Free Caged by Stephie Walls Page A

I’ve been doing commercial real estate my entire career and in twenty years, I’ve yet to come across a bitch I liked or wanted to work with. I would rather not make the sale than have to pretend to deal with someone else’s shit. I jerk open the door to my Audi A8, tossing my crap inside. I love this car; it’s rolling class and comfort. With a black exterior, sleek lines, gray leather interior; it just screams success. In real estate people need to believe you’re successful, luckily I am, but the visual never hurts.
     
                  At forty years old, the success hasn’t gotten me where I thought it would. I have all the material things I could ever want and great friends, but after a nasty divorce where she took me for everything she could, I’m left with a bitter attitude and can’t say that I’m terribly fond of the opposite sex, although I’m not afraid to use them physically. I’m always up front about no commitments but women think they will be the one , the one that breaks the cycle, the one who gets me to commit.
     
                  I pull up to the mill right at four. I admit this space is amazing and for the right buyer could be a gold mine. I don’t think it will ever serve an industrial purpose again, but I can see some fantastic lofts being created here. It’s a three-story brick building with high ceilings, exposed beams and air ducts. All inner walls are brick. Surprisingly, the electrical and plumbing are up to code, but someone other than myself has to have the vision. Those who have seen the potential have all been discouraged by one of the many incidents taken place here in the past or have happened while they are here.
     
                  When the mill was in operation there was a huge fire that essentially gutted the place and in the process killed eleven workers. The owners never rebuilt, and it sat empty for years. The rumor on the street is the workers who were killed haunt the building. Since then, I have been the only agent listing the property, and every time I step foot in the building something weird happens. During one showing, every time the potential buyer asked something about the fire, the lights would flicker—even those, which weren’t turned on. Another showing, a window in the room where the workers died blew ou t— not as if something had been thrown at it from the street, but outward. At the last showing, my client and I got stuck in the same room, the interior doors wouldn’t open but there are no locks on any of them; they just swing into other rooms. The lights flickered in the same pattern they had the time before. We could hear footsteps all over the building, but there was no one else there. When the footsteps stopped, the lights returned to a steady glow, and the doors opened as if they had never been jammed. If it was just one incident I may have been able to put a spin on it with my formidable marketing skills. Unfortunately, it keeps happening, and now I just feel screwed.
     
                  Needless to say, word of these incidents travels fast and now the mill just sits here, unoccupied. I have tried to talk Elsie, the owner (who has to be one hundred years old if she’s a day), into demolishing the building and selling the land. It’s just outside of downtown and worth a fortune. She refuses every time, reiterating the right person who will restore the building will eventually come along. I think she’s lost her damn mind, but what am I going to tell an old goat to convince her differently? Nothing. Until then, I continue to show the property when someone has an interest, but I do nothing to market it.
     
                  I had parked the car and gotten out when a white Mercedes SUV pulls up. Leaning against my Audi, legs crossed at the ankle, I wait to see the bitch get out of the car. While I’m not the nicest guy who ever walked the face of the Earth, I don’t deal well with people