Salem's Daughters

by Stephen Tremp

  “Um, this is the kitchen. At least it was. The rusted sink and stove attest to that.” Bob stepped around a pile of wooden planks with large rusty nails sticking out at all angles.

  Debbie didn’t miss a beat, floating dangerously but smoothly around the debris and painting a picture for Bob with her words, motions, and passion much like a renowned artist describing a concept yet to be painted.

  She swept her right arm in a slow long arcing motion. “The grand entrance and living room are over there. Can you imagine it? I can.”

  “Stop. Just please, stop, okay?”

  She did not. Bob thought Debbie might be going back into a trance like state. “We could have a study or library off to the left. Then some kind of man cave for you and our future sons to the left. We’ll get the biggest wall mounted big screen you’ve ever seen.”

  She gave Bob a seductive wink. Bob knew his wife was casting her web and luring him in, speaking to him in a language he could understand.

  “You could watch football and basketball games here with your friends.”

  Bob shook his head. “In case you haven’t noticed, we’re in the boonies. No one would know we exist. And if they did, they’d think we were crazy and never visit.”

  Bob reached again for Debbie’s hand. “Let’s go.”

  Debbie continued to move in one fluid movement, as if presenting a work of priceless art to a captive audience. What a brat, Bob thought. But I love her anyway.

  “Over here is the staircase to the upstairs. Do you see it?”

  Bob rolled his eyes and tried to suppress a laugh as he didn’t want to humor his wife. But he couldn’t contain a hearty chuckle.

  “Yeah. Okay, I see it. Just don’t ask me to walk up it.”

  “We’ll have a master bedroom and Jack-and-Jill bedrooms with bathrooms for our kids. Don’t forget, we’re having four. Boy, girl, boy girl. And close together.”

  Now Bob had to burst forth with laughter, while reaching for her hand. “Sure. And just where do you think we’ll get the money to support four kids, purchase this land, and build a house large enough that we won’t kill each other? Come on, let’s go. I’m starving.”

  “Wait. You don’t understand. Surprise, surprise.” Debbie panned her arms wide in dramatic flair. “This is our solution.”

  “What are you talking about? Our solution? We have a mountain of financial problems. And you think a dilapidated burned down house in the sticks is our saving grace? I don’t have to crunch the numbers to know they don’t add up. Did you chug down a whole bottle of wine when I wasn’t looking?”

  Debbie spun round and grabbed Bob by the head, pulling him in close. Ouch! He could feel her breath and smell the spearmint from her gum.

  “That’s right. This is our solution to all our problems.”

  “Now I know I have to get you out of here. There’s a spirit of stupid upon this place. And I think it landed on you.”

  “Hear me out.” Debbie started counting off on her fingers. “One, we need a house. Two, we need it cheap. Three, we need it big. Four, we need an income stream.”

  “So far all I see are a lot of expenses and no revenues.”

  Debbie nestled in close. “You still don’t see it, do you?” She again spread her arms wide. “We open a bed and breakfast. We’ll have the best of both worlds. A large house to raise a family. And revenue from tourists and the locals.”

  Bob paused and raised his right forefinger, ready to rebuttal yet another of his wife’s farfetched ideas. But this time he couldn’t deny her. Her plan made sense.

  He looked around. As if the image was telepathically implanted in his mind, he saw the decrepit, stinky, rat infested place miraculously rebuilt into a grand place.

  But Bob didn’t just visualize a good idea. He saw in great detail a sprawling Royal Victorian Manor, complete with spindles and spires. The outside colors were yellow with white trim and a rust colored shingled roof.

  The place was teeming with life. People were coming and leaving. Success. Money. And a place to call home. Home Sweet Home.

  Bob pulled back. This had never happened. His conservative mind would never allow such an event. But he could not deny that he experienced a vision, one that told him what the future held: for him, Debbie, and four children. The image left such a positive imprint in his heart and mind, he felt a momentary state of bliss.

  He grabbed Debbie by the shoulders. “Okay. I’ll at least consider this. I think this might actually work.”

  “You do?”

  Bob could see the doubtful look in Debbie’s eyes. She had not expected his response.

  “Yes. I think this is a much better idea than the Tuscony Oil—umm, Oily Tuscon, I mean Tuscoily Oil.”

  Debbie prepared to punch Bob in the arm again. “That would be the Old Country Tuscany Olive Oil. Anyway, with a bed and breakfast, it’s just you and me. No partners to share the wealth. No back stabbing bosses. We can finally be financially free.”

  Bob paused for a moment to take it all in. Although the vision was brief, the scene was seared in his memory, down to minute details such as travertine tile and a large open arched entry connecting the living room to the kitchen.

  Bob gave Debbie a quick kiss and hug, then turned back to the burned down rubble. “Debbie, you’ve done it again.”

  “Again?” she interrupted. “You mean, as usual, dear, hm?”

  “Let’s find who owns this property and make an offer.”

  “Why the sudden change of heart. I mean, that was fast.”

  Bob gripped his forehead and squeezed his eyes closed. “I—I’m not sure.”

  Debbie waited patiently. “Yes?”

  “I saw this vision.”

  Debbie laughed. “A vision? You? You don’t believe in anything outside of your five senses. Are you trying to tell me you saw a vision?”

  “I’m not sure. But yes. I’m pretty sure I did.”

  Bob started to traipse across the rubble hewn concrete slab. “I saw a two-story bed and breakfast. It was magnificent. And it was full of people. We were happy.” He held Debbie by the shoulders. “And we were making lots of money.”

  Debbie closed in. “Happy? And lots of money? Honey, happy wife means a happy life for you.”

  “Let’s be serious. I just had an actual vision for the first time in my life.”

  Debbie paused. “You. Bob. My husband, Mr. Conservative. A vision?’

  “Yes, I had a vision. I can’t explain it. But it was vivid.” Bob started to pace. “It’s just like you said. I mean the layout and all. But I saw more. I saw the actual colors. And the rooms, each had an individual theme.”

  Debbie stepped back. “I don’t know if I should be happy or scared. Bob, you always mocked things like visions.”

  “I know. But this was real. It’s as if the images were downloaded into my brain.”

  Debbie pulled out her cell phone. “That’s all I need to hear. I’m not waiting for you to change your mind.”

  “Who are you calling?”

  “The nearest realtor.”

  Chapter 9 Cursed Property

  Bob debated with himself. Visions were for old men in the Old Testament of the Bible, people who lived in the desert and ran around naked and ate wild honey and locusts. They were social outcasts proclaiming the end of the world.

  Supernatural revelations were not for civilized, educated, and conservative people. Everything he was taught to believe was true, first through his family, then his church, school, and college, was now challenged in an abrupt yet elegant manner.

  But he was excited with his precognition, even if it lasted only a few moments. He could still see the large manor in his mind. Ten bedrooms. The largest residential kitchen he had ever seen and a place where Debbie was in her natural element.

  Forget about Oily Tuscany or whatever it was called. People were packing the rooms and his bank account was full. He envisioned adding an addition with more rooms in the near future.

  �
�Okay Bob. I’ve Googled local realtors and I’m calling the first one. I want to find out if this place is for sale.”

  Bob picked up a large chicken breast from the picnic basket and opened a can of Coke. He thought it better to stay fully sober and leave the wine alone. He paced while taking large bites, finally realizing he was excitedly rambling out loud about what he saw.

  Bob stopped mid-sentence.

  Debbie ended her call. “What is it, hon?”

  “I hear meowing.”

  “Meowing?”

  “Like lots of cute baby kittens.”

  Debbie placed her cell phone in her pocket. “I don’t hear anything. And you don’t like cats.”

  Bob looked around but couldn’t tell which direction the crying sounds came. He started to tell Debbie again of his revelatory experience, then stopped. “There. Do you hear it now?”

  Debbie craned her neck, intent on listening. “No. I don’t hear anything. Maybe it’s the rats in the rubble.”

  “Shush—I do.” Bob had a forefinger to his lips, his eyes enlarged. “There are baby kittens close by.”

  He held his arm up in a gesture to remain quiet. Eerie silence prevailed for a minute—not so much as a bird’s chirp sounded in the windless hush.

  Debbie shrugged her shoulders. “No. Nothing. Must be the stress of everything. Now you’re not only seeing things but you’re hearing them, too. One more reason to move forward with this.”

  Bob tried to quiet Debbie again with a shush finger to his mouth, a hand cupping his ear, and a look that said ‘don’t talk, listen’.

  “But don’t you worry,” she said anyway. “I’ll handle everything from here. The realtor is on his way now. His name is Clark Hodgkins from Battle Creek. He’ll be here in twenty minutes.”

  Bob couldn’t contain himself. He continued telling Debbie about his experience. She was in her own world, laying out the house. Both vied for each other’s attention. Twenty minutes later, a Ford Escalade pulled in with a large magnetic sign on the driver’s door. The words ‘Hodgkins Realty’ and a picture of a young handsome man smiled wide at Bob and Debbie.

  Out stepped a much older version than the image on the door magnet. A short rotund man with suspenders walked toward them. Even before the man spoke, Bob thought he had a nervous energy. He could sense he sweated more than most people.

  Hodgkins had his cell phone to one ear as he shook Bob and Debbie’s hand. He ended the call and smiled nervously. “Hello Mr. and Mrs. Stevens. Thank you for calling. I’m delighted to help you.”

  Hodgkins spread his arms in a sweep. “Well, what you see is what you get. This is the old Turner place. You’re basically paying for the land. Twenty-five acres to be exact.”

  He pointed to a row of trees to the west, swaying in the mild, late summer wind. “The property line is that row of elm trees. The Bradys live on the other side. Been there for five generations. Nice people. You’ll like them.”

  He swept his arm to his right. “Just follow the wooden fence around the field straight ahead, then come back this way across the eastern boundary. This is what you’re looking at. Twenty-five acres.”

  “Were you talking to the property owners when you drove up,” Debbie asked.

  “Yes, ma’am. I can tell you, they’re anxious to sell.”

  “How anxious?”

  “I hear they prefer to unload it. They’ve had no serious offers going back decades.”

  “So, what are twenty-five acres of farmland in this area of Michigan worth these days,” Bob asked.

  “About a quarter mil—you’re lookin’ at ten K per—is the norm around these parts. But for this particular property?” Hodgkins winked. “A lot less than you’d think.”

  Bob placed his hands on his hips and panned the acreage. “I guess I should’ve done my homework while we were waiting for you to drive here. What do you think should be our opening bid?”

  Hodgkins clapped Bob on the back. “Well, don’t you worry about a thing.” He pulled out his cell phone. “I’ll call them back and come in at a ridiculously low offer. We’ll start from there.”

  Hodgkins turned his back and strolled to his car, again wiping his brow. Bob held Debbie’s hand. “Can you believe it? What a day. I really think our luck is turning around.”

  Hodgkins whistled and motioned Bob and Debbie to follow. “Let’s go back to my office.”

  “What did they say?” Bob and Debbie blurted out together.

  Hodgkins grinned. “I came in at eighty G’s. They countered at one fifty. But I know they want to get rid of this place. It’s actually the grandkids of the original owners. They just want the money—any money at all. I think I can get this for you at about one hundred thousand. And that is a steal, my friends. Now let’s go back to my office where we can talk business.”

  Bob opened the passenger door for Debbie when he heard the distinct sound of baby cats.

  “Wait. There it is again.”

  Hodgkins cocked an eyebrow. “There’s what again?”

  “Cats. Baby kittens. Meowing.”

  Debbie rolled her eyes.

  “Mr. Stevens, I don’t hear anything but the wind rustling through the elm trees.”

  “Come on,” Debbie said as she got in their car and Bob closed her door. He listened one more time and could hear the kittens as if they were beside him.

  Debbie honked the horn. He could see her mouth the words through the windshield, “Bob. Hurry up. Let’s go.”

  Bob followed Hodgkins into Battle Creek. The office was small. The walls were paneled and a well-worn path directed traffic down the center of the parquet floor. A row of real estate plaques in chronological order dating back to 1982 lined the walls. Bob thought he must have kept the same decor as the first day he opened for business.

  Bob and Debbie took a seat opposite Hodgkins at his desk. He was again on his cell phone. Negotiations were short and sweet.

  Hodgkins laughed as he ended the call. “What’d I tell you?” He pulled out his red hankie and wiped his brow and neck. “One hundred thousand even. The Turner property is yours for the taking.”

  “That’s great. Thank you so much,” Debbie said. “What do you think, honey? A hundred thousand? We have to do this.”

  Although Bob was happy and Debbie was elated, the obvious question loomed. He leaned into the desk. “Why so cheap?”

  “Well, truth be told Mr. Stevens,” Hodgkins said deadpanned. “The old Turner place burned under mysterious conditions in the nineteen sixty-seven. Matter of fact, so did the one before that in nineteen-seventeen. There was an Amish family that died there under similar circumstances.”

  Debbie clucked her tongue. “Well, the place is in the country, far away from any help. And they didn’t have smoke alarms back then. Or building codes. Old knob and tube wiring run helter skelter, so it’s not surprising they caught on fire.”

  Hodgkins was navigating through documents on his computer and printing them. “Makes sense to me, Mrs. Stevens. I’ll tell you what I know. The Turners were husband and wife, right about both your ages. They, along with ten others, all perished in the nineteen sixty-seven fire. So did everyone in the first fire. Seven people if memory serves me right. Both house and barn for both families burned to the ground. No one knows how they started.”

  “Okay,” Bob said. “Like Debbie mentioned, houses burn down every day. At least they used to a lot more frequently.”

  Hodgkins looked up from his computer enough so the top half of his deadpan could look straight at Bob. “True. But I have to admit, the stories surrounding the Turner place, well, they are very strange.”

  Debbie kicked Bob under the table and gave him a look he’d better dig deeper and not blow this off as silly superstition for country folk.

  “Stories?” Bob said, feigning interest on Hodgkins’ tall tale. “What kind of stories?”

  “There were rumors the place was haunted. Of course, I don’t believe in such things. But other folks around here, well
, they do. Many of the locals think the land was cursed. Two houses with barns on the same property burning down and everyone dying? I can understand why some people believe the way they do. Not me though. I’m not superstitious.”

  Debbie shivered and rubbed her arms. “Whew. That is a bit creepy. I got goose bumps just listening to you.”

  Bob noticed she looked a bit panicked. But Debbie was always quick to recover and think of a way to move forward.

  “Hey, we can just build the house and skip building the barn. That should break any chance of having anything we build burn down or from having ghosts haunt the place. No barn, no fire.” She hunched her shoulders, looked at Bob, then Hodgkins. “Right?”

  “You don’t believe in ghosts, do you Mrs. Stevens,” Hodgkins asked as he retrieved the documents from the printer tray.

  Debbie shrugged. “Maybe. I’m not sure. I did when I as a kid. But for a hundred thousand, I think we have to move forward with this.”

  Hodgkins’ gaze passed to Bob. “What about you, Mr. Stevens. Believe in ghosts, do you?”

  “Of course not. Unless hearing kittens when no one else does qualifies me.”

  Hodgkins looked Bob and Debbie over, staring deep into their eyes, challenging them. Bob refused to move. But he thought Hodgkins, for being such a funny stout looking man, had one of the best poker faces he had ever seen.

  Hodgkins cracked a grin. “Of course you don’t. You both look like educated and intelligent people.”

  He opened a yellow highlighter and colored a place here and a place there on the papers. “These are a few forms you need to sign and initial. The first is that you will use me exclusively for ninety days when it comes to the Turner property. I don’t work for free.”

  “Fair enough,” Bob said, taking the first forms, signing them, and passing them on to Debbie.

  “Congratulations.” Hodgkins offered his hand to Bob and Debbie. “I’m officially your real estate agent. I will be the best friend you ever have when it comes to the Turner place. Now sign here. This form is for my fee. Three percent from you. That’s three thousand dollars upon the close of the sale. I’ll collect the same from the Turner family.”