Mrs. Brooks was not amused.
Quinn didn't purport to be especially knowledgeable in the ways of women, but he did know enough to be able to tell whether one was pissed. Usually pissed off, rarely pissed at him in particular. But the wolfess sitting next to him on the old El Camino's vinyl bench seat looked terrified.
She had looked that way ever since the badger had insisted Mrs. Brooks take him out to see the property off Highway 82 in rural Santa Clara County. In fact, she had balked, seeming almost offended at the prospect. Why did he want to see the old Winston place when there were plenty of available, affordable, and livable places in nearby Sunnyvale?
Because they weren't like the house he was bumping along a rutted country road to see. Quinn felt something, and it was something good. Which was why he couldn't figure out for the life of him why Mrs. Brooks was clutching her binder close to her chest, looking much smaller than she actually was. One could call her beauty “classic,” as opposed to the current Twiggy-inspired trend. Not at all a bad thing.
A flurry of pink peach blossoms swirled around the pickup, blown across the road from surrounding orchards so overgrown that the branches of the trees threatened from both sides to scratch the doors. The sweet scent wafting through the open window brought a smile to Quinn's muzzle, but the realtor just leaned against hers. She had closed it the second he had put the truck into gear. The level of her unease was enough to freak him out a little, and Quinn didn't freak over anything.
The truck lurched to one side as it struggled over a rock, sending Mrs. Brooks against her door with an oof.
“Sorry about the bumpy ride,” Quinn said, grinding into third for a little more control.
“That's quite alright,” the wolfess replied. “You can't help it.” Her tone indicated, though, that he could have been able to help it by not bringing them out here in the first place. Beyond the county utility company and a few kids who wanted a secluded spot for lovemaking, the badger guessed this road had been largely unused since its virtual abandonment in 19xx.
“Do I need to turn anywhere?” asked Quinn after another few stoically quiet minutes. This silent treatment was starting to get annoying.
“The road ends at the...the house,” Mrs. Brooks replied. “It's the only way in and out.” How dissuasive of her.
Just means I won't be bothered while I'm working, he thought, and that suited the badger fine. It would be a couple of months of work, at least, depending on the state of the house. Walls and electrical were easy, plumbing and foundation work harder. Quinn knew surprises liked to reveal themselves at the most inopportune moments, but anything this house could throw at him was likely something with which he'd dealt before. And this time, it would be his own property he was fixing.
The peach trees on the left side fell away and the ruts flattened out until they were twin tracks of hard-packed dirt dotted with low weeds and grass. The clearing was small, though; Quinn could drive only fifty feet or so before he reached a waist-high wall of long-dead growth bisected by a single narrow path.
The house rose up amidst the sea of brown like a sentinel keeping watch over a long-abandoned battlefield, solid and straight despite its years of disuse. Proud, narrow gables and spires pierced the sky, towering above a roof that looked none the worse for wear. Pieces of clapboard siding had fallen off in places, and the paint was faded and chipped, though Quinn could still tell it had once been a dusty rose. A spacious porch wrapped the entire first floor, having once looked out on a carefully-maintained lawn and endless rows of peach trees.
It was a sturdy, understated building as far as Victorian-era houses went, and appeared solidly built. The badger wouldn't have expected any less from Ezra Winston when he had erected the structure in 1896. Even from a distance, Quinn felt the presence of the old entrepreneurial fox; he could imagine himself in this very spot fifty years ago, surrounded by hard-working men and women carrying freshly-laundered sheets into the bedrooms and crates of peaches to the trucks for market. Charlotte on her father's heels, making trouble. Lily scolding her for doing so, trying to be the big sister. Mary smiling at her family while she opened the windows to let the toothsome breeze in...
“The windows,” the badger murmured to himself as he finally set the parking brake and turned off the El Camino.
“What?” the realtor asked, no doubt looking at Quinn like he was crazy. Then again, she already thought that.
“ Nothing.” But it was definitely something. They were parked at an angle to the house, and Quinn could see only two walls, but he was still amazed. Not a single broken window. They hadn't even been boarded up, which was usually standard operating procedure for any abandoned building. Miraculously (and inexplicably, really), they had remained intact for God knew how long. It was also a fair bet, the badger thought, that if Mrs. Brooks had checked up on the property and found any damage, she would have left it unreported if it meant one fewer trip out here for her or a maintenance crew. He started to give her a reproachful side-glance and caught himself.
Instead, he grinned his best gentlemanly grin and turned to the wolfess. “Shall we, then, Mrs. Brooks?” The realtor's eyes were focused through the truck's windshield, twitching but tired. They shined with what looked like the beginnings of tears. She blinked twice, sending one down her left cheek, which seemed to make her aware of how she must appear. She opened her handbag and pulled out a tissue, dabbing her eyes and sniffling back the rest of whatever it was she had started to do. Quinn opened his door and stepped out, relieved to be free of the awkwardness, none of which he was responsible for.
“Well, I'll be damned,” he whispered as he closed the door and stepped away, paws on his hips. “It's still here.” Ignoring the realtor (who hadn't moved), the badger followed a freshly-mowed path—probably done upon the wolfess's request, instead of on a regular basis—to the base of the porch steps and followed the wall to the left around the corner of the house and looked up. A multitude of wires exited the gable near the roofline, quickly converging into a large cable suspended over the yard. It made a lazy arc up to a tall, grey power pole just as old as the house itself. Beyond the pole, the cable disappeared behind the branches and blossoms of the peach orchard. Quinn wondered if Pacific Gas & Electric still had power going to the place, or if it even worked.
Taking a deep breath (it smelled so good out here!), Quinn sighed and made his way back around to the front, where he found the realtor still in her seat, seemingly engrossed in the contents of her handbag. She didn't notice him until he wrapped his knuckles on her window, making her jump more than she should have. When she saw his big grin, she rolled down her window, guardedly.
“Well then. Shall we take a look, then?” Mrs. Brooks gave him a woeful look, her eyes begging him not to drag her any further. She didn't want to move, or to be moved. This was getting just plain ridiculous. “Mrs. Brooks? You okay?”
The wolfess heard her name and shook off whatever had a hold of her. “I'm sorry, Mr. DeBrock. I've been a bit distracted today.”
“Yes. Yes, you have.” Quinn continued, “You've also put this trip off two or three times in as many weeks, and I can't for the life of me figure out why a realtor who obviously wants nothing to do with a property wouldn't jump at the chance to unload it on a poor schmuck who happens to be interested.” The badger leaned in the window, his grin never faltering.
Dabbing at her eye again, Mrs. Brooks replied, “Like I said, there are so many other properties in much better repair back towards town. I feel...embarrassed showing this house, in this condition. No electricity, minimal access, deplorable upkeep.” She seemed to ignore the fact that the upkeep was partly her company's responsibility in the first place.
Quinn's expression never changed. He knew it unnerved people, but charmed others. There was no charming Mrs. Brooks, though. “Let's beat feet, huh? I know you want a look inside as much as I do. Come on, I'm an easy sell.” The wolfess's eyes could have turned him to stone. Quinn ignored this and opened the door for her, standing behind it like a regular swell on a date with his steady. Slowly—reluctantly—she climbed out, squinting in the sunlight as if emerging from a safe, cool cave.
Letting the realtor lead would have taken forever, so Quinn went up to the porch and mounted the stairs, which didn't creak under his weight, a testament to their craftsmanship. There he waited for the wolfess to pick her way through the dead grass of the narrow path, a treacherous trip in heels. After a bit of stumbling, she was standing beside the badger, her ears and tail down.
Quinn ran his fingers along the frame of the ornate front door. “You don't see quality like this anymore, not in town. It's all straight, clean, boring lines. No character. You can look at a house like this and feel something.” Mrs. Brooks started then, almost dropping her handbag, her pearls bouncing on her neck as she fumbled to keep it from falling. “Shall we, then?”
“Let me see...” As she busied herself looking for the key, Quinn approached the large window to the left of the door, cupping his paws beside his eyes to block out the reflection. At first he could see nothing but blackness, but once his eyes adjusted it was all woodgrain. Plywood. The windows had been boarded up from the inside.
“Why the hell would they do that?”
“Huh?” asked Mrs. Brooks distractedly. She was digging in her dress pockets, trying to look dismayed but failing terribly. Her body language gave her away, and Quinn found himself more chagrined than angry that the realtor had led him on an elaborate ruse. There was no key, and there never had been one. Unfortunately for the realtor, the badger was more intrigued now than ever.
“Board the windows from the inside.”
“ Oh, I'm sure there was a reason,” Mrs. Brooks replied with all the disinterest she could muster. “Where is that darn key?”
“I could always just kick the door in,” said the badger, backing toward the steps and hunkering down like a soldier about to storm a castle. The only thing missing was a battering ram.
“No!” the wolfess shouted, her palm out, her features stretched in horror. “I mean, you might damage the door.”
“We wouldn't want that, would we? I might have to buy the house, then,” Quinn said, winking.
Mrs. Brooks was, once again, not amused.
“Mr. DeBrock, I don't believe you're taking this as seriously as you should. I don't know why someone of your intelligence would—”
“Quit looking and save us both the trouble of playing this game,” Quinn said flatly. “I never intended to kick it open, and you never intended to bring the key.” The realtor stood there defiantly, her paw halfway in the expensive-looking blue handbag that matched her equally expensive-looking Cassini dress. She was definitely a strong woman, but Quinn was not influenced by the constraints of decorum. Once he knew he wouldn't get so much as an apology, the badger sighed and walked past her, around the corner and down the long porch.
He stopped short when he saw a shaft of daylight through the second window down, peering in as he had done before. Through the gap in the curtains, he could see through to the other side of the house, but only at a tiny angle; it was a miracle he'd caught it at all.
Quinn was looking in on the parlor, what he would have referred to as the family room. even from outside, the space looked stagnant and foreboding. Chairs and couches sat like wraiths underneath sheets that had at one time been white, now a dingy grey with dust and age. The hardwood floor was similarly dull, a rolled-up area rug lain diagonally across the space. Tendrils of wallpaper hung down here and there, revealing the bare wall in places, an older wallpaper in others. Paintings still hung, most of them covered with sheets as well. Except for one, and Quinn's heart leaped into his throat and stayed there when he saw it.
In a gilded frame about three feet by four feet, was a Winston family portrait. Mary sat in an ornate armchair, her hands in her lap, a placid expression on her face. Ezra stood behind her, holding her shoulders, the picture of authority tempered by the love of the women in his life. Lily stood next to her mother, the soft features of her face just beginning to show signs of aging, even at twenty. And, sitting at her father's feet, holding a basket of peaches that brightened the dim space, was Charlotte. She was the only one smiling, and the smile was a mile wide. Her dress matched the peaches and complemented her russet fur instead of the rest of her family, who looked subdued in hue and expression. Quinn guessed the portrait had been made about early 1917. The year before Charlotte died.
Something was watching him.
Quinn felt it as he looked at the portrait, and specifically at Charlotte. Her eyes smiled at him from the oil-painted linen, but it felt like more than just one pair. The feeling prickled the back of his neck, a feeling with which he was familiar. Maybe Charlotte, maybe the house, maybe his own damned imagination.
Still, there was a presence here. The badger would have been more surprised if he'd felt nothing, based on what information he'd garnered from the public record and private files.
Father builds a booming business and raises a happy family until Charlotte catches part of the Spanish Influenza epidemic of 1917. She manages to hold on through Christmas, with the diligent care of her mother and support from Lily and her father, but succumbs the following January. Consumed by grief, Mary orders Charlotte's bedroom sealed, to Ezra's dismay. Lily goes off to college, leaving her mother to suffer the loss alone despite her husband's attempts at consolation. Her mental and physical health decline, and in 1919, she follows her youngest daughter in death. Destroyed, Ezra shutters Winston Mercantile and leaves the house with only necessities, never to return. The house remains in the family, but uninhabited and rarely visited or maintained.
What the records didn't touch, though, was the haunting. Quinn could piece together the information and records from the Santa Clara County Public Library, but he could also read between the lines. Charlotte's unfortunate death by itself was not enough to convince him, but the circumstances of it were suspect.
The house was worth quite a bit of money, even back in 1921 when Ezra had moved out. It had passed on to Lily, who appeared to want nothing to do with it except sell it to the first buyer to come along. And here the house had sat, a prime piece of valuable property offered for a song, and nothing.
Letters from Lily to a cousin mentioned nothing more than a foreboding, uneasy feeling that accompanied the house. Quinn supposed these things didn't bear discussing between normal folk, but he could see behind the allusions to “cold sensations” and “it's not a good place.” Fortunately, it was exactly this kind of stuff that drew the badger in. And now that he'd seen the house itself, the deal was all but done.
When Quinn turned his face away from the window to look for Mrs. Brooks, he found her not over by the front door but down by the El Camino, leaned up against a fender. “What a woman,” he muttered, just looking at her and wondering why—if the wolfess hated this property so much—she hadn't passed it along to another agency. Maybe she just didn't want to deal with any aspect of it. Maybe the house really was that haunted. The badger smiled; it was time to haggle.
Mrs. Brooks didn't look at Quinn as he approached the truck. Her arms were folded across her smart dress, her handbag dangling like a useless thing. “So, which room was Charlotte's?” he asked, pleased with the shock he saw on the realtor's muzzle.
She narrowed her eyes. “What are you talking about, Mr. DeBrock?”
“Oh, come now,” Quinn replied. “You don't have to play stupid with me. I read the letters in the library. You know, the ones related to Winston Mercantile?”
Once again, Mrs. Brooks was not amused. It was starting to piss the badger off, but Quinn knew he had the upper hand. He pointed to a beautiful window on the second story that looked out onto the orchards. It was the only bay window on the house and it stood out because of that fact.
“Ezra Winston altered that window in 1907 at the behest of his Little Peach, Charlotte,” Quinn said. “She wanted to sit at the window and watch the trees and the workers, so he built it out so she could. Not traditionally Victorian, but it gives the house some wonderful character.”
“'Character' is not exactly how I would describe it,” replied Mrs. Brooks.
“Alright then,” said Quinn. “When were you going to tell me it was haunted?”
“I never said anything of the sort!”
“ You didn't have to,” countered the badger. “This isn't my first time. I could tell from Lily's letters, I could tell from the way you've been procrastinating, and I can tell by your very unprofessional demeanor here today.”
Mrs. Brooks studied Quinn for a long moment, trying to keep her seething anger down, but the badger could smell it on her, and see it in the way her ears would have flattened if not for her hat. The lighthearted mood he'd been attempting to hold up was beginning to sour.
“You're making a mistake,” the wolfess said flatly, to the ground.
Quinn scoffed. “With all due respect, ma'am, that's none of your concern. Now, what kind of a deal can you make me?”
“ This house isn't a little haunted,” the realtor snapped, turning sharply to face the badger. She pointed a stiff finger at him. “It's a lot haunted. It's wrong, it's a damn...nightmare, and if I had my way I would bulldoze it into the ground and take it off our listings...take a loss on the property, just to do it and be done with it.”
“I don't think Charlotte would appreciate that.” It must have been the way Quinn said it, not what he said, that shocked her more. She thought he was crazy. Crazy, but not stupid. He knew, then, that the house was as good as his. He smiled, aggravating her further.
“I want to go, please,” she said, abruptly turning and getting into the truck before slamming her door.
The badger smiled as he walked around the bed, giving the house one last look. “I'll be back, Charlotte.”
Quinn had never angered a woman into silence before. Most of that anger had been Mrs. Brooks's own doing, but the badger's persistent calm had exacerbated what was already a pain in her metaphorical ass. She sat stonily during the ride back to the real-estate office, which suited him just fine, because he could listen to the radio without having to turn it down for conversation every two minutes.
The way the wolfess drafted the paperwork, Quinn was convinced she wanted to do and be done with him just as much as the house. The small packet she brought out from her office didn't look like a mortgage contract, though.
“These are temporary papers that give you access to the house while we wait for you to arrange payment with a lender or whatever means you choose.” Quinn flipped through the pages to look for the asking price, and when he found it, he was both relieved and disappointed that he wouldn't have to haggle after all. He had been looking forward to it in a masochistic kind of way, but Mrs. Brooks's figures were so generous the badger considered paying cash, if he could manage it. “If you decide to default, well, then, we'll have to come after you.”
I doubt that, thought Quinn. You told me you would rather bulldoze it than sell it, so my paying you anything at all is more than you expected. Still, the badger was a man of his word, and he had the means. He crossed the T's and dotted the I's and signed on all the proper lines, and when Mrs. Brooks came back with his copies she had a key in her other hand. A big key, a Victorian key, with an old purple ribbon attached.
“That's quite a key,” said the badger as he felt its heft in his fingers.
“And it's the only one, so if you lock yourself out, don't come to me for a copy.”
“Why do you think I have an axe in my truck?”
“It's your house,” the wolfess said.
“Yes, it is.” Quinn suspected she liked saying the words as much as he liked hearing them. He pocketed the key and took the papers. “Thanks again for the look at the property. I know I'll be very pleased with it. Hopefully, when I'm done, so will Charlotte.”
Mrs. Brooks tried very hard not to look at the badger like he was a nutcase, but her ears betrayed her. “Good luck,” she said cheerily, though Quinn heard the unspoken You'll need it plainly.
Some people just didn't know how to deal with ghosts.
It was a beautiful, sunny day in Sunnyvale, perfect for exploring a quirky, haunted old Victorian house in the country. Quinn had a lot of work to do, but it was a work of love. He turned the big, heavy key around and around in his pocket, wondering how many times it had unlocked that majestic front door. How many times Charlotte had used it, if at all. Thinking about that mysterious purple ribbon, crumpled but not faded.
The badger climbed into his truck and headed off towards the house. His house. But not until after a good meal. Haunted houses gave him quite the appetite.
4/1-4/8/11
themadbadger and I have been throwing around for a while now. It's a nice little story about Quinn the badger and his pursuit of a house owned by a Victorian-era peach grower and his family. In this setup, Quinn has a hell of a time convincing the realtor he actually wants to purchase the house, but in the end she is more than happy to get rid of the property. If the badger only knew what he was getting himself into. When your fixer-upper is haunted by the ghost of the occupant's daughter, you had better be prepared.
