As P.I. assignments go, this one looked easy. All I had to do was watch a house.
The house was on north Dearborn Street on Chicago’s near north side. Three stories, brown brick, a small well-kept yard in front, five stone steps leading up to the front porch. Thick wrought iron bars shielded the windows from top to bottom. Lights glowed behind the drawn curtains on the first floor. I sat across the street in my car at 11:30 p.m.
My client, Jake Fischer, owned the house, but his son lived in it. And Fischer was annoyed.
“He’s an artist.” We were sitting in Fischer’s office downtown that morning. He was CEO of a company that did medical billing. A big man, balding, with a broad, wrestler’s build. “I mean, that’s fine, he wants to do—whatever. I don’t know what kind of art he does, really. It’s not paintings or statues. ‘Found objects’? Anyway, the thing is, I get the idea he’s throwing parties in the house. Or renting it out for parties or—other stuff. I bought the house for an investment, and I let him live there. But I go visit him, and furniture’s moved around, things are missing, there’s stuff I don’t recognize.”
He leaned across his desk. “I just want to know what’s going on in there.”
“Could you ask him?” I asked. “It would be cheaper.”
He laughed. “I can afford it. I want to be sure.”
So I took his check, got the address, and promised him I’d start tonight.
In the three hours I’d been parked across the house, I’d seen five people walk up the steps and press the doorbell—one group of three at 9:30, and two solo at 10:45.. Two women and three men, all in their late 20s or early 30s. I caught just a glimpse of the son, Ronald, as he opened the door—32 years old and thinner than his father, with blond hair shaved close to his scalp. I managed a few photos of the visitors with my Minolta from the car.
The street was quiet. A few cars rolled by. People walked their dogs. A late-night jogger ran down the center of the street. A woman on a bike shouted at him.
My phone buzzed. Rachel, my girlfriend and sometimes my assistant detective. “Hi there.”
“How much longer? I’m going to bed.”
“I told him until midnight.” The car clock said 11:54. “Go ahead. I’ll be half an hour or so.”
“Don’t wake me. Or maybe wake me. I’m watching Bridgerton.”
I’d seen a few episodes with her. “I know the feeling. See you soon.”
She hung up. I stretched, waiting impatiently for midnight.
11:55, 11:56 . . . I tapped the steering wheel. Come on, come on. Maybe I could just leave now. It was almost midnight. Fischer wouldn’t know. Nothing was going to happen in the next four minutes, was it?
I forced myself to stay put. I’d said midnight. What kind of a private eye would I be if I went home early and missed something important? It was just a few minutes more.
The clock finally changed to 12:00. Midnight. Finally. I figured I’d wait 10 minutes or so, just to be sure. I looked up.
The house was gone.
What the hell? I blinked and rubbed my eyes. Just one minute ago a three-story house had been sitting across the street, between two other houses, solid and tall. Now . . .
All I could see was a vacant lot. Grass grew wild past the carefully trimmed front lawn. I saw the alley behind the house, and the back of the house on the next block, its windows dark. But the house I’d been watching for four and a half hours had vanished.
I took a picture with the Minolta. Then I got out of the Prius and walked slowly across the street.
I pulled out my phone to call Rachel. “What is it?” She sounded sleepy.
“You know that house I was watching?”
“Yeah. What happened? Did it blow up or something?”
“It’s gone. Vanished.”
She paused. “Huh.”
“Yeah. Just—gone.”
I walked forward, up to the point where the stone steps had started. I reached out with a hesitant hand, expecting—what? An electric shock? An invisible barrier? But I felt nothing, Just air.
“There’s nothing here.” I stepped forward. The ground was soft under my shoes. I leaned down to brush my fingers against the tall wild grass. It felt like, well, grass. I walked to the back edge of the lot, up to the alley behind, and then walked back quickly, nervous that the ground might open under my feet and drop me into pit, or that the house might reappear and trap me inside a wall or something.
“It’s just—gone,” I said again from the sidewalk in front of the house. “This is weird.”
“Should I come over? For a look-see?” Rachel is partly psychic, which comes in handy on some of my cases. I hadn’t expected this to be one of them.
I shook my head. “No, it’s late. I don’t think there’s anything dangerous going on.” I turned to look at the empty spot. “I’m going to hang out for a while, though. Maybe it’ll come back.”
“Okay.” She sounded doubtful. “Call me. Be careful.”
“I’m always careful.”
“Hah!” She snorted.
I took some pictures with my phone showing the houses next door. to establish that this was the right place, and that the house was indeed gone. As I slipped my phone away an elderly man walked by.
He stopped and stared. Then he looked at me. “There used to be a house here.”
I nodded. “Yeah.”
He shook his head and walked on, as if it wasn’t any more unusual than a coffee shop changing into a dry cleaner. I went back to my car.
The house came back at 1:00 a.m. I almost missed it, half-dozing with the radio on. I sat forward, blinking and rubbing my eyes again to make sure I was really seeing it. As I reached for the camera, the front door opened and all five visitors came out at once. They shook hands with Ronald on the front porch, then split up as they reached the sidewalk.
Any other time, I would have followed one of the groups as far as I could. But at 1:30 a.m., after hours of just sitting in a car watching a house—and then the blank space where the house had been—I wasn’t sure I could walk straight. So I went home and went to bed. Without waking Rachel.
The next morning, after lots of coffee, I staggered into my office working up the nerve to call my client. How would Fischer react? Would he just assume I was drunk or crazy? Laugh? Swear?
Rachel, sitting at her side of the office, watched me sit down with a grin. “Sleep good?”
“Not long enough.” I punched the number on my phone and waited. Then Fischer picked up. “Mr. Fischer? Tom Jurgen speaking. I’ve got some information on the house.”
“Yeah? Go ahead. What is it?” He sounded eager, but a little nervous.
“Well, here’s the thing. I, uh, watched the house for several hours, starting at 8:30. I saw some people go into the house, and I tried to get some pictures. They’re relatively clear. Anyway, at, uh, twelve midnight, the house—well, it disappeared.”
Silence. It was probably just a few seconds, but it felt like half an hour. “Disappeared?”
“It just vanished. I can send you some pictures. It was gone for one hour. Then it came back, and the people left shortly after.” I tapped my computer, emailing the photos I’d taken. “I—don’t have an explanation.”
“You expect me to believe . . .” He took a deep breath. “A three story house just went poof? Gone? And now it’s back?”
“That is what I saw.” I was used to people not believing me—editors, cops, clients. It was why I’d quit being a reporter. “Take a look at the pictures.”
A few moments passed while he checked his email. “Okay, that looks like the property.” I’d made sure to take some shots that showed the houses next door. “But this is impossible. Isn’t it?”
“I’ve seen some strange things.” I didn’t tell him about the vampires, demons, killer plants, cyborgs and the rest. I tend to attract the supernatural, even when I’m not looking for it. Especially when I don’t want to find it.
“Huh.” He cleared his throat. “This isn’t what I expected. Okay, I guess I’ll just have to talk to him. Like you said up front. Hey, would you mind coming with me? It’ll be easier if I have someone who actually saw it.”
“Sure.” I was curious, and he was paying.
Rachel waved a hand at me. “Uh, would you mind if I bring an associate? She’s, uh, good with this sort of thing. Strange phenomena, I mean.”
He laughed. “The more the merrier. Bring her. I’ll text you the time.”
We hung up. Rachel smiled. “Sounds interesting.”
“Yeah.” I just hoped the house wouldn’t disappear with us in it.
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