Horror Mansion: Short Stories

Ten - Dealing With It

So, I get this job as a property manager right out of college.

I figure it will help me develop the skills I gained from helping a contractor friend of mine back in school. It will also give my lazy-ass time to write and live while making okay money and having my own place rent-free. Sounds like a steal, right?

The development is an assisted living place off of a highway north of South Dakota. When I apply, I go into a small office that smells of old furniture and vanilla air freshener. An ancient woman with spotted skin sits behind the desk, a prehistoric nametag tells me her name is Mary. She's slouched over a crossword, motionless. Dead? And is that dust on her hair? I look down on her crossword.

"Asset," I tell her. She jerks up like an old machine, a cloud of gray jumping from her hair, and stares at me. Was that the password for her brain to turn on?

"What'd you call me?" she asks. I give her a quick, unexpected look.

"Oh, I wasn't calling you anything. I said ass-."

"I know what you said, and I've been here since 1973 and I don't need someone calling me names." She. Looks. Furious.

"No, it's the answer for your crossword. Look at it," she squints and takes a look. "A valuable thing: something to which value can be applied. It's asset." She scribbles it in and looks back up.

Well apparently she's been there since 1973 and, from the looks of her shit-brown colored dress, she has never moved from that spot. She has a bathroom to her left and a coffee pot to her right on a small file cabinet. She groans and explains to me how the place works. I swear I heard creaking whenever she moved.

"You live here," she says, pointing a yellow painted fingernail over to her right without looking. A door is on the wall. Probably an exit. "Outside. The apartment next to the office. When I leave, you need to answer the phone. Problems, they go directly to you. If I hear anything, I send it to you. We pay you and your rent. No parties, no noise, no screw ups." She said all that without missing a breath. She probably had lots of practice.

She hands me a key and goes back to her crossword. I look at it in my palm. I leave; Mary reverts to her previous stature. She looked just like a gargoyle going back to being stone.

The place is better than the other apartments. It's bigger, I actually have separate rooms. It takes an hour to move my stuff from home. I settle into my chair, a beach chair to be exact. Only until I get money for more furniture. A knock comes from the door already. I walk over and open it. Nobody? People are already messing me. I turn to close the door.

"Hey, mister." Hmm? I turn around again and look down. A little girl stands there. She looks up at me wearing her broken glasses. Her shirt is running into threads at the bottom. She wears no shoes. "Mister, uh..." she eyes my chest, as if looking for a nametag like Mary's.

"Jones," I tell her.

"Jones. Mister Jones, my mommy's washer is broken, can you come look at it?"

"Lead the way." I follow her and shut the door.

From the log I received I find out the family name is Rodriguez, apartment B2, consists of a mother and daughter. They've lived in the place for two years now. She pays one hundred and fifty dollars for rent. I follow the little girl inside.

The living room is strewn with toys. I smell alcohol, a tiny hint of marijuana. On the couch, mom is passed out. She's quite the sexy blonde vixen, and I'm feeling a little envious. They actually have a couch. The girl leads me to the washer in the kitchen closet.