Real Estate Agent Who Hears Murdered Ghosts

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."