The Blue House of 1478 (3) (Patreon)

(Hey everyone, I know it probably feels like I'm blowing up your feed with The Blue House of 1478 updates, but I'm trying to edit/rewrite it whenever I have time to edit.

This chapter has SIGNIFICANT changes. Just as the last chapter had a few hints towards the differences, this chapter follows in that direction.  This suits the new plot's direction much better.

Warnings for: elderly gossips being gossips.)
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As it turns out, the resident of 1478 isn't a ghost, or much of a hermit at all, for that matter. His name is Leviticus Blue, or Levi for short, an unusual name for a handsome face and renewed notoriety in Sleepy Birch.

"I fancied the ghost rumors." Ms. Bowers sighs heavily, pouting into her palm, "hadn't heard a good ghost story like that, not since I was in pigtails and church-lace. I almost fell for it."

Most of the older residents are crammed inside Mr. Fredrickson's hand-me-down coffeeshop, The Forget Me Not Cafe, for an early morning community meeting. Everyone is earlier than early, as they usually are, because, before airing grievances —

They love to gossip.

And, from the sounds of it so far, not a singular elder is pleased about the end of a grand ghost story.

"Don't play so sentimental," Ms. Figgs is smoking; of course, she's smoking. It's restricted inside, and Ms. Figgs, approaching eighty, loves to defy any inkling of authority in any way that her wheelchair will still allow.

"Hauntings and horror stories — that's all that's good for our tourism. So damn right, you fancied 'em." Her voice cracks in a way that beholds the detriments to long-term tobacco use, "We've got a new ghost story every year; this one was no different than the rest of 'em."

"Some of those were real. Remember Esther? Saw her husband on Sunny Plaza.  She said he used to follow her around." Ms. Kim always sounds like she's carrying a tone made for reprimand, even when she's using her hands to demonstrate Esther's haunting like two little figurines. "That woman never told a lie."

"'Cept that lie." Ms. Figgs snipes back, right as the other reaches to butt out the cherry at the tip of her cigarette. Ms. Kim flicks her finger upward towards the no-smoking sign.

Her friend scowls.

"That Levi isn't a ghost, though, and the most mysterious thing about him is why he inherited Edgar's house." Mrs. Bowers leans in. "I thought that kid was as crazy as they come."

"He's Edgar's grandson, and he ain't a kid anymore, crazy or not. He's been livin' out by that old lake," Ms. Figgs is pulling out a crossword puzzle, uninterested in Mrs. Bower's fixation. She uncaps the pen she keeps in her decorated breast pocket. "Guess he decided to grace us with his presence."

"Why did he inherit the house?" Ms. Kim frowns. "Should go to next of kin. Not some lunatic that fancies a stale lot of water."

"Edgar's next of kin is a druggie." Ms. Figgs tuts. "Mystery solved. He wasn't gonna leave it to his worthless daughter, after all."

"... Can't believe Levi descended from a man like Edgar. Edgar Blue was as white and homely as they come," Ms. Carey scoffs, turning from her table just to join the conversation, "he and the other boys in our graduating class — they all pulled their knickers down on the homecoming tailgate. I thought the moon had risen."

"Shame on you. Don't share ill stories of the dead." Ms. Kim huffs, stirring her tea with a small wooden spoon.

She hates the sound of metal against porcelain, and Mr. Fredrickson remembers all of his guests and their minor ticks.  It's the best way to keep a business alive in a community built of primarily temperamental and elderly inhabitants.

"It ain't an ill story. It happened, didn't it?" Ms. Carey rolls her eyes. "Anyway. Who would live out next to that rotten old lake...."

"A lunatic." Ms. Figgs repeats, with vigor.  I blink at the harshness of it.

"Well then," Mrs. Bowers does a little happy wiggle of her shoulders, slicing through Ms. Figgs disdain, "I guess we've reeled in a new neighbor. Good thing he inherited that house. It's just lovely." She giggles before tacking on, "And I agree with Gwendolyn. This Levi has grown to be easy on the eyes."

She flutters her heavily coated eyelashes, lifting her tea to her coral-colored lips.

"Easy on the eyes? That's what's got you so much obsessed! They say he's a playboy," Mr. Henson is none too pleased, his small table full of pages for this fall's battle of Sleepy Birch reenactment.

I've always suspected that he has a bit of a crush on Mrs. Bowers, and his outburst does nothing to dissuade me.

"He was a ghost until just this morning!" She scoffs. "How is he a playboy?"

"He'd better stay away from my granddaughter." Mr. Henson huffs, ignoring her, his cheeks inflating before he exhales. "Her parents sent her to me; they think she's a nymphomaniac."

"She is a nympho." Ms. Kim sighs. "Might as well get her on the pill. Can't send her back pregnant, you know."

"Oh, you do say? She ain't a damn horse. What do you mean get her on the pill." He harrumphs, "You know what I say? That it takes one to know one!"

Ms. Kim's wooden spoon stops mid-stir, and she very likely might be contemplating throwing her pretty, foliage-covered teacup at Mr. Henson's balding bead.

As Loren Adams taps his little oak podium for attention, the meeting ready to commence, my unfortunate friend, Hunter, sputters over his coffee. I roll my eyes at his wide-eyed humor.

Ms. Kim, thankfully, doesn't notice.

"What the fuck," Hunter whispers, laughing as quietly as he can, red-faced and squirming in our floral-patterned booth. It breaks me out of my trance-like staring, as invested in the gossip as any of them, "is he talking about Charlotte? She's a nympho?"

"I think it's more concerning that he just called my eighty-year-old neighbor a nympho." I shudder, blinking down at my own cup of tea, "but yes, let's believe a man who thinks Elvis's death was a conspiracy. He seems like an accurate source of information."

"Ms. Kim could be retired nympho."

"Ms. Kim owns more figurines of Catholic saints than anyone else in town." I hum, just as Sleepy Birch council member Abram Knott takes his place by the blackboard that he's struggling to hang. "I can see them from her window watching me when I drop off her paper."

Hunter pouts.

"That doesn't mean anything. I said retired."

"Good morning, to all the lovely residents of Sleepy Birch."  Mr. Adams clears his throat.  He adjusts his glasses, squinting down at a stack of papers on his podium.  "Ah.  Today, we're going to talk about the differences between a personal-use trash can and a community dumpster."

I sigh.

It's disappointingly mundane to think that Levi's just an oddly introverted, maybe paranoid, handsome hermit — and not a flesh-consuming poltergeist.

Or, to say the least, it makes my paper route far less dangerous.