What the Highest Bidder Forgot to Consider

The house came with ghosts. Not the subtle kind, either—no wistful sighs or cool drafts, just full-blown poltergeist tantrums. Cabinets slamming at 2 a.m., spectral remnants of old arguments rattling the windows, the smell of burnt toast no matter how thoroughly they scrubbed. Still, the buyer had insisted, "It’s got good bones." And it was true: the skeletons were stable in their stasis. Antique mahogany banisters curved like ribcages cradling the heart of the house. Windows leaded with panes' frames mettle enough to turn an afternoon light into prayers. A fireplace cozy enough to roast the marrow of an ox into paralysis without its animal sense even noticing. But bones have a way of remembering. She hadn’t counted on the ruinous creaks of staircases groaning as if mourning her descent into ruts. Nor the basement walls whispering stock tips from the 1920s—sell steel; buy radium. She certainly hadn’t considered the attic, where—let’s just say she never liked Victorian dolls, and now she likes them even less. Why buy? Why outbid? Pride, mostly. The rollercoaster of the auction, the plummet into calamity sweetened by elbowing the slick realtor with his laminated grin. The thrill of the gavel’s fall, the weight of a binding contract. She didn’t care about the dangers of yellow wallpaper or the weeds growing through the parlor floor. She didn’t even really need shelter. But sometimes the juiciest deals aren’t made with forethought, only with hunger. And what’s the value of hunger without a little haunting to shatter your comfortable sense of status?