the banker alone to talk to himself and explored my hallways like a child navigating a maze. He pulled out a notepad and pen and scrawled down notes—items he needed to repair me. How much it would cost. Where he could get them.
    “It is quite nice, isn’t it?” the banker asked, when he found Jack in Mr. Everton’s study a few minutes later, turning Mr. Everton’s lamp over in his hands.
    “It’s very nice, and I’m very interested.” Jack set the lamp down with care, and then spread his arms wide. “So… go on with it, then.”
    The banker arched an eyebrow. “What?”
    “Well, what’s the catch?” Jack asked. “I’m not a stupid man, Mr. Caldwell. This mansion is dirt cheap and it’s gone through owners like I go through underwear. So spit it out, and not just because you’re legally obligated to. But because I’m curious.” He crossed his arms over his chest as he eyed the banker smugly. “What, murder took place here? Or maybe little Johnny couldn’t take it anymore and hung himself in the basement? Or maybe mommy found daddy diddling the maid? Murder/suicide?”
    The banker grimaced at Jack’s crudeness; I, on the other hand, admired his candor. “Actually, no. People can’t get out of here fast enough because they say the house is alive. That it’s haunted and…” He sighed. “I can’t even believe I’m speaking these words… they say it’s trying to kill them.”
    “I’m sure it is,” Jack said, running over a mural of scratches with the palm of his hand. “If I was treated like this, I’d try to murder you, too.”
    That afternoon Jack signed on the dotted line, and that evening he returned in a huge work truck with more supplies than I’d ever seen stuffed into one vehicle. There was paint, and bags of plaster, and wallpaper. There were blinds—ornate ones, and not cheap plastic, either—and endless rolls of carpeting. It all was in the style of what I held now, and it was all top quality. But that was all that came in that