Three of Swords [Reversed]

A Flophouse—DAY

I am a moving into my new place, unpacking the bedroom in what is purportedly a haunted suite. It seems a woman committed suicide in this apartment. So I was able to quickly and cheaply snap it up.

The hotel owners have actually boxed up the dead tenant’s stuff and though ten years past, her possessions are still in the closet. Since then, the ghost has been quickly scaring away a string of occupants.

Now, I pull out her things to try to appease her. As I empty boxes, I converse with the empty room.

“See this stuff? Recognize it? It’s your possessions. You remember them from years ago, right? You liked them didn’t you? Well, they are coming back out.”

I can now feel the presence of her and other spirits. As I walk about the room the lights are flickering and on the TV screen flashes images. I keep talking to the sprit or spirits and tell them I can sense them but offer no harm.

As I talk, I climb on the back of the sofa and press up against the wall, so I can survey the whole room. A force grabs me and pulls me up further the wall until I am hanging almost near the ceiling. I know there is some bad history here; especially the suicide and that it may be the result of demons so I try to foster the woman’s good spirit for protection. I say, “I can feel her pain.”

A voice answers “Seven.”

“Yes,” I peep from the ceiling, bluffing, “I can feel seven of you.” I remember there has only been one instance recorded when the spirits seemed to be a threat, but I am worried about being the second. I call out to the woman again, now remembering her name.

“Trudy?” I say, “Trudy, I am sorry you died.” The force stops pinning me to the wall and I fall to the floor.

She probably didn’t even know she is dead.

The door creeks and I jump back up. But it is the Sailor, winded, and wearing an uncharacteristic suit.

“Sorry I didn’t call first,” he puffs, “But it’s not easy anymore.”

He flashes a hand that is covered in scar tissue and missing a finger or two. I nod. The Sailor looks around the room at the mess as I try to explain that I was talking to the supposed ghosts. I am not crazy. He seems not to have any knowledge of them, so I begin to talk about the deaths in the house as he plays with the TV remote control.

I am weak and collapse on the cot. The TV drones with celebrity gossip.

The phone in the hall rings several times. Both I and the Sailor look towards it but I cannot move my body, lying half on the low little pad. We shrug at each other. The call could for anyone on this floor. When it rings again, the Sailor shrugs again, and goes out. He immediately returns.

“It’s for you.”

I drag myself up and out into the hall, where I grab the dangling receiver and put it to my ear.

“You have reached the answering machine of Frank Trautman,” I say. “Please leave a message. Beep.”

An actual computerized voice returns my message

“You didn’t think I was up on the technology,” it says, “Well, now you-know-who is dead.”

In a sweat, I demand, “Who is this?” but for all my struggles to comprehend the phone call, I now only hear the click of a hang up on the other end.