Chapter 3 - The House of Ghosts
The house on Elmhurst Lane smelled of stale tea and cold damp.
Deputy Miller’s partner, an older officer named Sergeant Callahan, walked through the front door ahead of me, his flashlight cutting through the dim afternoon light that filtered through the drawn lace curtains. He checked the kitchen, the basement stairs, and the two bedrooms upstairs before coming back down to the hallway where I stood, wrapped in my wool winter coat.
"All clear, Mrs. Ward," Callahan said, handing me a small white slip of paper with his direct cell phone number. "We’ve changed the lock on the front door—the locksmith finished twenty minutes ago. The new keys are on the kitchen island. I’ve also instructed the patrol cars on this shift to loop through this block every forty-five minutes."
"Thank you, Sergeant," I said.
"Do you have someone who can stay with you?" he asked, looking around the living room.
The house was in a state of paused chaos. The measuring tape—a bright yellow plastic ribbon—was still lying on the rug near the sofa where Chloe had dropped it when the police arrived. Arthur’s walking stick was gone, taken into evidence, leaving an empty spot in the umbrella stand by the front door where it had sat for forty years.
"I have my neighbor, Mrs. Gable," I lied smoothly. "She’s coming over at six."
Callahan nodded, though he looked doubtful. "Alright. Keep your doors locked. If you see anyone near the driveway—anyone at all—you press one on your phone. It goes straight to our dispatch."
When he left, the click of the new deadbolt was the only sound in the house.
I walked into the kitchen. The mug—my mug—was still sitting in the sink, a dark ring of dried brown sediment lining the bottom like tea leaves in a fortune teller's cup. I picked it up, feeling the weight of the ceramic, then dropped it into the plastic trash can under the sink.
I sat down at the kitchen table where Arthur used to sit every morning with the crossword puzzle.
On the wall opposite me hung our family portrait from four years ago, taken at a studio in the mall for our thirty-fifth anniversary. Mark was smiling, his arm wrapped awkwardly around his father’s shoulders, looking young and hopeful before the sports bar and the loan sharks had carved dark hollows beneath his eyes. Chloe sat on a small wooden stool in front, her smile sharp and polished, her eyes fixed entirely on the camera lens.
I had spent thirty-two years building these two people. I had bandaged their scraped knees, paid for their college textbooks, lied to their father when they stayed out past curfew, and held their hands through their first broken hearts.
And in return, they had measured my ribs while I bruised.
My phone rang on the counter.
I reached for it, my cracked ribs aching with every inch I stretched. The screen displayed an unknown number from Delaware.
I didn't answer. I let it ring.
It rang four times, then stopped. A second later, a voicemail notification appeared.
I set the phone on speaker and pressed play.
"Mrs. Ward," the synthesized voice from the smart speaker said. It was clearer now, devoid of the room echo from the laundry room. "We are aware of the legal complications that occurred at your residence this morning. We regret that the execution of the protocol became... disorderly."
A brief pause, followed by the sound of paper turning.
"However, contract number seven-nine-four remains active under our terms of service. Your children accepted an advance of thirty-five thousand dollars. Under section nine of the agreement, if the primary participant is rendered unable to complete the broadcast, the debt transfers immediately to the subject's estate. In this case, your real property at 742 Elmhurst Lane."
The voice didn't sound angry. It sounded like an insurance adjuster explaining a clause in a policy.
"A representative will visit you tomorrow at ten o'clock to inspect the premises and finalize the lien documentation. We advise against further police involvement. Public legal proceedings will result in the immediate disclosure of your son’s financial records regarding the commercial loan fraud he committed in 2024. Have a good evening, Mrs. Ward."
The call disconnected.
May you like
I stood in the silent kitchen, staring at the grey light beyond the window.
They hadn't just used me for content. They had used my house as collateral for their own crimes.
