Commission

On the outskirts of some quaint little town was a pleasant little two story building. It sat tall and unassuming on the border of the woods, with soft yellow walls and accented by white shutters. The front lawn was claimed by a brilliant explosion of color that was the garden, curated with care to give an impression of organized chaos as one strode across the stone path that cut through it to the simple white entry door. Butterflies and fat, lazy bees wandered across the vibrant petals, and if one were so lucky they may see a hummingbird flit among the flowers.

The place was a museum. It had belonged, once, to a playwright who had lived and died there some century and a half before. Now it stood as a monument to the life of its old owner, declared a protected building under the town’s historic registry; those beyond its borders may care little for the name, but to them he was a local hero. With that came a snapshot of how one of his economic status, his peculiarities, lived during that era. Like most eccentrics, like most artists, the man had been intrigued by the occult and spirituality. Word was that energy clung to the house. Held in the artifacts preserved in the years since his death, collected by historians and preservationists from collectors and old storage and descendants of family friends. Traveled with the ghosts that visitors and passersby alike claim to have noticed pass in the halls, drift across the windows. And, of course, it meant that the small museum of some small town attracted true believers from all corners of the country.

Warren found it all a bit silly.

Old houses, old land, carried the weight of their history. He thought of this as he strolled the grounds, just beyond the reach of the trees that were keen to swallow up as much of the town as possible, gathering b-roll for the documentary. To step into a place and to know that something had happened there. That someone had lived there. That these items within had been held and cherished or bought as a joke between friends. It settled into the air and found a way to creep beneath the skin; some places tried to mimic this atmosphere, with squat brownstones and the occasional mom-and-pop yet to be choked out of business by a bigger - cheaper - chain store. But the sensation could never be matched. It never put ideas into people’s heads. Never quite managed to convince them that every bump and creak was something more than the pipes or the old walls setting.

Maisy was inside with the other tech guys and the curator, setting up a room for interviews with locals who had their own experiences to share. The curator was a friendly enough middle aged woman by the name of Rebecca, an eccentric in the way Warren was coming to realize many historians were when given ground to talk about their field of expertise. While working on this project, he had come to divide these types into three main categories: those who believed, those who were unsure, and those who strictly didn’t.

That last one was further subdivided into its own three categories: those who found the idea obnoxious, those who found it silly but harmless, and those who found it fun.

Rebecca was in the category of those who didn’t, subdivision “found it fun.”

“Etienne Roy, you must understand, was very much a man of that era,” she had said, in the easy way of historians who always had information at the tips of their fingers. They had gotten an interview with her early on, just her and Maisy and Warren, during a preliminary tour of the museum. “Seances, communicating with spirits. Even those who weren’t eccentric artists were intrigued by it.” What she said next came with a light and cheerful laugh, and a tone that came off as though she had personally known the man during his life. That she was close enough to tease him to company without his knowing. “I wouldn’t say he was on the level of, say, Arthur Conan Doyle. But he certainly wasn’t a skeptic in the league of someone like Harry Houdini.”

Warren had not quite grasped her meaning, but had shrugged it off as she led them through the house. She pointed to all manner of things, ranging from the mundane to the stranger things that had found their way into his collection. Warren had taken time to get footage of them, only half paying attention to the explanations Rebecca gave. An authentic ouija board crafted out of wood and with letters carefully painted on by hand. Books on magic, acquired through friends and self proclaimed witches. A strange collection of dolls lined up on a shelf, threadbare and with rotted fabric, staring at the trio with their shiny bead eyes.

There was a distinct feeling of being watched, of icy fingers trailing up his back to send a shiver along his skin. It was probably just the dolls, he thought. Watching you no matter where they stood with those reflective eyes and pleasant stitched on smiles. At least Rebecca hadn’t announced their presence to them, as some other curators had on a few prior occasions. Nor had she given Warren any caveats on asking permission to film them. On one memorable occasion, the curator had warned, his voice low and serious, that there were consequences for taking pictures of a particularly ugly threadbare doll without asking his permission first. Bad luck he said, with all the firm sincerity of someone who believed such things, would plague the hapless person until they gave him an apology.

And Warren had rolled his eyes and given Maisy an exasperated look; she’d only given him a sheepish grin and shrug in response. He got a few seconds of footage anyway, no words said to the creepy little doll in his creepy little ringleader outfit. Nothing happened. Of course, the footage of the day had almost been lost and he had spent the better part of the evening - and into the next day - salvaging what he could. But that camera had been on its last legs anyway; a technical problem of that magnitude was inevitable. He’d gotten a new one soon after, and no problems had plagued him since.

Well, no problem that didn’t typically plague technology. But he wasn’t about to ascribe every little thing to ghosts or curses.

He shuddered against a late summer breeze, one that brought with it that feeling of being watched. A buzz settled in his hands, only kept steady by his years of experience.

He huffed with a roll of his eyes and slight shake of his head. Sometimes when he was lost in his thoughts, Maisy would stand in windows, just behind him, and stare. She would wait until he noticed her, until he damn near jumped out of his skin, and she would cackle. It would be followed by an apology, blunted at its edges to sound not very sorry at all, her mouth smiling and eyes bright. He took it all in stride, accepting it as a bit of friendly ribbing even if she was technically his boss.

The wind blew playful through the leaves, sending them waving against blue skies dotted with clouds. The words “very funny” were building in his throat, when he heard it. A brush against his ear. A young voice, curious, in just above a whisper. “Hello? Who are you?”

Warren jolted. Hands fumbled to find grip on his camera from a momentary loss of control before it hit the ground. He whirled around on his heel, bristling and throat burning hot with embarrassment. And then he stilled. The rush of adrenaline from that flash of fear - that hadn’t stepped near a true fight or flight - slipped away, leaving only confusion and a hint of annoyance in its wake.

The window behind him was empty. The curtains fluttered their lazy dance, too sheer to hide anyone behind them.

“Great job, Maisy,” he grumbled, b-roll almost forgotten, as he closed the distance to the window. He craned his neck to see inside, looking for the young woman among the dining room furniture. His nose crinkled at the sight of the china cabinets, filled in equal parts with fine cutlery and haunted artifacts. There was a handsomely made ouija board on the table, set up with love and care for a seance that would never come to pass.

There was no sign of the documentarian from his vantage point. He snorted, pushing away from the sill all while drawing up images of her hiding just out of sight, stifling her laughter until her face was red like a teenager not wanting to be caught by a teacher. Not that she was that unprofessional, he thought, of course, even with all her teasing. But with her bright eyes and fashionable clothes and gung-ho attitude, it was easy to imagine her a decade younger than she was.

“You got me,” he said, loudly. “I guess you’re done with setting up!”

“Sure am,” a voice chirped from somewhere to his left.

He whirled in time to see Maisy and Rebecca coming from around the side of the house. Her smiling mouth dimpled her cheeks in a way that usually made one look youthful, but there was a glint to her eye that sharpened her features just enough. His eyes darted back toward the window, the curtains beginning to still in the absence of the wind. Still empty. He leaned back in, looking to see if it was any of the crew who might have snuck inside for a prank. But none had that kind of voice. Unless it was a recording.

“What’s it?” Maisy said as they got closer.

“Thought I heard something,” he replied, leaning back. That chill prickled along his shoulders, and he suppressed the building shiver.

“Places like this do have a way of getting into your head,” Rebecca said with a knowing smile that creased the lines of her face. “Especially out here in the woods.”

“Was it a ghost, you think?” Maisy edged toward him, expression wild with barely restrained excitement.

He hummed in consideration, turning away from them. Eyes narrowed as he took in the landscape that surrounded them. To take in the quaint little house in the quaint little town that lived within the woods. Old land with even older history. The kind of place where the very air crackled with the memory of all who lived and died there.

He strained to hear that voice again. But there was nothing out of the ordinary. Only the rustling of leaves and underbrush, disturbed by the wind and wildlife. He watched a bird call for another, finding the tiny speck of black among the green.

“No,” he said, finally, with a shrug of his shoulders and a readjustment of his grip on his camera. Useless film there, now, taking up space that could’ve been used for better things. Later on, when they were all settled, he would play back the footage. Try to hear it. But he doubted it. A trick of the wind, a trick of the mind. He shook his head. “Places like this’re…weird.”

Rebecca barked a laugh, clapping her hands. “I know what you mean. This house isn’t as old as some, but it carries its weight.”

Maisy frowned, disappointment hovering at the edges of her expression. Never enough to bring it to a full pout. And then she bounced back, features brightening again. “Well,” she said, “if you want a break Rebecca’s offered to show us around town. Who knows, maybe we can catch some B-Roll that just isn’t this place while we’re out.”

There was a final glance tossed toward the window, followed by another easy shrug of the shoulders. “Sure.”

She beamed. “Great. Rebecca, we can take the van.”

Warren flicked the camera off before following the two women towards the front of the house and its gravel driveway. Conversations turned away from ghosts and toward the town history and all its little eccentricities, the likes of which all small towns seemed to possess. And all the while, the Roy estate watched them leave. And the Roy estate would wait for their return.