The door at the bottom of the stairs creaks open.  “Someone there?” she calls out. She’s been there alone for most of the afternoon and now that the shadows are falling she’s heard something. 

“That you, Jim?” Nothing.  “Mike?” Still nothing.  “Come on, now, Margaret.”

She walks into the Gathering Room.  Yes, the door to the second floor to the far right of the  fireplace is open. But she’s alone.

There are no ghosts in the Sturgeon House.

Air movement sometimes pushes open the door to the second floor… or something. 

There are no ghosts in the Sturgeon House.


Winter at the Sturgeon House is a quiet place.  Time is plentiful for catching up on filing, working in the archives, preparing the next exhibit, etc.

Upholstered furniture and bedding lie waiting under dust covers.  Wall hangings are safe now from ultra-violet rays after museum-quality inserts were installed in every window. 

The Lawrence Piano stands silent, although it’s been silent for years. The next meeting isn’t until April 15 when the house will be filled with folks wanting to hear about that piano and the talented man who owned it. 

The ashes from the fireplace have been cleaned out and the flue is closed.  No more fires until December during the Christmas Open House.  The Sturgeon House always looks, feels and exudes its  best during that happy event. 


Meanwhile, manikins haven’t moved; in their period dresses they stand watch over cribs and rope beds to be sure that all is well. 


In fact, all is well in the entire building. She turns down the heat and with a last look around she collects her things to leave.


But first, stepping over to the bottom of the stairwell she calls out, “Robert? Robert Sturgeon?  Is that you up there?”

No one answers.  No one ever does.  It’s the movement of the air… or something.  There are no ghosts in the Sturgeon House.


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