Optical Delusions in Deadwood by Ann Charles

still bleak as a nuclear winter. And to top it all off, the Deadwood Historical Society has come out with a new list of rules for real estate agents.”

          All three of us groaned. The society’s goals were generally benevolent and geared to the town’s welfare, but its red tape was sometimes like the rest of Deadwood’s history—legendary.

          “So, now that you know the score, tell me how you plan to turn this month’s numbers into pluses and put your name on our ‘Sold’ white board.”

          Jane’s lust for bulletin boards and dry-erase markers was surpassed only by her love for to-do lists and detailed marketing plans. She was so left-brained that her right brain had given up the battle for control and settled for an unpaid intern position.

          “Mona.” Jane held her pen over her notepad. “You go first.”

          As Mona spewed out an elaborate scheme to lure fat-walleted tourists, that involved open houses filled with biker memorabilia and hosted by local celebrities, my anxieties cranked up the heat and spun me slowly over open flames. I broke out in a dew that would make many a spring morning jealous. I had no elaborate plans, no brilliant designs, no customer-snaring schemes. I specialized in reactive scrambling and desperation-fueled clambering.

          Ray went next, explaining the several high-priced luncheons he’d planned with some of the area’s wealthiest citizens. He finished his pitch with a fastball straight up the middle that incorporated gold-plated buyer “rewards” for those who signed a contract.

          That left me, sitting in a pool of my own sweat.

          “What about you, Violet?” Jane asked as the waitress set my grapefruit in front of me. “You’re fresh out of school. What tricks did you learn that you can share?”

          The only trick I knew involved a fake flower that squirted water. “Well, uh ...” I inspected my spoon for smudges. “I have one idea.”

          “Yes?” Jane prompted.

          If only I had the power to stop time long enough to come up with something brilliant. “I’m going to sell Wanda Carhart’s house,” I blurted, my heart break-dancing.

          Mona groaned.

          Ray cursed me under his breath.

          Jane’s smile flat-lined. “You do know it’s haunted.”

          I almost fell out of the booth. “Excuse me?”

          “It’s haunted.”

          “You’re messing with me, right?”

          “Have you ever known me to joke?”

          No. Jane was made up of equal parts salt and earth. I glanced at Mona and Ray; they wore matching grim expressions. My grip slackened, the spoon clattered onto the table. “Define what you mean by ‘haunted’.”

          Jane shrugged. “Paranormal activity.”

          I gaped at Mona, seeking reality. 

          “Whispy beings,” Mona added, then sipped her coffee.

          “Dead folks, Blondie,” Ray said. “Or rather all the crazy shit they leave behind.”

          I pinched myself. My eyes watered in pain, but the time continuum rolled on while I sat there catching flies in my open mouth. Had Doc been whispering in their ears? Did they all really believe in this? Was there a hidden video camera focused on me?

          “I take it you already have a signed listing agreement,” Jane said, scribbling something in her notebook.

          I nodded. My tongue seemed to have fallen out of my yawning jaw and rolled under the table.

          “So what’s your plan on how to unload the Carhart place?” Jane asked.

          “Wait a second. Back up. You guys believe in ghosts?”

          Ray looked bored. “Yes, Blondie. Can we move on?”

          Mona mimed a “shush” and nudged her head toward the biker table. “We talked about this last month, remember?”

          “No. When?”

          “When I told you