House of Ghosts Read Online Free PDF

the master at the end of the hall was devoid of furniture. Preston’s suits lay crumbled in the space where the bed was once situated. That section of the oak hardwood was pristine. A Crucifix remained above where the headboard marred the plaster.
    The floor was grooved and worn between where the bed was located and a small study directly to the right. Joe envisioned Preston pacing with his hands clenched behind his back. Preston explained in an alcohol fueled rant that the eight foot by eight section was formerly his wife’s dressing area. He had the vanity replaced with a built-in bookcase which was empty except for a 1942 Princeton University yearbook on the top shelf. Torn and faded
Time
and
Newsweek
magazines lay strewn on the floor, along with a few issues of
Christian Monthly
.
    A leather satchel without its handle sat in the corner. Sweeping dust off the front flap with his hand, Joe could barely read Preston’s faded monogram. The lone contents, a Post-It note with “6 down 3 across” scrawled in pencil. Using the five-iron, he scooched the yearbook off the shelf. Opening the cover, he read the dedication to Hans Schmidt, a math professor killed in a Nazi bombing raid on London. Joe thumbed to the S section. A weasel face with hair combed and slicked like Errol Flynn’s stared back. Preston Swedge hadn’t changed in nearly sixty years except for his hair going snow white.
    Joe placed the yearbook into the satchel and returned to the bedroom. From the pile of suits, he found a matching black gabardine pants and jacket. He held the pants to his waist. At five-ten the pants were three inches long. He folded the suit and stuffed it into the bag.
    Joe made his way down the stairs. Willie Reynolds had managed to remove the chandelier. An eerie stillness filled the house. The five-iron echoed off the walls of the hallway. Solitary bulbs in plastic receptacles replaced the brass wall sconces. He entered the kitchen.
    Ruth stopped counting the day’s take from a cash register on the Parson’s table. “The briefcase is definitely a keeper.”
    Joe dumped the suit and yearbook on the table. “Got these too.”
    Ruth raised an eyebrow. “Yearbooks are collectible, but a sixty year old suit?”
    Joe looked under the table. A faint stain remained where Preston had melted into his shoes. “It’ll make a good scarecrow for the garden.” Growing tomatoes and cucumbers was on the same list as going fishing. He had no reason for taking anyof the items. “What do I owe you?”
    Ruth swatted at a fly as she continued to count the receipts. “It’s on me.”
    The fly was a holdover from Preston’s gourmet buffet. Three of its cousins were perched on top of the refrigerator. “That’s very kind,” he said, trying not to laugh. Joe returned his treasure to the satchel and pointed to an opened door. “What about the basement?”
    Ruth looked up. “Nothing of value down there,” she said. “The light switch is one step down on the left.”
    The kitchen’s overhead fluorescent light failed to illuminate the area immediately inside the door. Joe eased his left foot to the edge of the tread. The angle of the staircase seemed excessively steep. He froze. Twice he had lost his balance on his own basement steps after returning from the rehab facility. Three times was a charm he wanted to avoid.
    Chalky paint crumbled on his hand as he searched the wall. There wasn’t a wall plate. He could feel the outline of the old Bakelite switch. Anticipating a shock, he timidly flicked the lever. A clear light bulb at the base of the steps glowed then burned out. A second bulb hanging in the middle of the room dimly lit the lower half of the staircase. He took a deep breath and proceeded one step at a time. Dust and the hint of aged cat urine irritated his nose. Joe was besieged by a coughing fit as he cleared the last step.
    A half-hearted cleaning job had been made. Broom marks were left in the grime build-up of more than six