How to Sell a Haunted House

by Angela Roquet

  “That’s terrible.” He’d survived a massacre only to die young anyway. The Hernández family history was even more tragic than I realized. Dylan nodded his head in agreement.

  “He met Mama Ellie in New Orleans—saved her, actually.” He swallowed and gave me an uncomfortable glance before going on. “She was about to be hanged for some magical mishap. A love spell gone wrong, I think.”

  I shrugged. “What witch hasn’t botched at least one or two of those?”

  Half-baked love spells were practically a rite of passage for teenaged witches. Like getting your period or your very first cauldron.

  “Anyway,” Dylan continued, “they found this place when it was still a church. It was rundown and abandoned, all except for an elderly nun. She found them squatting in the belfry with the bats. The priest had recently past away, with no one to replace him, and the nun had been too old and feeble to manage the upkeep on her own. Papa Nando and Mama Ellie helped in exchange for room and board, and when the nun passed away, she left the church to them.”

  “If it was a gift, what’s with the massive mortgage?” I asked.

  “When Mama Ellie became pregnant, they took out a loan to convert the place into a house and added a few bat-friendly features—removal of the bell in the belfry, closing in three sides for better protection, and the hands-free door to the back patio,” Dylan explained with a nod at the window on the back door, which I now realized was a doggie door that had been installed higher up. I supposed it made for easy bat access. “Shortly after, the roof had to be replaced, and then the foundation needed repairs.”

  I nodded, understanding their plight. Historical structures often turned into money pits. The upside-down mortgage made more sense now, but it didn’t explain why Papa Nando hated witches. I was still waiting for the answer to that riddle.

  “The Banana Wars hadn’t ended yet. They were going strong in Central America at the time,” Dylan said. “The Hernández colony had been taken out, but there were other fruit bats still fighting for fair labor conditions and, in some cases, their very freedom.”

  Fruit bats. Assjacket was diverse, I’d give the town that.

  “Papa Nando got word that a neighboring colony near the plantation he’d grown up on was in need of more soldiers. He told Mama Ellie he planned to go back and join the fight. Their son Mateo, my great-grandfather, was a year old. Mama Ellie didn’t want to raise him all alone. She was so furious that she hexed Nando dead on the spot.”

  I gasped. “You consider that desperately in love?”

  “It was an accident.” Dylan cocked his head. “At least, that’s how Mama Gretta, Mateo’s wife and my great-grandmother, told the story when I was a kid. They had a son, too. My grandfather, Papa Diego. His wife Lois had a different version, one that painted Mama Ellie as a vengeful old hag whose jealous rage had cursed the entire family, sending all the Hernández men to an early grave.”

  I thought of all the deaths I’d read about before our meeting and blanched. “What version do you believe?”

  Dylan rubbed his hands together over the blowing grate, warming them before testing the fabric of my blazer to see if it was dry. He seemed reluctant to answer the question, but when he offered my jacket back to me, I put my free hand on top of his. Our eyes met.

  “Every man in my family has died within a week of their thirtieth birthday,” he said softly.

  The question was out of me before I could think better of it. “When is yours?”

  “Next June.”

  I sucked in a shallow breath, and he withdrew his hand from mine. He wasn’t selling the house because he wanted to or because he needed the money. He was selling it because he thought he only had another eight months to live.

  “Why bother with the house at all then?” I asked. “Shouldn’t you be out tackling a bucket list or something?”

  His face crumpled, and he shook his head. “I know Papa Nando hasn’t endeared himself to you, but I grew up with his ghost. I can’t just let the bank bulldoze his house. Plus, there are the bats in the belfry. They don’t deserve to lose their home either. I have a little in savings, and I’m only asking for enough to finish paying off what’s left of the mortgage.”

  It was an entirely selfless attitude. He could have been on a beach somewhere, drinking a piña colada in the sun or test-driving sports cars, racking up credit card debt he wouldn’t have to pay back.

  My heart melted a little, and I instantly forgave him for the basement incident. But that wouldn’t make the task before us any easier. Who was going to buy an outdated old house infested with bats and a curmudgeon of a ghost?

  “How does Papa Nando feel about you selling the house?” I asked.

  “He’s going to have to be okay with it.” Dylan held his hands out palms up and shrugged. “I’m running out of time, and I don’t have any children to leave the place to.”

  “No wife?” I glanced down at his ring finger, and his face flushed.

  “After my father and uncle died, the truth became harder to avoid, even for a child. My brother, cousin, and I—the last of the Hernández colony—made a pact to end the curse the only way we knew how: never have children. We also vowed to never marry, since that would only complicate the plan.”

  My heart was applesauce. He was gorgeous, handy, selfless, single—and dying next spring. Just my rotten luck.

  “What time should I be here in the morning?”

  Dylan gave me a tight smile as if he weren’t entirely sure he believed he would see me again. “Whenever. I’m staying here while I work on the place, and I’ll be up early for the electric company.”

  I slipped on my blazer, ignoring the damp spots that remained, and glanced around the kitchen for any sign of Papa Nando. I wasn’t thrilled about having to work around an angry, witch-hating ghost, but I was willing to try. Dylan’s altruism was inspiring.

  “I’ll bring my broom.”

  Chapter 4

  I SWUNG BY THE HARDWARE store on my way home. I needed some supplies for in the morning—and a bottle or three of wine for tonight. Anywhere else, it would have seemed odd for a hardware store to sell booze, but not in Assjacket. The local watering hole was hidden in the back room of the store, making for convenient one-stop shopping.

  Dylan’s sad tale had left me melancholy, but it also made me think about my own family. That was a migraine waiting to happen, and the only thing to take the edge off was wine.

  If I’d been a better witch, I probably could have broken the Hernández curse on the spot. But my father had been more interested in teaching me how to lay a hex rather than lift one—not that either technique had stuck.

  I could conjure up Dylan a margarita or a meatloaf. I could zap the dust and cobwebs from every corner of his childhood home, shine windows, and polish the woodwork—literally and figuratively—but I couldn’t break whatever hoodoo his great-great-grandmother had dropped on his great-great-grandfather a hundred years ago.

  My aunt Evillene’s hateful voice echoed through the back of my mind, a private conversation I’d overheard between her and my father when I was fourteen.

  Worthless, pathetic excuse for a witch. Entirely unworthy of the West name. Are you sure she’s even yours?

  Most days after that, I wished that I wasn’t. But today... today I could have used some of that powerful West mojo that did more than a cooking show on fast-forward. The quiet, optimistic voice of my gran that kept my childhood trauma at bay reminded me that I was also good at cleaning and decorating—and someone had to do those things. Why not me?

  On that note, I paused in front of a towering display of interior paint. The Hernández house was going to need a lot, but I was sure my ability to apply it without brushes or trays and in a matter of minutes would impress Dylan.

  I pushed the bottles of wine, glass cleaner, disinfectant spray, and floor polish to one side of my cart and began stacking paint cans beside them, selecting vintage, off-white colors light enough to brighten a room but
with enough character to not clash with the antique charm of an old house.

  Polly, a porcupine Shifter I’d sold a nice bungalow to a few months back, was working the store’s sole check-out counter when I made it up to the front. Her shock of spiky, black hair looked like it had taken half an aisle of styling products, but I knew better. It was all natural.

  While house hunting, I’d witnessed her shift so she could test out bathroom sink basins. Some gals just really liked the spa experience at home—in all their glorious forms.

  The sort of wish lists I dealt with among my Shifter clients were unique. Open concept and main floor laundry were typical requests. But hilly backyards good for burrowing and doggie doors throughout an entire house? Only in Assjacket.

  “That’s a lot of paint,” Polly commented as she scanned the wine bottles. “I don’t like to offer unsolicited advice, but mixing business with pleasure isn’t usually a good idea.”

  “Excuse me?” I snapped, wondering how on earth anyone could know how attracted I was to Dylan. We’d only just met. Damn small-town gossips.

  Polly wiggled one of the wine bottles and nodded at the paint on the conveyor belt. “I once gave my cousin Calvin a haircut after an evening of bourbon. That’s why I’m working here now and not at the barbershop.”

  “Oh.” I sighed, grasping what she’d meant before. “Right. Well, I don’t plan on drinking while I paint the Hernández house tomorrow.”

  “The Hernández house?” She almost dropped the last bottle of wine as she tucked it inside a paper sack before adding it to the plastic bag with the other two bottles. “Have you been inside it? Is it really haunted? I thought all the Hernández boys were dead.”

  “Not yet.” I swallowed and tried to hide my remorse with a weak smile. “There’s one left, and he’s hired me to sell the place. Know anyone looking for a historical fixer-upper?”

  Polly shook her head slowly. “Good luck with that one. Everyone in this town either knows too much or has seen it firsthand.”

  “Thanks anyways,” I said, trying to maintain my smile. “If you think of anyone, send them my way.”

  Polly nodded and finished scanning my goods. I’d gone a little overboard, considering I didn’t have my broom with me. I’d have to carry all the bags myself. Thankfully, my apartment was only two blocks away.

  The sky was a dusty purple through the front windows, the sun having recently set. After I paid for my items, I pulled my purse strap up high on one shoulder and proceeded to slide plastic bag handles over both arms.

  I could already feel a tingle in my fingertips from the lack of circulation. I blinked a few times, letting my magic take some of the burden, though there wasn’t much to be done about how ridiculous I looked, wobbling out of the store in my high heels.

  I’d almost made it out of the parking lot when a sleek, red Mercedes pulled up alongside me. I winced at my makeup-less reflection in the dark window. Then it rolled down, and an even more unpleasant sight accosted me.

  “If it isn’t Margo West, real estate agent extraordinaire.” Randal Thorpe smirked at me from the driver’s seat. He was almost as new to town as I was, but he’d had an easier time assimilating as a Shifter himself.

  Randal was a son of a bitch—a Doberman, to be exact—whose mother had moved away from Assjacket before having her litter. Randal had been a runt, but what he lacked in brawn he made up for in cutthroat business smarts. After arriving in town, he’d promptly began buying up vacant buildings and homes.

  No one was entirely sure what he had planned, but there were plenty of rumors. According to Zelda, he’d been a developer in whatever big city he’d left behind. His business dealings were rarely above board, but he certainly knew how to rub elbows with the right people—like Mr. Holloway the weasel banker.

  As of last week, Randal was also my landlord and neighbor.

  “Those look heavy,” he said, eying the dozen plastic bags hanging from my arms. “Want a lift?” The trunk of his Mercedes popped open before he’d finished asking the question.

  “I’m fine,” I said through clenched teeth, forcing a smile. I knew Randal’s type. Granting little favors made them feel entitled, and I knew what he wanted from me.

  “Oh, come now, Margo,” he cooed. “We’re going to the same place.”

  He wished.

  “But it’s such a lovely night,” I replied. “And I prefer fresh air.”

  “I’ll roll down the windows.” His eyes twinkled excitedly. “We can hang our heads outside, let our tongues flap in the breeze.”

  “Hard pass,” I said, then turned on my heels and hurried down the sidewalk.

  “Geeze, Margo,” he called after me. “It’s not like I asked to bury my bone in your yard.”

  “I don’t have any treats for you, Randal. Why don’t you save your tricks for someone who does?”

  “Your loss!”

  I kept walking at a brisk pace until the Mercedes blew past, punctuating Randal’s displeasure. He’d give it a day or two and then try again. The creep had less couth than a pig Shifter.

  Ten minutes later, I arrived at my building and took the long way around to avoid another encounter. Chances were, I’d catch Randal pissing in the small slice of lawn that wrapped around the block. Being turned down seemed to trigger his territorial nature, and even in his human form, he was prone to marking.

  I climbed the stairs to the second floor and stopped in front of my apartment just as the security lights flickered to life. Dead leaves rustled as they blew across the parking lot below, and I could hear the family of owl Shifters who lived across the hall, hooting loudly at one another. They were either fighting or making love. I couldn’t quite tell.

  I blinked twice, summoning my key out of my purse and into the lock on the door. My hands were full, and Broomzilla’s bristles were no substitute for opposable thumbs. Though she did turn on the kitchen light for me when I entered the apartment. Then she took in my slightly damp and makeup-free condition, and her bristles swished sharply on the hardwood floor.

  “I’m fine,” I insisted. “Just a little incident with a leaky plumbing pipe in the basement...and a ghost who doesn’t care for witches.”

  Her handle bobbed in the air twice, turning her into an animated exclamation mark.

  “I know, but we have bills to pay,” I reminded her as I piled all the plastic sacks onto the counter. “And I’m bringing you with me tomorrow.”

  She seemed happier about that, bouncing around in one of her little jigs. Then she casually poked at the bags, snooping through the supplies I’d gathered.

  “Careful! There’s aerosol—”

  A blast of disinfectant spray shot across the room, and Broomzilla flipped bristles over handle, landing flat on the floor with a loud smack! She curled upward slowly, trembling with more anger than fright.

  “Don’t look at me.” I folded my arms. “It’s not my fault you’re nosier than a feather duster.”

  Broomzilla’s bristle worked the hardwood furiously in reply, and she made a crude gesture with her handle.

  “With an attitude that shitty, you should be a toilet brush,” I snapped. It was a low blow, but I’d had a long day. Regardless, Broomzilla made sure I’d regret the slight by sideswiping the kitchen trash, scattering the contents of the can across the floor before she stormed off.

  I blinked at the bag of wine and then at the refrigerator, leaving the beverage to chill while I picked up the mess and stashed the new cleaning supplies in my housekeeping caddy. The blue, plastic tub had half a dozen wells for various products, and the base unsnapped to create a wash bucket. A rubber-coated, oval grip was fixed to the center of the top portion, perfect for looping over Broomzilla’s handle for easy transport.

  After I finished, I winked myself up a pizza and a brimming glass of grapevine therapy before trading my heels for the fluffy bunny slippers. I was tapped out for the day—magically speaking. It didn’t take much, and using my witchy wiles to help carry the hardw
are sacks just the short walk to my apartment had taken a toll. I didn’t have enough lash power left to blink the television on. So, I opened my laptop instead.

  I had every intention of searching for more comp properties that could help justify the price the Hernández house needed to bring in order to pay off the bank. Instead, I ended up on the WitchWire—a database and social media platform for witches—hunting for Mama Ellie’s maiden name.

  It was a vain effort. Even if I discovered the family she’d come from and the flavor of magic that had gone into the curse, it wouldn’t do me any good. The knowledge wasn’t going to make me a better witch. But maybe Zelda would know what to do with the information.

  I had to hope. The alternative was too depressing, and I only had three bottles of wine on hand.

  All I knew from Dylan’s story was that Papa Nando had found Mama Ellie in New Orleans in 1915. Taking New Orleans and a Cuban refugee into consideration meant we could be looking at anything from Voodoo to Santería to Goddess knew what.

  But how many witches could have escaped a death sentence in New Orleans in 1915? I asked myself. According to the WitchWire records, one hundred and six. Twenty of them had either first or middle names that began with the letter E. A lot of good that was going to do me. With Mama Ellie’s wanted status, I had a feeling I wouldn’t find her real maiden name on any marriage certificate either.

  Before my better judgement kicked in, I punched in Dylan’s name and ran a background search. It was stupid. The guy was destined to bite the big one in a matter of months. What good could come of getting to know him?

  From the information I’d gathered before our first meeting, I knew that the Hernández house had sat empty for nearly twenty years before Dylan’s cousin George had moved back to town and tried to fix it up. After the honey badger incident, Dylan’s brother Drew had taken a turn that hadn’t lasted much longer. It seemed the Hernández men returned to their hometown just in time for their untimely deaths. I wondered if that wasn’t perhaps part of Mama Ellie’s hex, however unintentional it might or might not have been.