“Congrats,” said the broker, tearing the ‘For Sale’ sunburned placard after selling the house. Rika bought a black bricks house built on an extinct mountain with tainted windows staring down a tearstained river. 

The pensioners had never heard about the bedtime story about a widow who had drowned in the now extinct river, but her shadow was found on a wooden stool, sewing a black jersey. 

Soon, Rika strolled into the wind-raked yard after the gate yawned. Then he turned the rust-coloured key inside the black door. 

“Wow,” exclaimed his wife, tears spurring onto his face. Immediately, Rika courted her as she spilled gallons of tears that washed his khaki shirt. The first night, they snorted like pigs and overslept for two days. They couldn’t hear the clatter-clacking high heels, footsteps knocking on the black tiles. 

With the moon peering through the black curtains, his wife slipped on a black necklace. 

The 80-year-old homeowners giggled at the gossip that their dream house was haunted by a kinky-haired widow whose cause of death was written as old age by the broker. 

They got the house for no deposit, and a three-year window period before the broker starts deducting two cents per month.  The only favour the broker asked was to paste the widow’s death certificate in their bedroom. 

In addition, the tearful broker hung the wooden frame picture of the widow in the living room. On the third day, Rika was missing in his wife’s dreams, but luckily, she spotted him practising yoga in the riverbed. The next day, the broker delivered grilled chicken with a note, “Don’t wash the dishes”. 

Later, Rika’s wife woke up from a nightmare of a black necklace strangling her, only to find the china dishes washed and packed. 

That day, the widow in the picture flicked her tongue at Rika, but he chuckled, and thus, a black vein grew on the widow’s forehead. 

The sixth day, the backdoor creaked, and a baby cried the night long. Luckily, Rika spotted a grey catbird crying like a baby. On the seventh day, Rika slept standing in the doorway, waving a plastic knife.  It was past midnight when the wind slammed shut the door. 

The door’s impact pushed him in the back, but he landed headfirst on the broken stool.  Finally, his wife tiptoed to the toilet, but the image in the picture frame slammed shut the toilet’s door, and a widowbird alighted on her shoulder. 

The next day, Rika mined a photo album from a river-width crack in the tiles. He popped his eyes at the broker in black diapers on the widow’s lap.