The Spite House(2)
The pictures of the spite house certainly made it look uninviting. One taken from a low angle emphasized how tall and thin it was, and captured a dark sea of clouds above it. Eric could not tell whether this was intended to attract or dissuade the curious. Widen or shrink the applicant pool. Its appearance might entice those earnestly interested in experiencing the unusual, or intimidate those who might otherwise be casually interested. He could not know what it would mean for his competition and therefore his chances, but he couldn’t concern himself with that. The only way to win the job was to apply.
The newspaper rested beside the keyboard on the narrow desk. Eric took out his prepaid phone and called the number on the ad. He would ask for Dess’s thoughts and permission later, and if she didn’t grant the latter he’d just ask her forgiveness. But he couldn’t wait.
The call went to voicemail, a professional-sounding woman saying, “Thank you for your call. I must stress that we are interested in serious candidates only. Please leave your name, contact information, and an explanation as to why we should consider you. If we intend to follow up, we will reach out to you. Thank you.”
“Thank you for taking my call,” he said right away, as though speaking to an actual person. A little decorum could still be effective, couldn’t it? Especially here in Texas. His grandparents and even great-grandparents—all Texas natives—had told him this years ago, when he used to visit them. “A simple thank-you goes a long way. Even when you don’t want to say it, find a way to say it.” He had encountered enough bigots in Maryland and elsewhere in the Northeast, to say nothing of a few rancorous idiots in West Texas in his early teens, to disabuse him of this. Nonetheless, he was in no position to be anything but presumptively grateful now.
“I’m no ghost hunter or anything,” he went on. “I’m a father of two looking for work and a place to stay. Me and my daughters have been on the go for a while and work isn’t easy for me to come by in my situation. I can explain further if you like, but right now I just want to say how much I would appreciate this chance. I can promise you that whatever you need done, I’ll find a way to do it.” He gave his name and number, said “Thank you” again before hanging up. Afterward he held his head low for just long enough to remember the house back home.
Two stories and in a wonderful neighborhood. Not exactly “Black Beverly Hills” but as close to it as he cared to get. A few of his neighbors were even parents of journeymen professional athletes. Given his humbler roots, there was something immensely satisfying about taking the trash down the driveway to wave at the mother of a onetime NBA All-Star who was out for a morning stroll. Now he was pleading his case to stay in a house that—despite being twice as tall—might have half the living space of what he and his wife had worked so hard to obtain in Maryland. Possibly less than that. A house that must have something terribly wrong with it for its owners to offer so much money for a temporary resident.
He logged off the computer and left the office, waving to the clerk, who barely nodded his way. Eric would call the number in the ad again if he didn’t hear back by noon tomorrow. He believed in persistence. That was how he’d gotten his foot in the door with the cybersecurity firm he had built his career with back in Maryland. That was how he would win this job, too. He would show them that he would work the hardest, that he would be the most dedicated. And if they still passed on him, he’d give it another week here before moving on.
With continued luck and care they could avoid getting pulled over, avoid anyone who might be searching for them, and make it to his grandparents’ old house in West Texas, which, based on a quick check of online listings, was still as it had been when he’d looked it up before they left Maryland. More than a bit the worse for wear, though not uninhabitable, still unable to find a buyer despite being on the market for close to a year. While he had nowhere near enough money to buy it now, maybe its owners would agree to an “off-the-books” deal. Some work and payment arrangement that would be unfavorable to him but would at least give him a chance. There were a lot of “ifs” that needed to go his way for that to work: if he could find a steadier job locally, if he could convince the sellers, if the house didn’t require too many repairs to be livable, if the neighbors didn’t become suspicious or even hostile toward him and his daughters. If all of those things worked out, then it could be a viable, if difficult, solution, a better prospect than being on the run forever.
Considering all those “ifs,” the Degener spite house offer was much more appealing. It had only two significant “what-ifs,” as far as he could tell. First: “What if it’s a bogus offer?” What if this was yet another person looking to get a week or two of free work from someone too desperate to turn it down? He had tried to account for that in his recent spending, and had his guard up about such a thing, but even if he fell for it this time, he would at least get some free lodging for himself and his girls out of the deal. That wasn’t payment, but it was more than nothing.
The second question was “What if the house really is haunted?” He was in no position to discount this but didn’t see it as a threat sufficient to make him think twice. What harm could a ghost do?
He took one more look over his shoulder as he walked down the hall, checking to see if the clerk had her phone to her ear, or was eyeing him in a way that should make him wary. He knew that her lack of response to his wave likely didn’t mean she was hiding anything, or was suspicious of him, or recognized him from some article he didn’t even know about out there on the internet. Nothing unexpected or alarming about him had come up when he’d searched on the computer. Some dead links to his deactivated social media profiles. An old picture showing him as employee of the month at a sales job he’d left years ago, which barely looked like him since he’d shaved his beard and head. Likewise, his daughters’ names didn’t bring up any concerning search results. Still, he had cause to believe they might be followed, and he knew enough about the web to know that the obvious and well-known sites and search engines weren’t necessarily the ones with the information that should worry you. For all he knew his disappearing act—despite not being newsworthy—could have gone viral and the clerk was just waiting for him to get out of earshot before calling someone to report that she’d seen him. He knew how unlikely that was, but it couldn’t hurt to be a bit paranoid. It kept him alert.