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A haunted house is where I wanted to make my home, an odd desire, perhaps. Less so, I argue, if the alternative was a cage lined with glass shards and rusty nails, an explanation I should have offered when I was younger and foolish enough to share my inclinations with my dinner date in the first place. A dismissive shrug of the shoulders failed to satisfy those women interested enough to ask why (after raising an eyebrow in apparent distaste), whereas attempts to explain my motivation were even less successful. Maybe it was a lack of conviction.
All I can remember, I would tell them, is sitting on the floor of our family den with some toy or another on a warm day, the windows open and a push lawnmower passing nearby. It made the little hairs back of my neck stand up, sending me into a blissful trance. I felt the same sensation when I was old enough to stay up late on weekends in front of the television, waiting for the midnight horror flick. The movies themselves often put me to sleep, the anticipation alone sublime. I developed a craving for quiet, solitary, and creepy places where subtle atmospheric changes would send me into my preferred emotional state. Why not live in one, I thought? Long before I had saved enough money for a down payment, I had envisioned a weather-beaten high-ceiling Victorian as my ideal residence.
When I heard myself tell the story, my voice would weaken as soon as I recognized the absurdity of allowing such a predilection to manage my life. People were right to think me a bit off. I have learned the hard way when to plead ignorance of the subliminal workings of my mind. I certainly didn’t bother to explain my true objective to the real estate agent, an unhelpful omission as it happened. While the entire neighborhood where I narrowed my search had been built out during the late 19th and early 20th centuries, most of those on the market were freshly updated, their charm lost for my purposes.
“These are too nice,” I explained after pulling up in front of the sixth on her list in my price range. I felt guilty wasting her time because I had been timid and decided to reveal a little more, short of admitting I treated fear as a confection, the way some people stock their freezers with ice cream sandwiches. “I want one that doesn’t look like it has been touched in decades.”
“I see. Are you planning on flipping?”
For a second, I thought she was speaking of my sanity. I had told too much. Naturally, she meant renovating a property and selling it for a profit. “It’s a possibility. Any alterations I would prefer to do myself.”
“A great way to save money if you're handy. I know one that needs work, lots of work, although I must warn you. People call it ‘the murder house.’ They will tell you it’s haunted.”
I half expected ominous soap opera music the way she delivered the lines, and I smiled in appreciation.
“That doesn’t bother me.”
“Good news if you’re game. It’s been on the market for some time.”
A mere glance at the property and I knew it was for me. The house was neglected, shabby, occupying the shadiest lot on the dark side of the street, its yard overgrown with trees, which despite their colors, cast the facade in an unhealthy blue, a shade made poisonous by the clouds hanging overhead, even on clear days. None of the structural lines appeared straight, having settled in unpredictable places after a century of looking over the neighborhood more and more askance. They were not laugh lines. A pleasant malevolence had seeped into its discontinuity with the dust. Inside, the walls listed and moaned, the pipes clanked, and the doors creaked. This was a house for manufacturing illusions, trapping souls, and locking time away in the attic like a defective child, or so I imagined.
“Some WD-40 would take care of those hinges,” my agent offered.
Not a chance, I thought.
Two weeks after the move, everything was unpacked and in its place, and my sitting room was the perfection of a chamber dreary. I found two lawyer’s bookcases at a flea market and filled them with my collection of elderly volumes of gothic fiction, my worn brown leather wingback sandwiched between them with enough room for a small side table where I placed a reading lamp and often a teacup. I could sit with anticipated pleasure, awaiting a sudden draft or odd sound emitted by the house in response to a powerful gust. Because I lived alone, these unexpected noises and shifting shadows, never anything inexplicable, often caused me to jump. I adored my little frights and the house providing them.
A rap at my door startled me one Saturday afternoon while I read Le Fanu’s Camille. I was slow to answer, thankful for the goosebumps, and determined to allow the sensation to run its course before climbing from my chair.
The man at the door took a bow upon greeting me by name without saying how he knew it. Small, old, and wiry, he was likely bald, I guessed, under an oversized fisherman’s bucket hat, an accouterment that partially shielded his eyes.
“I am Mr. Kumo. Please let me know if you would like to continue the maintenance of your cobwebs.”
From his name, features, and accent, I assumed he had immigrated from Japan as an adult. I never felt comfortable enough to ask, worried he might have been in one of the internment camps. After the war, a large group had been relocated about twenty miles from downtown.
Waiting patiently for my answer, he smiled, but in a manner bordering on mockery. He made me uneasy. If the date had been April 1st, I would have suspected an elaborate prank.
“They require maintenance?”
He shook his head in paternal disappointment. “Of course! The silk is very thin, very delicate. The threads get heavy from dust and break with a slight air movement. You have not noticed?”
Yet unfamiliar with all of the details of the house, I had to think.
“Now that you mention it. Several of them droop in an unattractive manner. I thought of sweeping them away with a broom. You can restore them?”
“That is correct. What’s the point in having a haunted house if it doesn’t look the part? I think you agree.”
I was curious how he could know my preference on the subject but didn't ask. I looked aside, pretending to examine the wainscoting and cornice molding.
“Cobwebs do furnish a room,” I finally said, ready to laugh along if he did. He didn’t. “How much do you charge?”
“Once a month, five dollars, satisfaction guaranteed.”
So cheap, I thought, careful not to mention his fees were more in line with the Eisenhower era, not that I had ever paid for a service even remotely similar. I agreed.
“That is good. I will start today.”
He carried a plastic bag of raisins for a snack and shook it. I stepped aside.
I hate to be present whenever someone is working inside my home, never knowing what to do with myself. After inquiring that first time, I became scarce for the half hour he suggested, sitting on the porch, careful not to make any sudden moves because the rough wood surface of the bench loved to jab a splinter beneath my skin. I politely ignored his insistent whispering from inside when it seeped through the window like instrumentation over a silent film scene.
When he finished and came back outside, I paid him.
Routine after the first Saturday, he always bowed a second time upon departure, then disappeared until the following month. The cobwebs looked great: between the rails of the staircase and the arms of light fixtures, high in the corners of the ceilings and frames of the doorways. He came without notice, somehow divining when I would be home to receive him. The previous owners must have hired him. I wondered how they found him considering his rare occupation, not the sort of thing listed in a directory.
Mr. Kumo probably knew something about the house’s history. If so, he never volunteered, and I kept our conversations brief. I always felt like I was taking an exam when talking to him and failing miserably.
The little I learned came from a different source, a local author. I went to a signing of her book on haunted houses in the area. The softcover original, printed in a few hundred copies at most, included the story of my house, specifically the unfortunate end of the original occupants and the haunting in its wake, no subsequent owner putting down roots very deep. During her presentation, my attraction to the author developed like an electromagnetic slow to warm up, powerful by the Q & A period. Her looks made me think of an older professorial Wednesday Addams, a woman who shared my interests, whom I imagined would understand and accept me with all my quirks. I read her biography on the rear panel several times, looking for a hint of her marital status, then lingered until those few getting a copy of her book inscribed dissipated, and we could chat more or less in privacy as the shop owners busied themselves with stacking chairs.
I led with my new address.
“You live in the murder house? That’s so interesting. You’ll have to give me a tour sometime. How long?”
“Six months.”
She examined me as a Kentuckian samples a bourbon, not too quick to swallow.
“You don't look unnerved by it. A little paranoia is a good thing, I believe, as long as it never crosses into hysteria. Ever wake up shivering? Ever notice things move without being touched? Anything of that kind?”
I wanted to fabricate something, but nothing came to me right away. “I fear not. Lots of strange noises.”
“Sometimes you have to poke spirits. Would you be interested in a seance? If so, I know someone.”
“I might agree to a seance. Would we be holding hands?”
My grin was probably wolfish, but she did not appear to mind.
“I think that’s part of it.”
We discussed such topics at length over dinner. Already late when we arrived at the restaurant, we did not consume the last drop of our port until almost eleven. The conversation never lagged. I did not neglect the story of Mr. Kumo, which fascinated her based on the many questions she posed.
I had suggested a place within walking distance of my house and parked in its separate garage unit off an alley, then met her beside her car street side, where I provided a return escort, prepared to say goodnight.
She hesitated. “Is it too late for a tour?”
The hairs back of my neck reacted.
“I can’t think of a time that would be too late for me.”
We were only five houses away. I offered my arm and guided her to the threshold, where she pulled away and dug into her purse fruitlessly in the feeble light for several seconds before giving up.
“I can’t see. Would you have a flashlight handy?”
“Yes, but there’s light inside.”
“It’s important I do something before we enter. Please?”
I returned quickly and directed the beam for her. She pulled out a piece of chalk and pointed it toward the door.
“May I? You can wipe this off tomorrow.”
Curious, I gestured for her to continue. The symbol she drew was a strange one. Something hermetic, I guessed. She had more surprises in store for me once inside. We had enjoyed a bottle of Beaujolais with dinner, and I offered to open another red while she looked over my book collection. When I returned, she took the glass without removing her gaze from my Persian carpet.
“Thank you. Would you help me roll this aside?”
“The rug? Are you looking for a trap door?”
“You’ll see.”
The evening unfolded in a way I could never have foreseen. Once the wooden floor was exposed, she got on her knees, took the chalk, and drew a large circle, beside which she drew more symbols. I didn’t know what to make of her activity at first, watching through the dark liquid in my glass, but when she began to remove her clothes, placing them outside the circle, I was stunned, if not mesmerized. With only her lingerie remaining, she remembered me.
“You need to strip as well. Do not leave the circle once inside.”
I obeyed despite my misgivings.
When she positioned herself on all fours, her long, black, perfectly straight hair parted like a silken curtain, exposing a magnificent porcelain backside, which radiated a frosty heat. My preference, if possible, would have been to continue watching. Not as a voyeur, exactly. I wanted to better understand my predicament by stepping further away from the ritual. Yet, I dared not disappoint and followed her directions throughout. There were some pleasurable moments, I don’t deny, but the sharp pain in my knees rocking on the hard surface was a constant, and I was thankful for permission to stand after her last, apparently orgasmic howl, just after midnight. She never finished her wine nor expressed an interest in viewing the rest of the house. After we dressed and returned the room to its former state, I walked her back to her car.
“Thanks for a most enjoyable and unusual evening.” I didn’t know how else to describe it. Something besides a slight intoxication was affecting me.
“You think so? The pleasure was mine.”
I believed she meant it.
For the following year, Charlotte and I often shared an evening. I enjoyed her company immensely. We both adored vintage horror films, surrealist art, fine wines, and gothic novels. She owned a new townhouse about twenty miles further from downtown, where I sometimes stayed the night, our sexual relations infrequent and ordinary, if not dull, by comparison with the initial event. This did not concern me in the least. Enraptured by the banal, I was relieved when she never suggested any additional weirdness, goats never turning up in her boudoir. In my mind, we were practically domesticated.
My sought-after fears, however, no longer brought the same pleasure. When I thought of my beatitudes sitting in the wingback and unable to focus on my book — because I did not neglect my favorite pastime — a certain taint fell upon one of the blessings, the realization Charlotte had lost interest in my house, an asset turned liability for reasons I could not fathom, the promise of possible seances allowed to wither on the vine for want of its erstwhile proponent. Given our shared delights and delusions, I thought she would be enchanted by the idea of living with me where sad ephemeral maidens might be met in a moonlit hallway, although they had yet to appear.
On the anniversary of our first encounter, I had the nerve to ask. Following her response, I wished I had refrained.
“I love your house, dear, but you can’t expect me to move there. The air is starved. I would not sleep a wink. By the way, I have been saving a bottle of 
Château Ducru-Beaucaillou, 2017. It should be near its peak. What do you say?”
Puzzled and disappointed, I agreed in order to move past the momentary awkwardness, the way you agree to the terms of service for most everything, without even attempting to understand. My sister, I hoped, would explain the situation to me when I had the chance to query.
I described the problem to her over the phone the following week. While my sister saw the potential of my mid-Victorian, she had always wondered aloud why I had done nothing to improve the place. Given her evident disgust with the overall decrepitude, I knew it pointless to explain that the veneer of abandonment had been carefully cultivated. She reiterated her opinions.
“It should be professionally cleaned at the very least before you can expect Charlotte to move inside. Repaint the house, inside and out. Repair the roof and gutters. Renovate the kitchen. Do some landscaping!”
“It’s so hard to get repair and cleaning people to come out this far,” I defended myself as best I could.
“Be serious. Your neighbors manage just fine. You should start with getting rid of the damn cobwebs. Oh, and have you thought of an exorcism?”
“My house is not genuinely haunted.”
“Relationships demand compromises,” my sister said.
For one, that meant dispensing with the services of Mr. Kumo.
I had no contact information for him. I had to wait until his next monthly visit to inform him of my decision. He did not appear surprised.
“Happy to pay you for today,” I offered.
“I cannot accept. The news saddens me, but they will be happy not to come here anymore. They detest haunted houses.”
“They?”
He removed his hat and flipped it. Inside, several oversized spiders twitched their spindly legs.
“Lord!” I jumped back.
He held out his snack bag with the other hand and shook it. What I had identified as raisins were, upon closer inspection, plump houseflies.
“They have to be bribed.”
I stood for a moment, trying not to appear horrified. “I didn’t realize.”
“You thought I was repairing the webs all by myself?” He laughed with great intensity. He even slapped his leg a few times. “Oh, that’s too funny.”
I didn’t get the joke.
“How long have you lived here? A year and a half? And you know nothing about your own house.”
“If you mean the murder.”
“Ha, ha. You really are a scream. I will tell you since you don’t understand anything. Cobwebs? They are dead, abandoned things. You rarely see an active spider’s web until you are caught in it. I am sorry. You are caught in one. Still, you don’t see. Much as you don’t see the other ghosts. You don’t even know what doors the woman you brought here opened and which she closed. So funny. I have never laughed so hard. She will never live here with you, I think, but good luck.”
In my last memory of Mr. Kumo, he had replaced his arachnid-laced hat and turned onto the sidewalk, stopping every few steps and slapping his leg so hard in amusement that it was sure to leave a mark.
He faded away once leaving my property. I hesitated, wondering if he always had, then went back inside, my stride bearing considerably more weight like a sponge soaked in blood. His comment about Charlotte and her incantations worried me. What doors?
My face felt so pale without a mirror to confirm. The windowpanes rattled, and my body followed suit to mock my former steadiness. I should be thankful my haunting has yet to break the skin, unlike the virulent strain poor sods feel deep in the bones, driving them to oneiric destinations well off the map of reason. For a distraction, I examined the webs, untouched for a month yet remaining neatly in place, elaborate structures soon to be swept away with the remnants of my childhood. As for the other things, I lacked a plan of action, a way to avoid a descent from gentle ordinary fears to genuine terror. Unfortunately, even better informed and after searching for hours, whatever had ensnared me remained quite invisible.