Page 34 of Ghosts Don't Cry
I spent months in prison studying electrical codes. Memorizing wire gauges and load calculations because it was something to fill the hours between counts. Reading about proper grounding while sitting in a cell. Now that knowledge matters.
“First priority,” I mutter, adding it to the growing list. Can’t run power tools safely until that’s fixed.
Each issue gets its own page in the notebook, listing not just what needs fixing, buthow.Along with what I can handle versus what might need permits. It’s all knowledge I gained while I was inside, and then working on construction sites.
The furnace kicks on with a sound like metal drowning. Heat rattles through ancient vents, carrying the sharp scent of dust burning of neglected coils. That’s another thing that will need replacing before winter really takes hold.
My hand moves across the page, sketching the layout of the house. Each room gets its own diagram with problems noted. I start calculating costs in my head. Wire by the foot, junction boxes, breakers. The monthly allowance will cover the materials if I’m careful and take my time. Especially if I can do it all myself. That’s the key. Labor is where costs explode. It needs someone who’s willing to get dirty and do the work. Someone who understands that sometimes the only way forward is to tear everything down and start again.
I have the time and the knowledge.
The issues are bad, but not impossible. I’ve done all of it before on other people’s buildings. This time it’s mine. I draw a timeline across the bottom of the page. Six months. That’s what Edwards gave me. Six months to make this place livable.
I lose track of time as I move through the house, room by room.
In the guest bathroom, I turn on the faucet and the pipes shudder before rust-colored water sputters out. The caulk around the tub is black with mold. When I press against the wall, the drywall gives, telling me there’s water damage behind it. The toilet rocks on a rotted floor flange.
The bedrooms are in better shape, but the windows are single-pane and painted shut. I try to open one and the sash cord snaps, the window dropping hard enough to crack the glass.
In what might have been a study, the ceiling has water stains spreading from each corner.
The attic is accessed through a pull-down ladder in the second floor hallway. When I climb up, dust motes dance in the shaft of light from the bare bulb. I think the insulation is original, the wiring makes my hands itch to rip it all out, and mouse droppings scatter across the floor.
Despite all the work the house needs, the structure itself is solid. Like Edwards said, it has good bones.
Hours pass. My hands and clothes get filthy, muscles protesting from bending, twisting, and climbing through tight spaces, but the list of problems becomes clearer and more defined, making it easier to put it in order of priority.
I’m back on the first floor, checking window frames, when I catch the scent of vanilla mixed with the dust. It’s just a trick of the air, something left in the old curtains maybe. But for a second, I’m eighteen again, with my hands in her hair and her breath against my neck.
I shove the memory down hard, and force myself to focus on the window in front of me.
I will not think about her voice saying my name on Main Street. I will not think about the expression on her face.
I move to the next window, testing the wood. I will work. That’s what I’m here to do.
By early afternoon, my body is protesting. My knees ache from kneeling, dust coats my lungs with every breath, my shoulder has started its familiar throb. I roll it, trying to work out the knots. The joint clicks, a reminder of damage that never healed quite right.
Hunger drives me back to the kitchen, where I grab bread and peanut butter from the groceries I bought yesterday, make a sandwich, and eat it standing at the counter while I review my notes.
I’ll start with the electrical issues. That needs fixing before anything else. After that, I’ll look at the roof and get that fixed up. Hopefully, before the next rain makes things worse. The hardware store opens tomorrow?—
“Hello!Anyone home?” A woman’s voice scatters my thoughts.
I consider ignoring it, but she follows it up with an insistent knock. I set down my sandwich and walk out into the hall.
The woman on my porch looks like she owns the street. In her sixties, maybe. Expensive coat. Ruby earrings thathaveto be real. She startles when I open the door, gaze falling to my tattoos before jerking away and looking over my left shoulder.
“I’m Beverly Walsh. I live in the Victorian two doors down. I noticed the lights on last night, and wanted to come and introduce myself.” Her eyes scan the hallway behind me. “It’s good to see someone taking care of the place finally. Harris was always talking about restoring it and living in it. He was such a dear friend.”
“Thanks.”
“You must be …” She tilts her head. I can see the calculation happening. The tattoos. The way I’m dressed. The way I don’t fit what she expects on Cedar Street.
“Ronan.”
“Ah.” Just one syllable, but it says everything I need to know. Her smile tightens, not quite reaching her eyes anymore. She’s heard my name. Maybe from Mitchell’s receptionist or the bank. Or maybe she remembers it from seven years ago when it was in the local paper.
The way she’s looking at me is one I’m used to. People see the ink, the hard edges, and decide they know exactly who I am.
