The Hamptons

This place is sacred to someone. There’s a certain care taken. The porcelain figurines atop the china cabinet have not a speck of dust nor do the shelves beneath them. They sit along the shelf in a distinct order of size with smallest in the middle and largest on the extremities. The fireplace has been swept recently; no soot or remains are left despite the distinct aroma of newly burned timber. Even the white sheets across the chaise and high-back chair are fresh and starched.

“How long did you say this place has been vacant?” I ask the realtor.

“Years. I think as many as ten,” she answers.

Lies. How is it so clean?

The realtor sees my incredulity and shuffles her feet unconsciously, “There’s a caretaker who has taken care of this place for years.”

I wave my hand dismissively at her and I turn to have look at the kitchen. Movement catches my eye. In the corner of my vision a translucent figure is dashing around with a feather duster in one hand and a cloth in the other. His outer-worldly shuffle across the timber floors raises the hairs on the back of my neck as does his missing mid-section.

Before the realtor can say anything else, I throw up my arms and run (screaming, I might add) out the door. On the edges of consciousness, I hear the realtor, “That’s only Fabio! I promise he’s harmless.”

Now I know why this Hamptons house was going for so cheap.