Home for the Haunting
Juliet Blackwell
Chapter One
You know your job is tough when you find yourself escaping into a Port o’ Potty for a minute alone.
The blue outhouses are indispensable on a jobsite and, like the old joke about growing old, are a darned sight better than the alternative. But they’re not normally a place I choose to spend much time.
Today, however, I found myself lingering within one. Warmed by the early-spring sunshine, the bright blue potty reeked of hot plastic and a sickly sweet air freshener but offered me a few minutes’ respite from the steady barrage of questions and demands from the dozens of eager but unqualified volunteers I was directing.
“Mel, was I supposed to apply a coat of primer before painting?”
“I think I stepped on a rusty nail. Is that bad?”
“Mel, there’s this thing inside that’s marked ‘Biohazard.’ What should I do with it?”
“Where’s the dust mask/safety glasses/respirator/first-aid kit?”
“Is this mold toxic? Do I need a lawyer?”
“Um . . . Mel? You should probably come see this.”
Running a renovation project involves answering a lot of questions, and since I renovate houses for a living, I’m accustomed to fielding rapid-fire inquiries about building details, design issues, and bureaucratic snafus. Usually, though, I work with professionals who know which end of a miter saw is up.
Today’s project, I now realized, was as much about wrangling a horde of well-meaning volunteers as it was about home repair.
A few months ago, in a burst of charity inspired by a champagne-fueled New Year’s resolution, I volunteered to help a local organization that renovated the homes of the elderly and the disabled. It is a wonderful cause, and seemingly tailor-made for me, Mel Turner, the general director of Turner Construction. I figured I would show up a few weekends a year, tools in hand, go where I was pointed, and do as I was told. By the end of the project, my conscience, and someone’s house, would be ship-shape, and I could relax for another six months or so until the next project came along.
As with so many of my life plans, it didn’t exactly work out as I’d anticipated. Ashley, the perky and deceptively shrewd recruiter at Neighbors Together, took one look at my business card and appealed to my vanity. Merely volunteering my labor was a waste of valuable and rare expertise, she suggested. Wouldn’t it be a better use of my talents if I agreed to be a house captain? That way, Ashley insisted, “You can more fully experience the joy and unique sense of accomplishment that comes from giving of one’s self, working with a homeowner in need, overseeing the project from beginning to end, and supervising the eager volunteers.” I think she probably knew she had me there, but, not willing to leave anything to chance, she finished with “Imagine turning a loving grandmother’s house from a daily nightmare into a warm and safe home sweet home, as only someone with your impressive skills can.”
I’m such a patsy. I fell for it.
I spent the next several months inspecting the project house, prioritizing repairs and improvements, and gathering materials in preparation for this project weekend, when a group of volunteers descended upon a modest two-bedroom cottage on a quiet street in San Francisco’s Bernal Heights. The scene was reminiscent of an old-fashioned barn raising: folks swarming over the place like ants as neighbors strolled over to watch and kibitz. The untrained volunteers would accomplish an astonishing transformation in one short weekend because even though most had never held so much as a paintbrush, many pairs of hands could be turned to good effect when directed by a house captain who knew her business.
And this house captain had been up since four a.m., organizing food for the volunteers, gathering tools and the blueprints for the wheelchair ramp, checking on the arrival of the Dumpster and the Port o’ Potty, and running around town picking up last-minute supplies.
And if all that weren’t enough to occupy my mind, I was also focused on ignoring the big, abandoned house next door . . . where pale, flickering faces kept appearing in the windows, their breath leaving foggy traces on the panes of glass.
Ghosts. Again.
Why does every interesting building in San Francisco seem to be infested with ghosts?
Ignore them, Mel.
I knew they weren’t figments of my imagination. Like it or not, I seemed to have a knack for attracting souls from beyond the veil. Besides, Dog kept staring at the house, too, barking up a storm.
I had found Dog, abandoned and starving, on a construction site some months ago. Despite my initial reluctance to accept more responsibility, we wound up adopting each other. It wouldn’t be so bad, I thought: He could ride around with me during the day, come to jobsites and hang around, be my constant companion. Mel’s best friend and all that. But then it turned out Dog got carsick, and had a tendency to wander off when I wasn’t watching. He didn’t play ball, catch a Frisbee, or fetch sticks. He wasn’t much of a dog, really, as dogs go. My whole family adored him.