Fun Flash Fiction: The Haunting of Sharonda Connor

Sharonda Connor looked closely at the seller’s agent, Maria. “So why, in this hot market, is this house so cheap?”

The red flared in Maria’s face to stroke level, and she cleared her throat. “Well—”

Upstairs, maniacal laughter erupted, echoing around the walls and bouncing down the steps into the living room. The sound softened to a deep gargle before ceasing.

“They’re motivated?” Maria asked, her face now a lovely purple.

“Ah.” Shar released a relieved sigh. “It’s haunted. I thought maybe something was wrong with the septic tank.”

Maria tried to protest. “No. Really. There’s no such…I don’t think—”

More laughter interrupted her. This time sounding from behind the kitchen walls.

“It’s perfect,” Shar declared. “I’ll take it.”

***

And they wasted no time. Laughter as Shar loaded in the boxes, although there was a sudden hitch in the howls when she hung up a skeleton in her office and stashed the formaldehyde-filled specimen jars on the shelves.

Then, as Shar nestled in to her bed that first night, the whispering started, circling around her room as if they were hovering over her bed. Shar listened a moment, then spoke aloud. “You’re wasting time. Seriously. If you keep it up, I’ll just take an Ambien. You couldn’t wake me up if you flung me around the room. And I might just scare the crap out of you.”

Silence. Annoyed silence, complete with two sniffs and a low “hmph,” but silence all the same.

Shar slept like a lamb.

But the laughter and whispering continued the next day as she put up books and plumped throw pillows for the sofa. Lights flipped off and on occasionally. Typical stuff. Until Shar dropped onto the sofa for a bit of television. No remote. She tossed pillows and looked under cushions. Nothing.

Then…snickers. Like children trying to hide a secret.

Shar released a long deep breath and stood, hands on hips. “Okay. Here’s the deal. I work with the local pathologist. Dead bodies. Murder victims. Murderers. And they all chatter endlessly. There’s no whiner on the planet like a dead serial killer. Self-pity worse than a toddler, going on about their mommies and nonsense that would just make you puke. All y’all are really going to do is annoy me to distraction. But I ain’t leaving. So get over that part.

“But I’ll make you a bargain. Y’all shut it, and I’ll trade off TV shows with you. One for me; one for you. Otherwise, I know exactly how to make things worse for you. I happen, for instance, to like the scent of sage—”

The room turned instantly frigid.

Shar fought a grin and continued. “And I have a friend who kills her own chickens for food. I’ll have her bring a few over here, and you can spend eternity being followed, pecked, and clucked at.

Frigid became arctic.

“Or you can share the space with me. I’m gone all day. Screech to your heart’s content. I come home, you be quiet, we’ll do tv, bedtime. So. Decide. Flick the kitchen light. Once for no. Twice for yes.”

Two sniffs. A grumble. A hack. A crooked picture straightened. Then…the kitchen light went on and off. Twice.

Shar nodded. “Excellent. How do you feel about The Walking Dead?”

Two flicks.

 

“Supernatural?”

An excited half dozen flicks. And the remote edged out from under a bookcase. Shar picked it up and flopped down on the sofa. Well, she thought, look on the bright side. I’ll never have to put in a security system. She turned on television and called up Supernatural. “They are cute.”

Snickers. And a long sigh.

(c) 2017 Ramona Richards