“Behave,” Damian whispered, not that he had to, no one could hear him but Giorgio unless he wanted them to.
“I will, unless they’re totally awful.”
He was referring to the couple the realtor was showing through the house.
“As you can see it does need some work I’m afraid,” the realtor said. “But it will be worth it. It’s a beautiful old house, built in 1885, and solidly constructed.”
The husband, a man in his mid-fifties with salt-and-pepper hair, rapped his knuckles on the dark wood paneling on the lower half of the wall then looked around the large living room in appreciation. “Impressive woodwork, the wall color however leaves much to be desired.”
Giorgio hissed when the realtor replied, “I’m afraid one of the owners was rather lacking in taste as far a color choices go and for whatever reasons everyone who’s owned the place since then has just left it as it is, Mr. Prescott.”
“I think the brown goes perfectly with the woodwork,” Giorgio muttered.
Damian kept his peace. When he’d watched the men Giorgio had hired to repaint the room he’d shuddered. He’d always preferred his original color choice, a pale blue with a hint of green in it. But he’d been in no position to do anything about Giorgio’s changes, being that he was a ghost by then.
“Let me show you the rest of the house,” the realtor said as she led them out of the room, closely trailed by the two ghosts.
Forty-five minutes later the realtor and the Prescotts were again in the living room. Damian and Giorgio hovered at one side as they waited impatiently to see if the couple might become the new owners.
“I think it’s perfect, Richard,” Mrs. Prescott said. “Enough bedrooms even if all the children decide to descend on us enmasse, which they will during holidays. The kitchen is much better than I would have expected, and the back yard…” She smiled happily.
Richard Prescott chuckled. “You’ll be in seventh heaven out there, Jeanie.” He turned to the realtor. “We’ll talk it over and make a final decision once the appraiser has gone through the house, but barring anything untoward I think we’re quite interested in purchasing the place. Despite…” he added with an amused shake of his head, “the rumors that it’s haunted.”
“That’s all they are,” the realtor said hurriedly, “just rumors. Those always crop up when a house is this old and gothic looking. Blame it on romance and horror writers.”
Richard glanced at his wife and grinned. “So it’s Linc’s fault huh?”
“Apparently.” She laughed then thanked the realtor for her time before they left.
* * * *
“Beige,” Giorgio grumbled as he watched the painters at work.
“More of a rich cream, and it will look fine when they’re finished, wait and see.”
“Damian, it’s supposed to be brown. Much more atmospheric.”
Damian refrained from telling him the room would now look more like it belonged to a home, not a funeral parlor. Instead he said, “I just wish they’d hurry up and get finished with everything so the Prescotts can move in.”
“Patience, baby, all good things come to those who wait.”
Damian rolled his eyes. “When are you going to stop calling me ‘baby’? I’m seventy years older than you.”
“And you look younger than me so quit complaining. It’s a compliment, as I’ve told you too many times to count.”
“I know, I know, but still…”
“Damian, get over it.” Giorgio took a swat at his ass but since they were visible only to each other and thus non-corporeal his hand went on through which had Damian laughing as he danced away into the entry hall.
“You are in so much…” Giorgio followed and stopped cold when the front door to the house opened. “Nerd alert,” he muttered.
“Now that’s not nice,” Damian said although he had to agree, to a point.
The young man who had just entered tilted his head for a moment as if he’d heard something, then with a shrug he continued on and up the stairs leading to the second floor. He appeared to be in his early twenties, was of average height and had brown hair that looked as if he had just run his hands through it. Dark-framed glasses perched on the end of his nose, sliding down again when he pushed them up. Baggy jeans and a rumpled brown shirt completed the look.
“Wonder what he’s like under that outfit,” Giorgio murmured as he drifted invisibly behind the man.
Damian snorted. “Not something you’re ever going to find out I’m sure. He’s probably here to check the plumbing or something.”
“In a bedroom?”
They both watched as the man opened the door to one of the bedrooms to step inside. “Not bad, not bad at all,” he muttered as he looked around. “Put my desk over there, there’s room for bookshelves, the window seat is great, no need for a sofa, just a couple of chairs…”
“Talks to himself, not a good sign,” Giorgio said. “He must be lonely. What do you want to bet he’s the writer son? Umm, Linc, right?”
“Right and no bet,” Damian replied with a chuckle of agreement.
Again the man tilted his head, a small frown on his face. Then he shrugged, muttering, “Imagination,” as he turned to leave.
Damian looked at Giorgio. “He couldn’t have, could he?”
“Naw. Well I hope not. That could put a crimp in our lives.”
“Not shit,” Damian grumbled, earning him a grin from his companion along with an admonition to watch his language. Damian flipped him off then laughed when Giorgio pointed up towards the attic where they had commandeered a small servant’s bedroom as their own. “Sure, why not,” he agreed and they vanished from the room.
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