Free Bad Stacks Story Collection Box Set by Scott Nicholson Page A

owners?”
    Damn, damn, damn. They always asked that question. Reynolds cleared his throat and continued down the roughed-in wooden stairs, following the flashlight's beam. The darkness swallowed the light ten feet ahead as hungrily as the crawl-space swallowed the sound of their footsteps.
    “Well, David, the previous owners were—” This was the real no-no. The one thing he'd learned was that you didn't talk about people who had died in a house, especially a house you were trying to sell. Buyers were superstitious.
    “The previous owners were old, and this was a little too much house for them. They bought into a sweet condo deal on the coast.” Reynolds found lying distasteful. Sometimes lying was difficult for a salesman to avoid. But he preferred the more sophisticated methods of distraction, bait-and-switching, and blinding the customer with useless but eye-catching extravagances.
    A nice window treatment kept them from noticing that the window was broken. A crystal chandelier hid stains caused by a leaky roof. A gilt-edged and wall-mounted mirror kept them so busy looking at themselves that they failed to see the odd shapes hovering in the alcove.
    David shined the light into the belly of the house as they reached the smooth concrete floor at the bottom of the stairs. “Going to need a few strip lights down here.”
    “Great place for a pool table and a big-screen TV,” Reynolds said, looking around warily.
    David studied the plain gray walls, the nails visible in the sheetrock. “Smells a little musty,” he said.
    “Yeah, been closed up too long. You get a little air in here, it'll clear up in no time.”
    It's just a little decay. And that odor that never seemed to go away completely. Nothing unusual.
    David sniffed again. “Sure there's no mice?”
    Mice? Everybody had mice. But maybe David didn't tolerate mice. Some buyers were like that, even a man's man like David.
    Everybody's got their own little quirks, don't they? You, for example. Acting like a big-shot wheeler-dealer, cool as a termite, like you could care less whether anybody ever takes this dump off your hands.
    “Look how solid this construction is, Dave,” Reynolds said, sneaking a peek to see if David minded the shortened form of his name.
    David pounded on the sheet rock partition wall and frowned. “Sounds hollow.”
    Reynolds licked his lips. The spook should be here by now.
    “So, why are the owners selling?” David asked. He shined the light into Reynolds' face, causing him to squint.
    “Uh...they wanted to move to a warmer climate. These Appalachian winters can be tough.”
    Oops. You need to sell them on the summers, when the air is fresh and the shade inviting and the cool creek bubbling beside the house is an asset, not an ice-coated hazard. Play up the investment angle, too.
    “They move to Florida?” David asked, investigating the galvanized ductwork that ran beneath the flooring. Yellow insulation filled the gaps between the floor joists.
    “Sure. Doesn't everybody?” Reynolds chuckled. He kept his eyes glued to the bouncing circle of the flashlight beam, though the thing he really wanted to see was probably hiding in the darkness, mere inches from the edge of light. His dread was nearly matched by his curiosity.
    “You wouldn't be lying to me, would you, Reynolds?” The light exploded in his eyes again. “About somebody living here?”
    He blinked rapidly. “I don't know what you're talking about, David. Now, we need to be getting back. Afraid I've got another appointment.”
    The light remained on his face. Reynolds could see nothing of the man behind the bright wash.
    “Haven't you seen enough?” Reynolds said, a little bit of the hey-old-chum tone still working its way into his voice. He decided to give one last try at turning over this property. “You just can't find places like this anymore. More than a mile from the nearest house. You don't have to worry about the neighborhood brats bugging you.”
    “I