The Ghost and Charlie Muir - Felice Stevens Page 0,1
glow of a cigarette in the dark.
“She died in 2001. A car accident. I’m sorry.” Norse made sympathetic noises and shuffled the papers in his hand.
Was his detachment at that news odd? His mother was nothing more than a stranger, so Charlie could feel sympathy for the loss of a human life but not much else. “Do you have any information on my father? I have a copy of my birth certificate, and it only has my mother’s name. There’s no entry for the father’s.”
“No, I’m sorry. We didn’t seek to find him, as that wasn’t what we were hired to do.”
“I see.” Not really, but Charlie didn’t know what else to say. He truly was a nobody.
“There are some papers for you to sign, and then I’ll register the deed for you tomorrow. All formalities, I can assure you. There’s only one thing.”
There it was. The catch. “What is it? What do I have to do?” Hopefully it wasn’t to get married and have a kid.
“One stipulation. Miss Muir stated that her heir must agree to live in the house for a period of one year. If at any time you abandon the premises or put it up for sale, the ownership will be revoked, and the house sold by auction to the highest bidder.”
This whole day was getting odder and odder. Charlie should’ve known something bizarre was about to happen when a black crow followed him from his apartment off Third Avenue to the store in Prospect Heights where he worked.
“Why would I do that? I don’t know the condition of the house, but I intend to clean it up and live there. I’d have to be crazy not to.”
“Wonderful,” Norse exclaimed with a smile, obviously happy not to have to argue with him. “Here are the keys. Congratulations, Charlie.” Norse extended his hand, two keys on a plain black metal key chain sitting in his palm.
“Thanks,” Charlie said, reaching out, but before he could touch them, the keys turned a bright, glowing green. He snatched his hand away. “What the hell?”
Mr. Norse stared at him curiously. “What’s wrong?”
“Didn’t you see that?”
“See what?” Brows arched, Norse pursed his lips as he peered at Charlie. “Is everything all right?”
“Th-they glowed. Green.”
“What did? The keys? Green?”
Charlie nodded, aware he sounded ridiculous.
Norse’s expression remained impassive. “Maybe it was a trick of the light? I can assure you, I’ve had them in my possession for over two years, and I’ve never seen them glow any color.”
Could it be possible? Unsure, Charlie chewed his lip. The sun was setting, so it might be a weird light-to-metal thing. What did he know? Whatever it might’ve been, at that moment, the non-glowing keys sat in the palm of Norse’s hand, ready for him to take possession. He reached out again, picked them up, and heard them jingle. All perfectly normal.
“I hope you’ll be very happy there, Charlie.”
Charlie gave the lawyer an absent smile. “I’m sure I will.”
* * *
Three days later, after work, Charlie and his friend Bryan Jaworski stood on the sidewalk in front of his house on Willow Place. His house. Beams of sunlight slanted on the brownstone, and Charlie spied rosebushes planted along the side, their plush blooms nodding in the spring breeze. A high, thick hedge ran between his home and the one next door, leading to the backyard.
A home with a yard. God, that sounded so weird to say or think, considering he’d never had either.
Like many others on the block, the town house stood tall but narrow, close to eighteen feet in width and three stories high. A large bay window faced the street, and wide curved steps led up to the front door, which was painted a glossy green with white trim. A brass knocker shaped like a pineapple gleamed in the sunlight.
“You’re shitting me.” Bryan flicked his lip ring, an annoying habit to Charlie, except when they were kissing. Then he kind of liked the little hard loop pressing into his mouth. He and Bryan had been friends with benefits for a few years. A bit silly but always agreeable, Bryan was someone Charlie could rely on to come over and hold him when the loneliness of living by himself in the city got to be too much.
“Nah, man. It’s all mine. Some old relative died, and I’m her only next of kin. I got the papers and the key to prove it.”
“Cool. The place must be worth a fortune. You could sell it and be set