Free Bad Stacks Story Collection Box Set by Scott Nicholson

pulled out a flashlight. “I used to be a builder,” David said. “You can tell a lot about how a house is put together by looking at the floor joists. A house needs a good foundation, especially when it's clinging to the side of a ridge.”
    Damn, Reynolds thought. “David, you're a man after my own heart. A real fixer-upper, I'll bet. Not that you'll need to do much work on this house.”
    Even though every corner is slightly out of square.
    Reynolds thought about slapping David gently on the back to punctuate the statement, then decided against it. David seemed more like the firm-handshake, no-nonsense type. A tough sell. A man that was hard to sucker. The kind of man who wore a little tape measure on his belt.
    Reynolds headed toward the door that led to the basement stairs. The chill crept over him as he palmed the door handle. He put an ear to the door, pretending to check the hinges when actually he was listening for the spook. Damned thing had cost him a commission three times already.
    Reynolds made a show of looking at his watch. “You said you had to meet your wife at the airport?”
    “Yeah,” David said, studying the blown gypsum ceiling for cracks. “But there's plenty of time.”
    “Traffic can be a bear around here. You may have noticed that all the roads are twisty, and you're bound to get behind some flatlander tourist—no offense, mind you.”
    David stepped to the basement door. “I'll manage.”
    “David, this is a whole lot of house for the money, David,” Reynolds blurted. Had he said David's name twice? In realtor finishing school, he'd learned that you used the name of the potential buyer as much as possible. But maybe he was overdoing it.
    He was losing his concentration. Sweat pooled in the armpits of his shirt and stained his serge jacket. He lightly bit his lip to bring himself under control. The bite turned into a disguising smile.
    David smiled back. The man was too patient, in Reynolds' opinion. One of those forty-somethings who had already finished his life's work, his bank account probably set for the downhill run. Had a kid at Duke and one in an academy somewhere, a tennis-playing wife who probably came from old textile money. Reynolds saw no troubles in that tan, placid face, and a flare of jealousy rocketed across his heart.
    But it wasn't David's fault that Reynolds dropped eighty grand in a sour time-share deal. No, not time-share. Interval ownership was the new gold-plated term for it. But by any name, Reynolds was in the hole and had a lot riding on this sale. Haunted house or not.
    David switched on the flashlight. Reynolds turned the knob and let the basement door swing fully open. The hinges creaked like an old woman's bones.
    “Going to need a little oil there,” David said, playing the light over the hinges.
    “Y—yeah,” Reynolds stammered, as the cold crypt air wafted up from the basement and bathed his skin.
    “You going first?”
    “You're the guest.”
    “But you know the territory better.”
    “Yes, yes, of course, David.”
    Careful, Reynolds chided himself. He was oh-so-close to nailing this one down. All he had to do was smile and walk down the stairs, let David have his little look, rap on a few floor joists, kick the support beams, and they'd be back in the office in no time, running some numbers and working up papers. And Reynolds would be rid of this house forever.
    All Reynolds had to do was finish the tour.
    He surreptitiously wiped the sweat from his brow and stepped past David into the murk. His feet found the steps and he laughed aloud, trying to hide his nervousness.
    “What's so funny?” David said.
    “I forgot to tell you, the basement's half-finished. The previous owner was converting it into a rec room. Talk about your amenities, David. Only a little bit of payout, and you can have the perfect little hideaway. From the wife and kids, know what I mean?”
    “I like my wife and kids,” David said. “What about the previous