Short story by Dan Bogey

The first time Becca saw the house it was a mess.  Only one bathroom was in working order and the whole house smelled from the bags of trash left there by the previous owners.  Worst of all was the décor, best described as “early meth lab.” The general disrepair was made worse by the ugly mural in the living room–a figure loosely resembling Bob Marley smoking a spliff.  Being most recently a drug house, the only reason she and Jimmy had a chance to buy at all was the fact that it was in foreclosure after the previous owner was sent to prison.

Outside the house was all quaint New England charm, nestled in comfortably with the other fine white houses in the old Massachusetts village. The inside featured wide floor boards, a huge pantry and doors with latches, not knobs. The potential was surely there and if they could get it at a price they could afford, it would be a steal. Becca spent a lot of time looking at magazines like Colonial Style and Country Home and watching TV shows on renovating old houses, visions of becoming a design diva in her head.

Of course there were problems, if their bid was accepted Jimmy would have to move  immediately to get the place habitable while Becca would continue working down south to help pay for the immediate repairs. Then there was the issue of “The Fight.”

Jimmy was penitent, as usual, but instead of his promises and regular excuses he said, “Look, Becca, you know I love you. I’d like to tell you never again, but I’ve said that in the past. All I can say is I don’t intend to fail you like that again and I’ll do my damnedest to make sure it doesn’t happen. But I’d be lying if I said I was sure.”

“I don’t know, Jimmy, moving so far away from family and friends, new jobs, and now this. I just don’t know. This is a very big deal.”

After their bid was accepted it was still a big deal. Just not as big as it had been before.  Jimmy spent the entire spring working on the house and he had come through in a big way. The floors were sanded and varnished, the living room had a bright new coat of white  paint, the fireplace insert sat awaiting installation. Becca was impressed; it looked like things were finally going to work out the way they planned.  Neither of them had spoken Jimmy’s transgression; it was part of the life they were leaving behind in the big green dumpster up north. 

Their first night together in their new home was spent in an exhausted sleep among misplaced furniture and unopened cartons.  Becca and Jimmy spent the next morning moving furniture into place and excitedly talking about what to do next. Maybe an air conditioner for the bedroom or a big light for the entryway hall.     

In the afternoon Jimmy took the truck into town to pick up paint and some supplies for the master bedroom, then they’d have the kitchen, living room and bedroom livable and the rest of the house they would work on as a team, the common goal uniting them as they had never been before.  

Still worn out from the excitement and physical exertion, Becca dozed off until the sun on her cheek gently roused her.  She marveled as the combination of the newly-painted walls and the afternoon sun that created a kind of supernatural radiance and an almost sacred declaration of freshness. All was good. 

Then, as the sun continued to fill the room, she spied a small imperfection in the bare wall nearest the kitchen. Gradually, as the afternoon sun moved across the living room, the faint outlines of the brush strokes of a ghostly figure wearing dreadlocks began to emerge.  At first she almost convinced herself it was only noticeable if you knew it was there beforehand. Or maybe the room just needed another coat of paint or heavier curtains. Perhaps they could put the couch there with a big painting over it. 

Then everything would be perfect, just like in the magazines.