The Flip

by Michael Phillip Cash

  He lit the flimsy chandelier with its tulip glass shades. Its light flickered and wavered, bathing the room in a buttery hue. Brad shivered a bit, then sat down on the can to start sorting through another of the boxes. He and Julie had figured all the valuables had been stripped by the more recent occupants, but he had found a pretty good haul in the undisturbed hole. Forty-five minutes later, he had more piles than he could count: clothes, letters, books, any papers he found interesting, a tidy pile of old money, perfume bottles, canes, old lace-up shoes, parasols, and a growing stack of paintings. He picked up an old glass lampshade covered with grime. Brushing dirt from the mosaic pattern of the glass, his breath caught in his throat when the trapped colors were freed to reflect in patterns on the wall. He held it up to the late sunlight streaming in the bare window and spun it slowly, watching the reds, blues, greens, and yellows paint the dull room with vibrancy. It was like spring had entered hell, he thought with a wry grin. Might be valuable. He gingerly placed it in an empty box to take home. His eyes smarted from the dust, and as much as he’d wanted to go through the rest of the house, his back was aching. This work was filthy.

  Brad had agreed to this business because he hated driving the limo. After being in Afghanistan, chauffeuring the rich and spoiled seemed superfluous. It was hard to keep his mouth shut when they demanded he speed up to risk a ticket because they were running late. Some paid him just to walk their dog. It was stupid work. This was much more satisfying. He had worked with his father around the house when he was a kid, so most of the minor repairs were easy. Brad had liked the feeling of pride when he handed over the keys to the young couple who’d bought the flip they finished last month. It was a two-bedroom Cape, an easy fixer-upper they bought at foreclosure for less than $40,000. Twenty thousand went toward insulation, a new kitchen, one new bath, and a fresh coat of paint. They did it in the industrial style, all lean lines, and it sold for over $180,000. They made a tidy profit, their biggest, and Julie had spotted this monstrosity on the way home. Why, he thought to himself, did he choose to take the long way home? Normally, they went on the highway, but that night he took the scenic route, and Julie had screeched for him to stop when she saw the for-sale sign swinging in the breeze.

  “Oh…my…God! I love this place.” She urged him to go up the winding driveway. It was steep and narrow, made more for horses and carriages. They got to the top of the hill, and Julie leaped out of the car.

  “Jules, stop!” he called to his five-foot-nothing wife as she casually jumped the short iron fence. “You can’t go—”

  “Come on. This place is amazing.” She waded through the overgrown yard and got up on the porch to peer through a window.

  It was big, a genuine Victorian, with dirty white shingles and a dilapidated porch that wrapped around the house, supported by posts decorated with gingerbread woodwork at the top. He admitted to himself, it did have a certain charm, if you liked fussy details.

  “It’s Second Empire,” his wife informed him, looking at the flat-topped mansard roof. “Oh, it has a cupola.”

  “A what?” he asked.

  She pointed to an onion-shaped blob on the top of a tower, its gold paint tarnished and peeling off in large strips.

  “It’s ugly,” he told her plainly.

  “I think we’ll go gray and white with red accents.” Julie ignored him as she stared into the gloom of the interior through the wavy glass. “Look at the size of that entry. Brad,” she whispered in awe, “the staircase looks like it’s never been touched.”

  “Yeah, Julie, I don’t think anything’s been touched here. Besides, we’re trespassing. It’s probably over our budget.” Brad only saw mountains of work. “The pipes would have to be pulled out. They’re probably lead. Look, Jules.” He pressed his work boot down on the warped wood. “The whole place is rotted. This will be too hard for us.” He scanned the dilapidated roof, slates broken and missing in spots. The shingles sagged in the center portion of the house. “It looks like the Addams family lived here,” he told her wryly, but he knew her mind was made up. “Lurch?” He cupped a hand to his face and called loudly, “Hey, buddy. Lurch. Trick or treat.”

  Julie nodded absently and, smiling with the determination of a Sherman tank, pulled out her phone. “Please,” she pleaded. “Maybe it’s a great buy and we’ll make a ton. I mean, just look at this place.” She held up her arm expansively. It was at least three stories, with a widow’s walk facing the calm waters of Cold Spring Harbor. It was nestled in a tangle of overgrown foliage, roots breaking through the floorboards of the porch. The house had a round tower on the side, shaped like a witch’s hat. He silently counted the windows. There were forty just on the side he could see. It was too much, he knew—way beyond their capabilities as flippers—but he knew her mind was made up.

  Brad shrugged, turning away as Julie punched in the Realtor’s number. He didn’t see her green eyes light up, but he heard her squeal with delight at the price. Three weeks and a construction loan later, they were the proud owners of Bedlam House, built in 1859 and owned by one of the prominent families of Cold Spring Harbor. It was named for the street near which it was built. Bedlam Street was the main artery of the tiny harbor town, which was now a picturesque village filled with quaint shops. The house was built by Frank Hemmings, a land and railroad baron, and inherited by his daughter after he died. Over the years, it had housed one of the secretaries of Teddy Roosevelt when he was president, a World War I fighter pilot now buried in the fields of France, and a sinister spinster. It had never left the Hemmings family until the late seventies, when the last descendant died, alone and childless. It was a reformatory for about twenty years until funding stopped. It later had a stint as a failed bed-and-breakfast for a New York minute. Foreclosed by a bank that didn’t want it, it was abandoned, deserted and run-down, filled with mice and who knew what else. Lastly, it had been a known hideout for crack addicts until the new sheriff was elected.

  It was for sale for $15,000, and Brad understood that Julie could not pass that up. The acre and a half it sat on was worth so much more. The town just wanted someone to rehabilitate it. What Brad didn’t understand was why, at that price, none of the local premier real estate brokers or contractors had bought it for demolition. It was an eyesore to him—dirty, smelly, old, and decayed. He didn’t like this project and saw this investment as a money pit. But, they were committed. They didn’t have the funds for anything more than a bare-bones renovation, with him doing the bulk of the work.

  Brad remembered the day they got the keys and went in for an inspection. He had to admit there was a faded grandeur about the place. The entry was huge, with a winding spiderweb of a staircase that seemed to go on forever. It had a cold stone floor; it reminded him of an indoor porch. A stained glass window dominated the large first landing. It was a depiction of Joan of Arc, with masses of blond hair stuck under her pointed helmet. She had a doll-like face, blue eyes, and a voluptuous body. A white horse stood docilely at her side. He stared dumbfounded at the interpretation of the French saint.

  “What were they thinking? We should rip that out,” he told Julie.

  “No way.” She raced up the stairs to examine it closer. “It was a Victorian perception of what Joan looked like.

  “Joan of Arc is rolling in her grave at this depiction.”

  “She was burned at the stake,” Julie informed him.

  “Well then, she’s spinning like a gyro. Man, that’s horrible, Jules.”

  “It’s authentic to the time period.”

  “Gives me the creeps. No wonder all they thought about was death.”

  “What are you talking about?” Julie turned to face him.

  “The Victorians created most of today’s funeral customs. They loved nothing more than decorating cemeteries with all those statues and stuff. Must have come from sitting in depressing places like this.”

  “Are you kidding me? This place is a diamond in the rough. Look at that fireplace.” She ran down th
e stairs and into the main salon, where a giant black wood mantel filled with carved animal heads took up almost a whole wall. It had a many-shelved étagère surrounding it.

  “Cheerful,” he smirked, his white teeth bright in his tanned face.

  “It is a bit over the top, but it’s so Victorian. Look at the paneling.”

  “Dark,” Brad commented grimly.

  “I think it’s beautiful.” Julie hugged him. “Work your magic, Brad, and we’ll make this into a showplace.”

  Brad did not like the speculative gleam in his wife’s eye. He caressed her cheek and kissed her on the lips, smiling when he knew he had her full attention. “This is just another flip, Jules.”

  “What?” She looked like a startled kitten, knowing that somehow he was reading her thoughts. “You know, Brad, we could turn it into a bed-and-breakfast again.”

  Julie’s mind was like a hamster on a wheel, always running—thinking of new ways to make money. She could be harebrained; some of her ideas were just plain dumb. Brad never minded telling her, either. They had some pretty big fights, but the make-up sex made it all worthwhile, he thought with a smile. Somehow it was always sweeter when she was the victor, so he let her think she won more times than not. However, this was not one of those times.

  “I don’t think so, Jules. We can’t afford to carry both our mortgage and the construction loan.”

  “We could consolidate and move in here…,”she said, her voice trailing off as she caressed the coffered mahogany paneling.

  “Sure, and we’ll shower at the gas station in town?”

  “Think about it?”

  “I did, and I’m not anymore.”

  “Any more what?” she asked hopefully.

  “Thinking about it.”

  Now Brad stood in an endless pile of filth, two days into the cleanup. Wearily, he packed his tool belt away, his chest still smarting from the strange pressure he’d just experienced. “We’ll make this into a showplace,” he said sarcastically to himself. He set the paint can on a pile of papers to prevent them from moving. Flipping through the stack of paintings, he pulled out four that looked like they might be worth something. One was of the house in better days. A smile graced his lips as he thought Julie was right—it had the bones for beauty, but time and circumstances had not been kind to the old house.

  He paused at the portrait of a woman in nineteenth-century clothing, her hair up in a tasteful chignon, her wistful smile catching his eye. She was not exactly beautiful by today’s standards, with her strong jaw and longish nose. But there was something special about her. Using a rag, he dusted off the filthy frame. Nails caressed the back of his neck, and he whipped around, rattled, his eyes wild. He knew what he felt, and his body had reacted, he thought uncomfortably, adjusting himself. Flames danced down his arm, goose bumps appearing. His breath harsh in his chest, he used the filthy rag to brush away imagined insects. Insects? he thought wildly. What kind of insects could affect him like that? His lips prickled as though Julie’s sweet breath were upon them. He backed away from the pressure of a hand on the center of his chest, until his back touched the ratty wallpaper that hung in strands from the top of the walls. Whispers echoed in his ears, a cold fog surrounding him, and he heard feminine laughter. He looked out the window, wondering where the sound was coming from, dismissing it as a passing car.

  Tessa leaned against the warmth of a vital human, her lips caressing, her tongue licking him. Wrapping her arms around him, she inhaled his male scent, her eyes dreamy. She pressed into him, sliding her legs against the hardness of Brad, hooking hers around his lean legs. Smiling, she heard his breath catch, then closed her eyes and covered his mouth with her own, when a roar deafened the room, a claw grabbing her by the neck to shake her like a wet puppy and throw her violently against the wall.

  “Get out of my house!” Tessa screamed at the black shadow hovering between the two of them, unseen by the human. It laughed, mocking her, becoming a solid wall as she rose to go through it. It was as dense as obsidian, cutting her vaporous form into tiny splinters to break apart like shattered ice. Tessa reformed, angrily backing out of the room, watching the black cloud grow to encompass the entire space, including the human. She bared her teeth, words failing her, and left in search of Gerald. The thing had come back, and she was not happy.

  Brad watched in amazement as the floor lit up with scattered dots of light, like sprinkled raindrops. They reminded him of the tiny tea lights he had used to propose to Julie, but vanished seconds later, leaving him to wonder if he had imagined the whole thing. There was a heaviness weighing him down, pinning him to the wall like a butterfly specimen. His ears rang as though a gun had gone off. He rolled his neck, Afghanistan coming back to him in a rush. Sweating, he slid down the wall, wondering if PTSD had finally gotten to him.

  A coldness invaded the room. Brad squinted at the descending sun, wondering why its bright rays failed to penetrate the gloomy space. Cocking his head, he thought it strange, as the room faced the west and should be filled with warm light, yet there was an oppressive pall that smothered the place. His phone rang, breaking the silence, and he slipped it out of his back pocket.

  “Hi, honey.” Julie’s voice filled the vacuum of the room.

  “Yeah,” Brad said tonelessly, unaccountably irritated by her happy greeting.

  “You OK?” Julie asked.

  “Great,” he replied curtly.

  “I just left the office. I’ll be home in forty-five.” She paused. “Do you want to pick up Chinese food?”

  “I’m filthy. Don’t you have anything in the house?” He stood, growing more impatient with his wife. He could feel the agitation in the pit of his stomach and couldn’t prevent the resentment from showing. His voice welled with anger. “I thought we said we were going to watch the spending, Julie. This flip is going to cost a fortune.”

  Julie held the phone away from her ear, sighing. He was so mad. Over what, dinner? “Really? When was I supposed to get the groceries, during my lunch break?” she retorted, her voice rising. Her neck had turned red. “Look, Brad, I—”

  “Never mind.” Her husband cut her off. “I’m not even hungry. I’ll see you later.” He hung up without letting her answer.

  Chapter 3

  Julie was pissed. He was so angry lately. Ever since they purchased this house, the light had left his eyes. He had been so easygoing about everything. That’s what had drawn her to him in the first place. Brad was different from all her other boyfriends. He was kind, patient, sweet, and fun to be around. Nothing ever rocked his world. She had been attracted to him for all the obvious reasons. He had the most perfect face; tanned, with lovely gray eyes. He had that boyish surfer look; his long brown hair was streaked by the sun, and he had the toned body of an athlete. Never overdressed, he filled out jeans and a work shirt like an underwear model. Her father never liked him, unhappy with his lack of a career, yet Julie just didn’t care. She had loved him from the first time he ran to her side of the car and opened the door, helping her out like she was a porcelain doll. She punched in his number again, wanting to finish what they started, but canceled the call, thinking he would get home first, shower, and perhaps cool down enough for them to have an adult conversation. She called her sister Heather instead.

  “Hi, Julie. Everything OK?”

  “Do you have a minute?”

  “Barely. I’m picking up Cooper at soccer and then I have to get Lainey from the orthodontist. I have a PTA meeting at eight, and Jack just called and is going to be late. What’s up, sweetie?”

  Julie sighed. “I don’t get it…we were cruising along. Everything was great, you know.” Julie paused.

  “What? Did you have a fight?”

  “Nooo, not precisely. I’m not even sure if there is a problem. I mean, well, there is…I mean, like a problem.”

  “Julie, get to the point. I don’t have much time. Are you having a problem with money? Talk, Jules. Is it in the bedroom?”

  �
�Well, I’m not having a problem, but lately he doesn’t want to do anything. It’s like he can’t stand me.”

  “Oh, honey. That happens to everyone. One day it’s rainbows and puppy dogs and then…well, they just get over it. Jules, did anything happen?”

  “No! I mean everything was moving along fine. We sold the Cape, made some nice money.” Julie went silent, then continued, “It’s since we bought this new house.”

  “The old Hemmings place? Hi, Cooper. Throw your stuff in the back.”

  Julie heard her nephew enter the car, and her sister switched off her speakerphone.

  “Coop’s in the car, so I won’t be able to say much. Look, they all go through stages, Jules. That place was a sty. Is he working hard there?”

  “He got angry when I asked him to pick up some dinner. I don’t remember the last time he, you know—”

  “You asked him to pick up dinner? Isn’t today his birthday?”

  “Shit. I forgot.” Julie was silent for a moment. “I am working full time, too, if you haven’t noticed. This is hard, Heather.”

  “I know, it sucks. But what are the choices? You have to make enough to survive today. It’s never enough. Cooper! Stop hitting the back of my seat. Look, I’ve got to go. Make him a home-cooked dinner and then take matters into your own hands. You know what I mean?”