Prologue: Marcy

Marcy sighed as she settled into her recliner after another long fruitless day at her real estate job . Beside her was the glass of wine she had poured herself as well as the romance novel she had put off reading for so long because of stress. Her stress as of late stemmed from a single source. For years now, there had been one single bane of her existence that seemed to haunt her wherever she was, even turning her dreams to nightmares. That dreaded house would see her to an early grave she thought gravely as she sipped at her wine. She sighed wistfully at those naive days during which she had eagerly jumped at the opportunity to sell this house. She knew her colleagues—mostly men, sniggered behind her back. The house was haunted, they warned, but she was young, energetic and optimistic. She scoffed at the idea of ghosts, laughing at the weakness of the men whom she thought were disguising their inferiorities and fears with fairytales and campfire stories. Now look at her, old, haggard and mediocre. She had dreams of making it big, having her face on every billboard in the city. She wanted her name to be known, and that house was supposed to be her launching pad. Instead it had robbed her, made a mockery of her and would eventually kill her.

Her mood was completely sour now; she couldn't even look at the book anymore. How stupid of her to lose herself in the world of fiction just because she was too pathetic to attain that sort of romance herself.

"You're a sham." She whispered icily to herself.

Lately, she'd been having thoughts, dangerous thoughts. She didn't know what to do, it was just too tiring, and she had worked so long, for nothing. Again, those thoughts came creeping into her mind as she downed her glass of wine and began anticipating another. It wouldn't have to be painful, it cold be the pills in her cabinet, those were strong enough, she could just go to sleep and—

Suddenly the phone rang. She rose out of her chair exasperated and walked over to it.

"Hello," She answered hoarsely, not bothering with the usual real estate formalities. She knew it wasn't a potential client. It never was.

"Is this Macy Handel?" Came a male voice from the other side. The call quality wasn't good, and Macy, felt oddly unsettled.

"Who's asking?" She responded, trying to keep her voice still.

"Are you the one selling the murder house?" The voice ignored her question.

Macy straightened her back, perhaps it was a potential client, but if they were already calling it murder house…

"Yes," she replied curtly, "are you looking to buy?"

There was a momentary pause, and Macy thought they'd hung up, but suddenly, the voice returned.

"Yes, as a matter of fact we are." The voice was clear now, even a hint of mischief coloring its tone.

We? Macy was shocked, "Oh-well," she stuttered, "That's wonderf—"

"Is it available for viewing tomorrow?" The voice interrupted suddenly.

"To-tomorrow?" That seemed rather sudden, but she couldn't afford to lose this opportunity, perhaps their eagerness was a good sign. "Yes sir, it's certainly available to view tomorrow!"

"Great, how's eleven in the morning sound for you?"

"Perfect," she responded, some of her real estate charm returning. "I'll put you down for eleven!" She looked around frantically for a pen and paper.

"Great." The voice answered, and then the line went dead.

Macy stared at her phone in surprise for a few moments, and then a smile spread across her face. Perhaps this was the chance she had been looking for.