Home > This Is Not a Ghost Story(2)

This Is Not a Ghost Story(2)
Author: Andrea Portes

Instead, I am staring at the leather-elbowed professor with what can only be described as “lost puppy eyes.”

“I hope the trip out wasn’t too complicated. Sometimes managing these old farm roads can be kind of a Byzantine exercise,” he quips.

See! Like that! I would say “Byzantine exercise.”

“Oh, no, it was fine.”

You can tell I’m real fast on my feet.

But he doesn’t seem to mind. He gives me an encouraging smile. Reassuring. It’s like he’s the human embodiment of a vanilla-scented candle.

“Is this all you have?”

He looks down at my sky-blue suitcase. God, that does look old. I got it from a thrift store. It was probably hot stuff in, like, the 1960s.

Suddenly, I’m ashamed of it, seeing it through his eyes.

“Oh, yeah. That’s pretty much it.”

He takes a moment. “Well, good to travel light. Please, come in.”

He gives me a reassuring nod and picks up my ancient, scuffed suitcase. As we’re crossing the threshold, he turns to me.

“The first thing I want you to do is to set aside any of the rumors you’ve heard. They can be nasty.” He glances out a lead glass window, and continues, almost to himself, “Nastiness seems to be the only thing that thrives in this tiny little town.” And then, more jovially, “But I want to assure you . . . don’t worry, because absolutely none of those terrible rumors are true.”

 

 

Chapter 2


“Rumors?”

Now this is something I can really sink my teeth into. I am the largest fan of rumors and scandals and indignities and gossip. The only question in my mind is, what kind of rumors are we discussing here? Are they about the upstanding professor himself? His wife? His students? Some unseemly combination of the three? I’m going to have to pull this out of him.

“Er, I mean . . . Yes, the rumors. I’ve only heard a little bit about them. I can’t quite say that I have the full . . .”

“Oh, dear. Well, let me just say that we have lived here now for over ten years and felt nothing, heard nothing, seen nothing. It’s all quite sensational, really. And insulting to anyone with even the most basic working intellect.”

He plunks my ancient suitcase down on the front landing. Deep mahogany wood, a staircase winding up to the second floor, oil paintings on the wall of people with fluffy white accordions around their necks and white wigs. Like George Washington’s cousins. Arnold and Archibald Washington. Arby Washington. Er, Appleby Washington.

“That’s why it was such a stroke of luck that you came knocking, asking for the job. A student such as yourself, matriculating at a quite exceptional institution”—he smiles warmly—“of course, none of that sensational hogwash matters to you!”

“Yes, totally sensational.” I really am on a scouting mission now. “But you know how these things spread—”

“Oh, indeed.” He sighs.

“Indeed! These rumors are like wildfire online. Such poppycock!”

I don’t believe I’ve ever said “poppycock” before.

“Now unfortunately, you won’t get to meet my wife, as she’s already on the island.”

“The island?”

“Yes, um”—he flushes ever so slightly—“it’s all silly, her great grandfather, um, bought it. Probably won it in a poker game.”

Yes, people win islands in poker games all the time. He seems embarrassed by his wife’s fortune. My stomach churns. I wish I had the opportunity to experience such embarrassment. But I smile. He’s trying to be self-deprecating.

He continues. “They say he made his money as a shipping magnate, but I have a suspicion he was more like a rumrunner. Perhaps a poppy trader.”

“Well, that’s—”

“Alright, so, if you don’t mind, I am in a bit of a scramble to get to the train. I always seem to leave the packing for the last minute. However, we have left a few papers for you, nothing big really, just instructions about this or that. And if you have any questions, I did leave a phone number. Although, sometimes service can be a bit spotty out there.”

“On the island. Yes, of course.”

He’s scurrying around now, looking befuddled and a bit unnerved. His style of dress is straight out of the academic costume department. Tweed. Classic lines. Oxford shoes.

“That’s okay! Don’t mind me. I’ll just . . . make up my room . . .”

“Yes, yes! Take any one you choose! We aren’t fussy about such things.”

With that he scratches the thinning vestiges of brown hair on his head and scurries down the hallway.

“Don’t forget to check the papers in the kitchen! Nothing much. Just some important tips,” he assures me from what looks like a study.

A curious thing. On the bookshelf, tucked between the hundreds of books, mid-shelf, is a frog in some sort of liquid, floating in a jar. The professor notices me looking at it.

“Ah, yes. A strange gift from one of my students. A biology major. Not sure if it was a backhanded insult, honestly.” He chuckles to himself.

But I stay looking at the suspended frog, his legs wading out underneath him as if in an eternal jump. Poor frog. What did he do to live out his afterlife on display in a glass jar, a musing for another, more macabre species?

A cold species, really, to keep such relics around.

“Hope you like reading! We have quite a collection of books around here, feel free to peruse anything. No use in them just sitting around collecting dust,” he shouts out again, organizing, then scratching his head, organizing some more. Under his breath, I hear him talking to himself. “Let’s see . . . oh yes. Right.”

I stand there, not sure if I should go up the stairs or wait for him to leave to start my exploration.

I’ll just wait. Seems more polite.

A cursory glance around the room tells me that someone is a meticulous duster. You could eat off the floor. Is there a maid? Does someone else live here? Or does she come maybe once a week?

CLANK!

I jump out of my skin, but down the hall the professor assures me, “Don’t mind that. Just the air conditioner! I can’t get the damn thing to stop making that godforsaken noise.”

I have a vision of the professor staring blankly at the air-conditioning system, scratching his head while grumbling to himself. Yes, he seems like the kind of guy who would at least “give it the ol’ college try.”

“I’m so sorry to hurry off like this. I feel a bit guilty—”

He comes barreling in, two suitcases in hand.

“No, no. It’s fine, really. I appreciate the note. And the opportunity.”

He’s making his exit and I really do hate long, drawn-out goodbyes, so I nod an efficient nod and assure him, “I won’t let you down, sir.”

He finds this amusing, nods, and gives me an exaggerated salute.

“Well, then, goodbye.”

He very officially marches out the front door, leaving me there with nothing but a thud and an immediate sense of silence. A deep, overwhelming silence.

Oh my God. What did I get myself into?

CLANK!

The air-conditioning unit agrees that this is perhaps the worst idea ever.

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