Rhayven House

by Frank Bittinger

  If he could ever get someone to recognize the fact the place existed.

  First thing in the morning, he would make a special trip to the courthouse and find out about the house. He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket, raised it, and took a few pictures of the house. Just in case he had to prove it wasn’t a figment of his imagination.

  After he squeezed back out through the gate, Ian turned back for one last look before walking the path back to his car.

  ~ ~ ~

  Due to a night spent night tossing and turning, Ian yawned time and again in the shower. He fought the urge to crawl back under the blankets and their inviting comfort and warmth, telling himself he had to get down to the courthouse or forget the whole deal.

  Once he arrived at the courthouse, he went through several people, but at last it was suggested he try city hall. Off he went across the street to city hall. The white stone building with its steps running nearly the width of the building seemed to mock him. He took a deep breath and started to climb, counting each step until he’d counted seventeen and stood at the top.

  Inside, the referring game began again until the sixth person he spoke with told him he needed to check the hall of records.

  “What’s that and where is it located?” Ian pressed, trying not to lose his patience. He didn’t think it would be so damned difficult to find out some basic info on a piece of real estate. And he didn’t want to lose his cool and tell her she was one dirty bitch because that might be taken the wrong way. Frustrated, he took a calming breath.

  “It’s actually the county records department,” Ian was told. “Take the elevator to the basement. Once you’re in the basement, you’ll want to walk straight ahead, then take the first right, then a left, and keep walking until you reach the hall of records. You can’t miss it.”

  “Can’t miss it,” he mumbled. Louder, Ian said, “Thank you. I appreciate the assist.”

  In the elevator, he told himself to be prepared to be sent somewhere else, to see somebody else. Most likely back to the courthouse where he’d started over an hour before. If the idea wasn’t so crazy, he’d think it was some strange conspiracy to keep him from finding out anything. As it was, he had a feeling the whole goddamned thing was turning into a wild goose chase. No, worse. A snipe hunt. Rationalization kicked in. Maybe they all weren’t cogs in an insidious conspiracy to keep him from finding out anything about the house, but they weren’t burning with the desire to help, either.

  The elevator descended, stopped, and bounced into place; the door opened. Ian stepped out and followed the directions the lady gave him. He was just about to swear he’d been sent into the labyrinth, when suddenly the dim hallway ended at one of those doors divided horizontally so the top could open separately from the bottom; it finally came to him, these were Dutch doors. The top half of the door was an arch and it was open; there was a countertop attached to the bottom half.

  At first Ian thought there was just a birdcage-type of scrollwork, but as he came closer, he saw the glass partition behind the scrollwork and briefly wondered if it was bulletproof and why they would have it all the way down here in the basement.

  The metal nameplate sitting on the countertop was engraved with a simple R. Kane. Ian peered behind the counter in attempt to catch a glimpse of said person.

  He cleared his throat and waited.

  “Hello?” Ian said hesitantly. He felt like he should be shouting Ahoy-ahoy or something.

  The man stood up from behind the counter in a fluid motion, rested his hands on it, and said, “Good morning. How may I help you?”

  “Dude, were you just hiding in wait back there?” Ian blurted.

  The man shook his head and again asked, “How may I help you?”

  “Look, Mr. Kane, I’m trying to gather some information on a particular house and piece of property and I’ve spoken to six people so far about it; the last one directed me to the county records office. That’s you?”

  “That’s me.” He pushed his glasses further up onto the bridge of his nose.

  Ian introduced himself as he sized the man up, saying “At least you’re not the Minotaur.”

  Mr. Kane didn’t get it. It seemed like he’d stepped into the wrong era. It was not merely the way he looked, but it was also the way he dressed and his mannerisms and demeanor. Mr. Kane appeared to be somewhat twitchy, like a rabbit ready to take off at any given moment.

  Swallowing the desire to ask the man what century he thought he was in, Ian instead told the man about the property.

  Nodding, Mr. Kane pronounced, “I know it well. Give me a minute to pull up those records and we will see if we can find answers to your questions.”

  Hopefully he wouldn’t have to call in Mulder and Scully to get to the bottom of the case after all. He waited while Kane went in search of the paper file. Apparently they only had the records computerized for the last thirty years, the rest were in metal file cabinets.

  Finally, Kane came back, a grin on his face, holding a manila folder. “Not much in here.” He placed it on the countertop. “But, fortunately, it does have the information you require.”

  “Okay,” Ian said, wanting to cross his fingers as well as his legs. He hoped for good news. “So, it says who owns it?”

  “Yes, sir. In a way. The property was taken against taxes due some years ago.” Kane looked up and pushed his glasses back up his nose again with his forefinger. He filled Ian in on some of the information from the file. “Seems no one ever came forward to lay claim or pay the taxes. As a result, the property fell into a bureaucratic crack and was never sold.”

  Ian’s heart thumped. If he understood correctly, he stood a very good chance of buying the house and land for what was owed in back taxes.

  As if reading Ian’s thoughts, Kane said, “I can add it up and give you a nice, round total. Then you’ll need to take the address upstairs to the tax office so they can fill out the required forms for you.”

  “That easy?” he questioned, not sure if it was going to be as simple as that.

  “If that’s what you want to do. It’s not rocket science, you know. I’ll send up this file; it’ll most likely be there before you are. They’ll let you know right away if there’s any issues, but I don’t see how there could be. The place has been in the hands of the county for a number of decades, five or six or so. You might be getting into a mess if you’re thinking about taking on a renovation.”

  “I’ll see what the contractors have to say about it before I make up my mind.”

  “Uh huh. It might be less costly to tear it down and start from scratch. That's only my opinion, mind you. You never know. The bones might still be sturdy because those old houses were built to stand the test of time.”

  After agreeing and thanking the man, Ian headed back into the labyrinth to the find the elevator. Upstairs, the woman in the tax office kept her plastic smile on her face the entire time as she assisted him. The process was just as easy as Kane had said it would be and Ian couldn’t help but grin as he exited the building.

  The waiting began. He’d either be getting the house or a refund on the taxes he’d just paid. She said he’d most likely know within ten business days.

  Seeing as he could do nothing at the moment, he decided to go home and work on a manuscript and try not to think about it

  ~ ~ ~

  Ian resolved not to mention anything about the house to his buddy, Toby. Not just yet. He’d decided he would meditate, while chanting the Ganesh mantra, and concentrate on removing any obstacles standing between him and the house. Om Gam Ganapataye Namaha!

  He and Tobias Slazek had been friends since their early in school. Toby was a year older and had been a grade ahead, but that hadn’t stopped the two from becoming fast friends; they’d remained close despite going to different colleges and Ian moving to Coventon. Thankfully, they lived close enough to have visits.

  Toby wanted Ian to come over, saying he'd gotten him a cake for his birthday and couldn't wait
to see the look on Ian's face when he laid eyes on it. Ian had to admit the cake, which was beautifully done to look just like a honey-toned spirit board with black letters and numbers, and even an intricate celestial design at each of the four corners, took his breath away. Yes, No, Hello, and Goodbye were spelled out in black icing. The whole cake just looked like a genuine spirit board and Ian was very impressed. And it felt good to know his friend remembered.

  “I knew you would appreciate it. There's even a planchette.” Toby pointed to the triangular object with an aperture in the center through which one could see the letter or number over which the planchette hovered. “Do you think we could use this cake to really communicate with spirits?” he asked, half in jest.

  “It looks so real, we might be able to,” Ian admitted, “But I'd rather just cut into it and eat it.” He peered at his friend. “Is it red velvet?”

  “You know it is, complete with butter cream frosting, not cream cheese, and all vegan” Toby promised. “She really did a great job.”

  Ian couldn't have been happier as he accepted the big knife his friend held out to him and sliced into the spirit board cake. He'd never attempt to use a real board, but he'd certainly cut up a cake one and eat a couple pieces.

  “Wow, I didn't think it would be this good,” Toby said around a mouthful. “Hurry up and take a bite.”

  Ian did as he was told, and he had to agree; the cake was probably the best he'd ever tasted and he said so. He also wanted to know where the bakery was in case he wanted more goodies. “Where did you get it?”

  “I'll never tell. It'll stay my secret.” Toby reached for another piece; he froze before he picked it up. “Tell me you took pictures before we started eating it.”

  Ian nodded. “I have about a dozen. You didn't think I'd cut up this masterpiece without preserving at least one image for posterity.”

  “Good. But we really should have taken one of you blowing out the candles, pal.”

  Looking at his friend, Ian said, “You didn't have any candles on the cake for me to blow out.”

  Toby thought for a second and then he grinned, “You're right. Why count the years when you're gonna live für immer.” He took another bite of cake. He chewed, swallowed, and then said, “Maybe next year I'll get you a Cthulhu cake, complete with kick-ass tentacles worthy of the Great Old One.

  “Hey,” Toby continued on a tangent. “I got one for you. Did you know there is a little island in Italy where it's estimated more than one hundred thousand people have died over the centuries? It has several plague pits, it was used as a quarantine for ships heading to Venice, and at one point terminally ill people with infectious diseases were housed on it it was also once home to a mental asylum.”

  “Poveglia Island.” Ian grinned as he forked up a piece of cake. “Reputed to be so haunted by the spirits of those who died there, the Italian government doesn't like people going to the island.”

  “Damn. You always already know all the cool shit,” Toby whined. Sobering, he asked, “Do you remember the time you dragged me off to that psychic fair and we had those photographs taken?”

  “Kirlian photography.”

  “Whatever happened to those?”

  “I have them. Framed. In the bathroom.” Pointing his fork at his friend, Ian said, “You see them every time you come over.”

  “Oh.”

  Three

  The letter came in the mail a little more than a week later. It arrived a lot sooner than he thought it would. Holding it in his hands, he didn’t know if he wanted to open it or throw it away, in case it was bad news. If it said the answer was “no,” he’d be heartbroken, not to mention homicidal. Steeling his nerves, he ripped the envelop open and read the letter.

  If he’d worn a cowboy hat, he’d have whipped it off his head, slapped it against his thigh, and whooped it up to celebrate. Obviously, there hadn’t been any problems and he was grateful.

  Now came the hard part. After signing the final papers, there would be the ordeal of getting the contractors to look at the house and submit their estimates.. Good thing there were online sites for that kind of thing because otherwise he wouldn’t know where to begin.

  But first he had to make an appointment to go down to city hall again and sign the final paperwork. Once that was done, then he could shift his reno plan into high gear.

  ~ ~ ~

  Within two weeks Ian had the paperwork finalized and a few written estimates from local contractors in his hands. As he’d suspected, the old bones of the house were still in good shape. Still, he breathed a sigh of relief.

  The estimates stated the house required all new wiring, the plumbing needed updated, and the roof and windows needed replaced. The original doors were fine but the glass would need replaced. Most of the other stuff that had looked so bad to him turned out to be cosmetic. For instance, the hardwood floors needed sanded, stained, and sealed with a couple coats of polyurethane. The electrician was confident his team, barring major natural disaster, could be in and out, completing the update within a week. However, seeing the estimated cost for electrical work alone at $11,000 stunned him more than he wanted to admit, but it had to be done to bring it up to code.

  “Maybe the best solution is to burn it down, scatter the ashes, and salt the earth,” Ian said after getting the breakdown on what needed to be fixed and updated on the house. He turned the page of the estimate and stared at the nice, round figure with all the zeros.

  But then again, he got the house for a steal. Even adding in the cost of renovation, it didn’t add up to more than what he would pay for a house in ready-to-move-in condition. So that was a balm. And when he sold his townhouse, then he’d be flush once more and could start working on the house again.

  There was always his royalties. It wasn’t as if he’d be destitute, not with a new book coming out.

  He’d soon get the house done to the point he could move in and be comfortable, and then he’d continue the renovation on the remainder, room by room. That way he’d be able to move in sooner and save himself from depleting his bank account too much until his townhouse sold. Which theoretically shouldn’t be too difficult, if he kept his fingers and his legs crossed and didn’t whistle into the wind.

  Tapping the end of the pencil on his desk, he took a deep breath. Hell, he’d already bought the house so there were only two possible solutions: Let the house continue to rot or start the renovation. All the estimates had come in with close to the same figures and information. The sooner he started, the sooner any headaches would be eased. He’d done his research and found the companies that seemed to be the most reliable and knew what they were doing. Now all that remained was to pick one. Reaching for his phone, he called his buddy, Toby. He wanted to hear his friend’s opinion.

  “You’re nuts,” Toby informed his friend, just as Ian predicted. “Why would you want to spend all the time and money when you have a decent house now?”

  “Because this house is perfect and in the perfect location,” Ian said for what felt like the fifteenth time in the conversation. “Very private and out of the way.”

  “As if I could talk you out of doing it.”

  “You want to come out for a visit and see it? Get the ‘before’ impression?”

  “Am I going to regret it? I don’t want you driving me out to see a house with a caved in roof and missing a wall and some floors,” Toby said.

  “Hey now. It’s not in that bad of shape.”

  Ian heard Toby inhale and slowly exhale.

  “You okay?” he asked his friend.

  “Yep. I know you’re excited about this and I don’t want to have to be the guy to tell you the house you bought is a big pile of shit,” Toby said.

  “I appreciate you thinking about my feelings, but it’s a nice house. You’ll see the potential. Just say you’ll come out for the weekend or something.”

  “You already bought the damned place and now you’ll be out there where no one will hear you scream when the giant
ants come for you like in that old cinematic masterpiece, Empire of the Ants.”

  “Now listen to who’s talking about a big pile of shit.”

  Toby laughed. “The ants will indoctrinate you and you’ll be doing their will without even realizing it.”

  Ian couldn't help grinning. “Is that all you do, sit up half the night watching bad movies?”

  “This coming from the guy who writes schlock horror stories,” Toby said. “And remember, I’m quoting from your own description.”

  “It pays the bills and gets me nominated for some awards, so how can I bitch, piss, or moan about it?” Ian switched the phone to his other ear. “Are you coming or what, pal?”

  “Next weekend work for you?”

  It made Ian smile to hear it. It had been too long since they’d gotten together. “I’ll make sure to get some of those chocolate cookies you inhale when you’re here.”

  “That’s right. Spend some of the money you made from the Japanese monster movie script you wrote.”

  “Curse of the Komodo. You know I didn’t tell many people about that,” Ian reminded his friend.

  “Be proud. Shout it from the rooftop.”

  “The check cleared and paid for my townhouse.” For a couple seconds, Ian debated whether or not to share a tidbit of good news with his friend and then decided to go for it. “And they want me to turn it into a trilogy.”

  “Great news. Congratulations. Do we get to go to Japan for a big red carpet premiere?”

  “Doesn’t exactly work like that. I wrote it under a pseudonym. I’m not ashamed of it but I want to keep it separate from the books.”

  Toby said he understood and they soon went back to talking about the visit and the house for a while.

  “Kiss of the Komodo and Cult of the Komodo could pay for a lot of work on the house.” Then Ian said, “I need to get off here and do some actual work so I can keep paying for this house. Royalties from another new book would go a long way towards fixing more rooms.”