Footprints on the Ceiling

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My first reaction was cynical — an ad like that must be a publicity stunt; it was far too good to be true. I turned to the theatrical section and began reading. But it was no go; the haunted house won out. I turned back and read the ad again:

There just might be a story in it. So I phoned a friend on the Telegram city desk.

“Could you use a drink after work, Ted?” I asked. “It’s on me.”

“Sounds fair enough, Ross. My trick’s over at eleven. See you at Joe’s. And now go away; I’m busy. There’s a four-alarm fire, a love nest, and two wars.”

But quickly before he could hang up, I said, “In the meantime ask your Classified Department who Box K492 is.”

He took time out to think it over. Then he said slowly, “Uh-huh. I get it. Bribery. Just for that I’ve a good notion not to tell you. You mean the haunted house with the hot and cold running ghosts, don’t you?”

“Oh.” Disappointment sneaked up on me from behind. “You’re on to it then?”

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