Real Estate Agent Who Hears Murdered Ghosts

I am a real estate agent. For the past three years, I have been the top seller in the industry. It is not because I am a smooth talker; it is because I can hear houses speak. The houses will chatter about a hollow wall, a leaking pipe, or a window with a bad seal. During move-out inspections, I point out exactly what tenants try to hide. When showing a place to renters, I warn them about hidden red flags. I have been doing this so long that both sides treat me like family. Then, one Friday, a regular client, Eleanor Wilson, shows up. "Devan, the tenants at the Eastmere place are moving out." Eleanor is in her 60s. Her husband is long gone, and she lives off the rental income. She is a sweet soul. She charges 20% below market rate and even makes cookies for her tenants during the holidays. The couple moving out this time is Henry Johnson and his wife. They run a fruit stand at the local market and have a six-year-old daughter, Lea Johnson. "Lea is missing," Eleanor says, her eyes welling with tears. "She vanished outside the market last month. Just like that, in the blink of an eye. Henry and his wife have been searching for a month. They're worn out and broke. They just can't take it anymore." A heaviness settles in my chest at her words. I grab the keys and head out with her. Eleanor gasps for air with every flight of stairs we climb. I walk ahead of her. The moment I slide the key into the lock of Apartment 602, the doorknob vibrates violently against my palm. A second later, I dial 911. "I want to report a case of murder. There's a hidden body on the sixth floor of 18 Montclair Heights, Eastmere. The victim is their daughter." Chapter 1 When the tenant, Henry Johnson, rushed over, he knocked over a plastic chair in his way. His fingers brushed the edge of my phone, but I stepped back just in time. His voice rose to a deafening pitch, and droplets of spit flew onto my face as he shouted, "What the hell is wrong with you? My daughter has been missing for a month! A whole month! And you just walk in here and declare her dead? Who do you think you are?" His wife, Isabel Martin, was curled up by the coffee table. Her face was buried in her hands. Sobs filtered through her fingers in uneven gasps. "Stop it… Please, just stop… Lea's coming back… She has to come back…" My client, Eleanor Wilson, panicked. She grabbed my arm and tried to drag me out. "Devan, are you insane? You don't just say things like that! Apologize to them right now—" "Apologize?" Henry stepped into my space. His finger nearly poked my eye. "Getting down on his knees wouldn't be enough! You're just terrified we'll break the lease, and you'll lose your precious commission. You'd curse my daughter to death over a few lousy bucks? Are you even human?" Two heads poked out from the stairwell. The woman from across the hall peeked through her doorway, while the man next to her muttered under his breath, "That poor couple. What a scumbag agent." I stood my ground, neither stepping into the apartment nor backing down. Henry's tirade escalated. Amid Isabel's quiet sobbing and Eleanor's frantic attempts to play peacemaker, the entire hallway buzzed with noise. However, all those voices blurred into the background, unable to drown out the words I had just heard. "The door was pushed open so hard that night…" The voice of the doorframe chimed in, muffled and indistinct, like an old man muttering in his sleep. "The little girl ran in barefoot… She was running so fast… and crying until her voice went hoarse…" I clenched my fists. "Then, it went quiet." The doorknob's final words were barely a sigh. It sent a cold sweat breaking across my back. Heavy footsteps echoed up the concrete stairs. Three men stepped onto the landing. The leader wore a casual jacket. He was in his early 30s with a crew cut. His eyes scanned the crowd before locking onto me. He flashed his detective badge and asked, "Who called it in?" "I did." I stepped forward to meet him. "I was accompanying the landlord to inspect the property. Upon entering, I found reason to believe a homicide occurred here. The victim is a six-year-old girl." Before Detective Wyatt could respond, Henry threw himself toward the officer. The rage on his face twisted into something far more complicated. His eyes were bloodshot, and his lips were trembling as his voice pitched higher. "Detective Wyatt! It's me! I filed the missing person report last week! That's my daughter! She disappeared from the market entrance last month! My daughter is missing! And to keep us from breaking the lease, this agent—" Detective Wyatt looked down at his notepad, then glanced up at Henry. "Henry Johnson, right? You filed a missing person report last Wednesday. DNA samples already in the system." "Yes!" Henry nodded frantically. Then, he turned to point right at my nose. "He walked in and said my daughter was dead! He said I murdered her! That's just absurd!" Detective Wyatt closed his notepad and patted Henry on the shoulder. "Calm down. We're actively pursuing every lead regarding your daughter." When he turned to me, his voice lowered. "What are you basing this report on?" Behind us, Isabel's muffled weeping started up again. Beside me, Eleanor wrung her hands anxiously. She parted her lips but ultimately said nothing. The hallway fell silent for a beat. I looked Detective Wyatt dead in the eye. "This is my first time inside this apartment." My voice sounded dry, like sandpaper scraping against iron. "But I am certain the child never left." Even Isabel's crying seemed to stop for a fraction of a second. "She's still here. Somewhere in this apartment." Chapter 2 Detective Wyatt didn't respond. He stood there for two seconds, then gestured toward the two officers behind him with a nod of his chin. "Since a report was made, we'll follow protocol. Check the place out." The two officers squeezed through the doorway. One searched through the couch cushions while the other opened the TV cabinet. Henry didn't try to stop them. He just leaned against the doorframe with his arms crossed and a sneer plastered on his face. They tore the entire apartment up. About 40 minutes later, the two officers walked back into the living room and shook their heads at Detective Wyatt. "The place is clean. No blood or suspicious items." Detective Wyatt closed his notepad and glanced up at me. Henry let out a short, sharp laugh. It sounded like something snapping. "Done? Found absolutely nothing, did you?" He took two steps forward and tapped his knuckles against the glass coffee table, producing a sharp clink. "Are you satisfied now?" Isabel crouched by the bedroom door with both hands gripping the edge of the doorframe as she curled into a ball. Muffled, ragged sobs leaked out from beneath her hunched back. "Our daughter is missing, yet you came here to torment us… Do you people even have a heart?" Henry walked over, helped her up, and wrapped an arm around her shoulders before screaming at Eleanor, "Keep the deposit! Keep every single cent of it to buy yourselves coffins!" As his voice rose, neighbors at the far end of the hallway poked their heads out again. Henry pointed a trembling finger at Eleanor. "Eleanor Wilson, your agent is fantastic. Just brilliant. We're leaving right now. Nothing is more important than finding Lea!" Eleanor flinched. Her lips were trembling, but she couldn't find her voice. Detective Wyatt raised a hand to stop them, but they pushed past him. He looked at me, then took a step down the hallway. Lowering his voice, he said, "I ran the search because you called it in, but you have zero evidence. If this is deemed a false report, you know the consequences." I opened my mouth to speak, but a voice rose from the floorboards. It was faint, like someone whispering from a dark corner. "That night, the front door was slammed shut from the inside." Right after, the bedroom doorsill chimed in, slurring its words, "The little girl ran barefoot into the bedroom… There was water running in that room… Then, the crying stopped…" I whipped my head around. The bedroom door was wide open. The light inside had dimmed, revealing the half-open frosted glass door of the bathroom. The glass was coated in a dull, grey layer of limescale. "The bedroom!" I didn't control my volume, and my voice echoed down the hallway. Henry's expression froze, but just for a split second. He let go of Isabel's shoulder and spun around to face me. "You're still going? They checked the kitchen, the living room, the balcony, and the bedroom! Are you the cop, or is Detective Wyatt? Who the hell do you think—" "I swear on my entire career," I said, cutting him off. I looked Detective Wyatt dead in the eye and let each word land like a stone. Even Isabel's sobbing hitched. "Lea is in that bedroom. If you find nothing, I'll admit to making a false report. I'll accept the fine and detention." Detective Wyatt stared at me for five long seconds. The hallway light hummed above him, casting a harsh, white glare across my face. He zipped his jacket up a little higher, turned, and gestured toward the bedroom. "Test for blood." Chapter 3 Detective Wyatt's team moved fast. Two officers stepped into the bedroom. The lead cop pulled a spray bottle from his kit, misted a circle around the center of the floor, and flipped the light switch. A sliver of gray light filtered through the gap in the curtains, cutting across the floorboards. When the UV light clicked on, the bedroom plunged into a purplish darkness, casting a cold glow over everyone's faces. The floor began to luminesce. A few scattered, irregular specks of light glowed a faint blue. Isabel's crying cut off instantly. She was crouching by the doorway with her mouth still open, but no sound came out. Henry's Adam's apple bobbed twice. His hands clenched tightly against his thighs, and his knuckles turned white. Detective Wyatt turned to look at them. The bedroom stayed dead silent for about ten seconds. Then, Isabel spoke. Her voice was raspy but unnaturally steady. "It's cat blood." She let go of the doorframe and stood up. Her knees seemed to buckle for a split second, but she quickly found her footing. "We used to have an outdoor cat. Someone hurt it, and when we brought it home, it was covered in blood. Lea held it in her arms and cried for the longest time. It got all over the rug." Henry quickly chimed in, "Yeah. The cat didn't make it. We got rid of it and threw the rug out too. This was months ago." Detective Wyatt frowned and jerked his chin at the forensic examiner. The examiner squatted to take a sample, sealed it in a vial, and walked over to the portable analyzer in the living room to run it. Everyone filed out into the living room, and the bedroom lights flickered back on. Through the crack in the front door, the hushed murmurs of the neighbors in the hallway drifted in. As the minutes ticked by, a cold sweat broke out across my back. My fingers wouldn't stop shaking. When the examiner finally stood up, he handed the report to Detective Wyatt. "Feline-canine reaction. It's not human." Detective Wyatt stared at the paper for a couple of seconds, folded it, and slipped it into his pocket. When he looked back at me, his expression hardened like frost on a window pane. "Do you have anything else to—" Henry didn't let him finish. He lunged from the bedroom. His heavy footsteps thudded hard against the floorboards. Before I could react, he grabbed me by the collar. The fabric choked my throat as he shoved me back. My head hit the corner of the shoe rack, leaving my ears ringing. "Are you happy now?" Henry's face was inches from mine. His eyes were bloodshot, and the edge of his mouth twitched into a chilling smirk. "My daughter is missing, and you've been messing with us all day! Ripping up floors and looking for blood! And it turns out to be her dead cat!" He let go of me and took a half-step back. "You see that? Cat blood. It was a cat. The cat Lea loved died. Do you have any idea how long she cried over that? And now you drag it up as murder evidence!" Behind him, Isabel was sobbing. Tears and snot smeared her face. Her shoulders shook violently as she gasped for air. Eleanor tugged at my sleeve. Her voice was low and trembling as she said, "Devan… maybe we should… just go…" Detective Wyatt zipped up his jacket and glanced at me. "You're coming back to the station with us. The false report…" I didn't move because the bedroom had spoken. It was barely a whisper, like someone mumbling in their sleep. A few fragmented words escaped into the air. "Hide-and-seek… She said she didn't want to play… but they stuffed her in anyway…" I snapped my head around. The bedroom door was wide open. The bright overhead light flooded the floor and the massive wardrobe against the wall. My eyes locked onto the wardrobe. Henry followed my gaze. The smirk vanished from his face, and every drop of color drained from his skin. Chapter 4 I squatted in front of the wardrobe and ran my fingertip along the grout lines between the tiles. A few of the tiles were lighter in color, as if someone had scrubbed them clean. "Were these tiles replaced?" I asked. Eleanor replied, "Last fall, Henry said there was dampness coming up, so he bought some tiles and laid them in the living room and bedroom himself." Detective Wyatt waved an officer over to scan them. The numbers on the LCD screen flickered for a moment before the forensic examiner shook his head. "They're from the same batch. No signs of individual replacements. The color difference is just uneven wear and fading from cleaning agents." Henry straightened up from the doorframe. He let out a short, casual laugh. "Hear that, Mr. Spence? You trashed the place all day, going on about floors and blood, all to prove some poorly wiped cleaning solution damaged the tiles? You just want to keep our security deposit!" When he turned to Eleanor, his voice suddenly became dreadfully gentle. "Eleanor, to think Lea actually liked this guy. She used to give him fruit every time she saw him. And here he is, cursing my daughter to death just to pocket a deposit." Eleanor shrank back a step. A tear ran down her cheek. Henry took Isabel by the hand and headed for the door. "Let's go. I don't want to stay in this house for another second." Detective Wyatt waved to his men and turned to me. "You're coming to the station with us." I didn't budge. A sound came from inside the wardrobe. It was a very soft, muffled "here", like something soft thudding against the inner panel of the door. "It hurts. Someone opened up my body," whispered the bedroom wall. I turned, gripped the edge of the wardrobe frame, and pulled back, but it didn't budge. Frowning, Detective Wyatt grabbed my arm. "Enough already!" "There's something behind the wardrobe!" I shook off his grip and yanked at the wardrobe again. Still, it didn't move. My finger scraped against a splinter of wood, leaving a cut that made me suck in a sharp breath from the pain. Henry spun around. His voice rose to a shout. "Detective Wyatt, are you going to do something about this? The guy is a lunatic!" Isabel collapsed onto the living room floor, wailing, "Don't touch that wardrobe… Lea put her stickers on it… You're going to ruin the last things she left behind…" Eleanor covered her face. "Devan, please just stop… I'm begging you…" The two officers exchanged uneasy glances, while the forensic examiner stood by the door, holding his kit. Detective Wyatt stared at me for five long seconds. Under the buzzing hum of the hallway light, his Adam's apple bobbed. He jerked his chin toward the two officers. Four pairs of hands gripped the edges of the wardrobe. The wooden legs scraped against the tiles, sliding slowly away from the wall. Behind the wardrobe, a vertical crack running from ceiling to floor was revealed. The edges were smeared with pale, fresh concrete. The boundary between the old and new cement looked as straight as if it had been drawn with a ruler. Detective Wyatt's movements slowed as he crouched down. His eyes were fixed on the crack. "Get the crowbar," he ordered. The metal bar jammed into the gap. With a downward crank of the wrist, a chunk of concrete crumbled and fell. With the second strike, a larger gap split open. The instant the crowbar was pulled free on the third strike, a damp, heavy, sickly metallic stench erupted from deep inside the wall, flooding the entire bedroom. Isabel's weeping cut off instantly. Her knees gave way, and she collapsed onto the tiled floor. She buried her face in her arms and didn't move. Across the living room, the last trace of color drained entirely from Henry's face. Detective Wyatt slowly stood up and turned his back to the cracked wall. "Get tech and forensics down here. Right now." The light from the window cut through the room at an angle, illuminating the plaster dust drifting slowly through the orange beam. Henry slumped against the doorframe. His face was as pale as a sheet of paper. I could hear the wall weeping. Someone was curled up inside.