by Dorien Grey
He tried very hard to keep John out of the equation, though he kept coming back to the question of why he had been there. That he had focused on that one particular apartment on the second floor puzzled Elliott, as did the fact that Mrs. Wolinski had seemed a bit reluctant to show the unit to him. After entering and going through it, he hadn’t seen or felt anything out of the ordinary—other than John, of course.
The door knocking was also puzzling, although he knew sounds, by their very nature, could often play tricks. The “knockings” were most likely, as he had first concluded, attributable to some weather-related expansion and contraction of the structure or some minor problem involving the heating system or water pipes—though he doubted the heat would be on at this time of year.
The bottom line was that he truly liked the building and saw a lot of potential. As always, he tallied up the cost of renovation against the to-be-reasonably-expected return it could bring. A building like this one, lovingly restored, could be sold for a considerable profit. And because he relied on his own labor and that of a small team of regular subcontractors, he could bring a project in much less expensively than a larger organization could.
* * *
After dinner he called Steve to report on his meeting with the Wolinskis. He did not, of course, mention John’s showing up, or the unexplained door-knocking.
“That’s great,” Steve said. “As a matter of fact, I was just starting to do my first preliminaries on it. I’ll have to go by and look at it several more times and at different times of day—which is kind of hard when I work all day—but I think I’ll go over there tomorrow as soon as I get home. Do you think you might go for it?”
“I’m leaning that way, and that sort of worries me. It’s not like me to rush into things. The last time I did it was on the Sheffield property, and we know where that led.” He was referring to a project he’d been involved in when he met Steve, and which had turned into a disaster—literally.
“Well, I really hope you’re not letting my enthusiasm for the place influence your decision,” Steve said.
“Of course not, though it didn’t hurt. I value your opinion.”
“Flattery will get you anywhere,” Steve joked. “But if you like it, I hope you’ll go for it.”
“Yeah, well, we’ll wait to see what they come up with for an asking price.”
They talked for a few more minutes, then Elliott spent the rest of the evening watching TV and jotting down ideas and notes on estimated costs for the prospective new property. Not for the first time, it struck him as more than a little ironic that someone as devoted as he was to preserving the charm and beauty of old apartment buildings, and who fought so hard against the “condominiumization”—if there was such a word, which he doubted—of the city, chose to live in a 35th-floor modern condo.
He went to bed right after the ten o’clock news, hoping to hear from John, whom he’d not been aware of since leaving the Wolinski place.
Few things are more difficult than trying to go to sleep, but he realized he’d finally done so when…
It’s a nice building.
Yeah, it really is. What were you doing there?
I’m not quite sure. There’s something…someone…there, I think.
You think? By “someone” you mean…uh…like you?
Elliott experienced the slight tingling sensation that was John’s laughter.
That’s a diplomatic way of putting it, but yes, I think so.
How can you not be sure?
Again the sensation of laughter.
Where I am is really a lot different from where you are, so it’s almost impossible to explain. I’m not sure of a lot of things yet myself. Let’s just say that if someone is there, either he isn’t aware I’m there as well, or he’s preoccupied.
Preoccupied? Talk about an interesting way of putting things. Is he—Is it a he?—responsible for the door-knocking?
Yes, I’m pretty sure he’s a he, and I’d imagine he’s behind the knocking. I have no idea why, of course, but I’ll try to find out more, if I can get his attention.
I’d appreciate that.
No problem. This is fun.
I’m glad you’re enjoying it.
Oh, I am.
* * *
The next three days were taken up with seeing to the finishing touches on his current project, with which he was quite pleased. Sandblasting the paint from the sandstone-block structure, combined with adding new windows, entrance door, trim, and other small decorative touches, had converted the building from stodgy and nondescript to eye-grabbing while still maintaining its original character. The project had run slightly over budget, but Elliott felt it was well worth it, and was certain it would still produce a decent profit, which was all he expected. Even so, there were definite advantages to being independently wealthy, he had to admit.
He put in a call to Larry Fingerhood, the real estate broker who handled the listings for his properties, to set up an appointment so Larry could see the finished project and discuss the details and timing of the listing. He also arranged for Thad Baxter, a professional photographer friend, to come by and get still photos and a video.
He and Thad had known each other for some time, had dated for a while, then remained casual friends. When he learned Thad was interested in an apartment in one of the properties Elliott couldn’t bear to part with after renovating it, he offered him a substantially reduced rent in exchange for photography and videotaping service on the renovation projects. Thad had jumped at it, and this would be the first test of the arrangement.
He was far too busy to let the fact he had slept soundly for the past three nights with no visit from John be of much concern, though he was mildly curious as to what was going on.
Thursday afternoon, just as he was getting ready to head home, his cell phone rang.
“Mr. Smith, this is Eleanor Wolinski. My husband and I have settled on a price we consider fair.”
She quoted a figure that was considerably lower than Elliott had expected, considering Mr. Wolinski’s real estate background and knowledge of property values. He didn’t want to come right out and say that he knew pretty well what properties in that area were going for, and the quoted price was just barely above the average.
As though reading his mind, she said, “We realize we could ask for more, but to be honest with you, Mr. Smith, given the state of my husband’s health, we just don’t want to go through all the hassle. There’s a building just down the street that’s been for sale for nearly a year. We don’t want to wait that long to sell ours, and my husband was impressed with your devotion to preserving the city’s heritage.”
Again feeling slightly conflicted, he said, “Well, I tell you what. Why don’t I bring my team over to look through the place, and you and your husband think about whether you’re sure you’re happy with that asking price?”
“When would you like to come over?”
“Let me check and get back to you by noon tomorrow.”
“That will be fine. I’ll look forward to your call.”
* * *
Too fast, Elliott told himself as he returned to work. This was a building, not an impulse purchase at the supermarket. And he wondered just how much of his going along with it was due to John’s whatever-it-might-be involvement. He had resolved, to his own satisfaction, that John was not just some mental aberration resulting from the head trauma he’d suffered just before John entered his life, but he was still a little uncomfortable with the thought that John might be influencing his actions.
He took some comfort in knowing that, if the Wolinskis were trying to keep some problem with the property from him, a careful inspection by his work team would find it, and he could simply walk away. The older couple had struck him as decent people, and the state of Mr. Wolinski’s health was fairly obvious; he could understand their desire to get out from under the various responsibilities that came with owning rental property.
Back at the current proje
ct, he waited until Arnie Echter, his electrician, returned from a run to the hardware store then called his team—Arnie, plumber Ted Swanson, and carpenter Sam Bryte—together to tell them about the Wolinskis’ building and arrange for them all to go as a group to take a look at it. Since both the plumbing and electrical work here would be wrapped up by the weekend, leaving only the sanding and refinishing of the third-floor apartment floors and minor touch-up work to be done, they agreed to meet at the Wolinskis’ on Monday morning.
Elliott resisted the temptation—and was mildly annoyed at himself for even having it—to call Mrs. Wolinski back then and there. He’d told her he’d call on Friday, and that would be fine. The last thing he wanted was to appear as eager to buy as the Wolinskis were to sell.
* * *
Steve called shortly after Elliott got home Thursday night to ask if he’d like to go to a movie Friday, and Elliott readily agreed.
“I did some more sketches of the building last night after work,” Steve said, “and I think I’ll start on the painting Saturday. Have you given any more thought to buying the building? The more I see it the more I like it, but…”
“But what?” Elliott asked when Steve didn’t immediately finish his sentence.
“This probably sounds silly, but do you get…I don’t know how to put it exactly…” There was another pause.
“Get what?” Elliott prompted, puzzled.
“Well,” Steve finally continued, “I get a really strong sense of…sadness?…about it. Obviously, you don’t.”
“No,” Elliott agreed. “I can’t say that I do. But then, I’m not an artist. It probably just has something to do with the fact that it needs a lot of work, and the yard’s unkempt, and…”
“Yeah, that’s probably it,” Steve said. “And that’s probably partly what draws me to it. I do hope you get it—I’d love to see what you do with it. But still, it fascinates me just the way it is.”
Elliott filled him in on his meeting with the Wolinskis and the current status of the situation.
“So,” he said, “we’ll see what the guys have to say about it after we’ve gone through the place with a fine-tooth comb. I’ll keep you posted.”
After they’d hung up, Elliott wondered idly if Steve’s comments about sensing sadness around the building might possibly be related to John’s strong presence near the door on the second floor.
* * *
Friday morning, Elliott met with Larry for a walk-through of the nearly completed project and to discuss the asking price and other details involved in putting the property up for sale. They’d done it so often it was a fairly routine process. Thad Baxter was scheduled to come do the photography and video tour the following Tuesday.
He waited until after lunch to call the Wolinskis to set up the Monday inspection, and reflected momentarily on how smoothly everything was going. People had frequently commented on his good luck, but Elliott preferred to think of it as simply a matter of his always trying to anticipate potential problems and eliminate them before they had a chance to arise.
The day went smoothly, as did his evening with Steve.
Because Steve wanted to get an early start Saturday on his new painting, they spent the night at his place, and Elliott left right after a quick breakfast. On his way out, he casually mentioned that he was thinking of making a pot roast for dinner, if Steve would like to join him.
“Sounds good,” Steve said. “What time?”
Life, Elliott decided, was good.
* * *
You’ll like it.
Like what?
The new painting.
I’m sure I will. I like all of Steve’s work.
I know.
You’ve been pretty quiet lately. Have you, found out anything about the building?
Some, but not much. Someone’s there, but I haven’t connected with him yet.
Can you tell anything at all about him?
Just that he’s very sad. And very confused. Trying to get to him is like walking through an emotional tornado. But I think he’s waiting for something.
For what?
I have no idea. But whatever it is, he’s totally consumed by it.
I’m not sure I like the sound of that.
I don’t think you have to worry. I didn’t sense any evil intent, just sorrow.
He felt Steve’s hand on his chest and opened his eyes, turning his head to find Steve staring at him.
“You were talking in your sleep again.”
“I’m sorry! Did I wake you?”
Steve shook his head. “No, I was having an odd dream, and I woke up and heard you mumbling.”
“What was I saying?” Elliott asked, as always recalling all of his conversation with John.
“I couldn’t make it out.” Steve slowly moved his hand back and forth across Elliott’s chest. “You said something about not being sure you liked something. Maybe you’re having second thoughts about the building?”
“No, not at all.” He hoped Steve wouldn’t pursue it. Turning slightly toward him, he stroked his shoulder and arm.
They didn’t say anything for a moment. Then Steve said, “Well, since we’re both awake, it seems kind of a shame to waste a good wake-up.” He pulled Elliott toward him.
“Don’t you ever get enough?” Sensing John was gone, he wrapped his arms around Steve, pulling him closer.
“No. Do you?”
“What do you think?” Elliott asked, throwing back the sheet.
* * *
Arriving at the Wolinskis’ a few minutes before eight on Monday morning, as they were having breakfast, he collected the keys for the utility area and empty apartments. Mrs. Wolinski told him the ground-floor tenant was at work but had given his okay for them to go in, and that Mrs. Reinerio would be expecting them.
He then went out front to await the arrival of his crew. When they were all there, they first did a walk-around of the outside and yard, then went into the utility area. Elliott had noted earlier there was no laundry room, and made a mental note to consider adding one. Arnie and Ted checked out the furnace, hot water heaters, and electrical systems while Sam did an inspection of the wood framing, floor joists, foundation, and walls.
Returning to the front of the building, they began their inspection of the vacant apartments, starting with the two-bedroom ground-level apartment on the right then moving to the other. Bypassing the first floor, they moved up to the second. Immediately upon reaching the top of the stairs, Elliott was aware John was there, by the door on the left as he had been before.
When they entered that unit, he once again tried to sense anything or anyone other than John. There was nothing. It was just an empty apartment. He didn’t know what he’d expected—there were no “cold spots,” no sense of the sadness both Steve and John had described. None of the traditional accoutrements of the paranormal Elliott had come to expect from watching TV and the movies. In a way, he was relieved, taking it as reassurance that, other than his contact with John, he didn’t have any special gifts or talents out of the ordinary.
Each of the crew had been taking notes on their general impressions as well as on those things within their specific areas of expertise, and they agreed, upon finishing the inspection of both top-floor apartments, that there were no major or unexpected problems so far. Elliott gave momentary thought to just skipping the Wolinskis’ apartment and that of Mrs. Reinerio, but his habit of thoroughness dictated that they do so.
Knocking on Mrs. Reinerio’s door, he was suddenly reminded of the issue of the mysterious knocks. He’d not mentioned it to the crew, of course, though he had emphasized that they should keep an eye out for any signs of structural flaws.
Mrs. Reinerio opened the door—looking, Elliott noted, like the grandmother in a Norman Rockwell painting—and invited them all in. When she closed the door behind her, she motioned him closer and said, “You’re not going to make me move, are you?”
“I have no intention of it,” he replied, sm
iling and hoping it would be true. He did not point out that, once the property had been resold, he had no control over the new owners’ actions.
Apparently satisfied, she returned his smile and said, “Would anyone like some coffee?”
Caught unawares by this unexpected courtesy, Ted, Arnie, and Sam looked at Elliott, who said, “That’s very kind of you, Mrs. Reinerio, but I’m afraid we’ve got a very busy morning ahead. A raincheck would be nice, though.”
Thoroughly charmed, the old woman nodded. “Of course. And please, call me Louisa.”
They moved quickly through the apartment then, thanking her for her kindness, left and went across the hall to the Wolinskis’.
The inspection completed, they all drove individually to the current worksite, where they held an informal meeting in the first-floor flat, each man going over his notes with Elliott. There was nothing they had spotted he had not, and the consensus was that it would be a worthwhile project with exceptional potential. Satisfied, he thanked them, and they all returned to work.
* * *
Because he never allowed his mind to wander while he was working, it was not until Elliott was in his car and on the way home that the thought occurred to him—if he had no special talents when it came to the paranormal, why was he so eager to get involved with a building that might very well involve him in it? A question without an answer, but with sufficient hidden implications to bother him.
Cessy had called him on his cell phone shortly after lunch to invite him to dinner that evening. While he’d intended to finish off the pot roast from Saturday, he realized he’d not had “Dinner at the Priebes’” for several weeks, and accepted.
Although Cessy and Brad lived relatively close to his current job site, he decided to drive home first to change clothes and wash up.
He arrived just as Brad, his police-detective brother-in-law, was pulling into the driveway. Elliott waited for him to get out of the car then followed him down the side of the house to the back door—the front door, Brad often joked, was “for company.”
