The Percolator
Supernatural Trouble is Brewing
The frayed cord dangled from the stainless-steel appliance. The cloth weave was worn and broken at both the plug end and near the connection to the pot’s heating element. Gripping the black handle tightly, Michael pumped the old coffee pot above his head several times. His arm began to tire, when he finally caught the attention of his wife across the yard at the estate sale.
Patty smiled and made her way around the tables and through the scavengers. She wanted to get a closer look at the item. She and Michael considered themselves to be “coffee snobs”. They understood that the method of brewing was as important as the beans that were brewed.
"Same model,” Patty took it from Michael’s hands and looked at it more closely. “Same, same, same.”
She twisted the glass bulb and pulled the stainless basket and tube out of the appliance to inspect them. “Other than the coffee stains and the frayed cord, it could be brand new.”
The yard sale host approached them. “I was told she used that until the day she died.”
“Oh,” Patty looked crestfallen. “I forgot this is an estate sale not just a yard sale.”
She carefully put the coffee maker back together and set it down on the table.
“My point is that it still works. I think a percolator works better than any drip coffee maker.”
Michael nodded at him, “Some improvements are not an improvement.”
“Exactly. Give me a French press or a percolator for my coffee.” The host added.
Michael reached down and touched the stainless steel again. It felt cold to the touch and sent a tingling through his fingertips.
“We’ll take it.”
“Five dollars.”
Surprised by her husband’s decision to purchase it, Patty objected. “Five dollars? It needs a new cord.”
“Four and that’s my final offer. With a little care it could be used right now. The cord doesn’t need to be replaced today.” The host’s face looked a bit evil as he smiled again.
Michael already had his wallet out and handed the salesperson four, one-dollar bills.
The Kitchen
Patty washed the pot components and polished the stainless steel with a soft cloth. There wasn’t a single scratch on the exterior. Michael used a small Phillips head screwdriver to remove the casing around the heating element as well as the plug at the opposite end of the cord. He was able to keep the original cord but made it an inch shorter by removing the frayed ends.
“It’s beautiful. I’m going to put it right here next to the stove.” Patty placed the percolator that looked brand new beside a plug near the stove.
“There’s no switch,” Michael explained. “Plug it in and the boil cycle begins. After it stops, just unplug it.”
“Is the cloth insulation still intact?”
“Even the thin layer of rubber beneath the cloth appears to be firm and unbroken.”
“She took very good care of it. I looked it up online and it is about sixty years old.” Patty paused as she smiled at Michael.
“I bet it was a prized wedding gift. Her care for decades shows some emotional attachment to it.” Michael looked at his wife Patty who had an expression of expectation. “And, I can see there’s something else.”
“Collectors pay about eighty dollars for this today.”
“I don’t want to sell it,” Michael snapped. He realized he over reacted. He took a deep breath and calmly asked Patty, “Do you?”
“No. Just highlighting the bargain. A savings of seventy-six dollars.”
The Coffee
Patty measured out beans and ground them in a small electric grinder. She put the unbrewed grounds in the mesh basket, filled the pot with water and plugged it in. Soon the boiling water percolated through the glass bulb on the top of the pot.
“That smells classic,” Michael rubbed Patty’s shoulder as she watched the percolating water turn brown with the flavor of the beans.
“What, exactly does classic smell like?”
“Strong. It smells like strong coffee. I can’t wait to taste it.”
The small light on the base shut off. The percolation stopped. Patty grabbed the pot by the black handle and approached the two wide mugs that Micheal placed on the countertop.
“Room or no room?”
“No room for me, thank you.”
Michael leaned in closer to smell the coffee as Patty poured it into the cups.
“Is that a new bean?”
“No. Same beans we’ve been using.”
“It smells very strong.”
After smelling the black liquid for a few moments, Michael raised his cup in Patty’s direction and said, “A votre sante.”
They each took a sip. Their eyes fell from enthusiastic expectation to shocking horror. Each of them pressed their lips together and grimaced. Their lips turning down at the ends in disapproval.
“That is really bad,” Michael said.
“Oh my goodness. I’ve ruined it.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. It must be the beans.”
“The same batch we’ve been brewing.”
“Maybe you got a bad bean in the mix?” Michael inspected the bag of beans that they kept in their freezer to keep the coffee roast fresh. As he shook a new measure of beans from the bag, he said, “These look fine. Why don’t you clean the pot. I will clean the grinder, and we’ll try again.”
Michael measured out beans and inspected each one carefully before he put them in the small grinder. He pushed down on the top of the grinder and smelled the new batch before he put them in the mesh basket.
“This smells fine.”
“So did the first pot.”
“It was strong. Clearly, something went wrong with that first pot.”
As she dried every component of the percolator with a clean dish towel, Patty shook her head but admitted, “Clearly.”
Micheal filled the pot with water, placed the basket of coffee in place and plugged the percolator in. Soon the boiling water percolated through the glass bulb on the top of the pot.
Patty was the first to notice the smell. “Did you add something to the beans?”
“Like what?”
“Like vanilla beans?”
“No.”
“Don’t you smell it?”
Michael moved closer to the percolator and inhaled through his nose. “Odd. It smells like smooth coffee with a hint of vanilla.”
“You cheated. You added a flavor.”
“No. You watched me prepare the beans. No special additives.”
The percolator made a loud click sound when the boiling stopped. Moments later, Michael picked up the pot and poured two new cups of coffee.
He handed one cup to his wife and raised the other towards his mouth, “A votre sante.”
Patty smiled and raised her eyebrows as she took her first sip. “I don’t think that I’ve ever tasted a better cup of coffee.”
“There had to have been a bad bean in that first batch.”
“I think there’s something else going on.”
“Like what?”
“The man said that old woman used this pot until the day she died. I think she is still with the percolator and she prefers that you handle her. Not me.”
Michael shook his head dismissively. “You and your ghost stories. Of course, I admit, I have a way with the ladies, but I think you just got a bad bean on the first try.”
There was a knock at the door. They looked surprised. Michael asked, “Are you expecting someone?”
“No.”
Michael walked to the door. He could see the estate sale host standing on the other side. The man was carrying a box.
“Hello,” Michael opened the door wide. Not expecting anything from the man, he said, “Were my dollar bills counterfeit?”
“No,” the man raised his eyebrows. “Someone recognized you at the sale and told me where you live. I forgot to give you the original box for the percolator. It was under the table.”
The salesman handed Michael the empty box. Michael took it.
“Putting it to use already? I can smell the coffee out here. Does that grind have vanilla in it?”
“Would you like to try a cup?”
“Oh, no thank you. It does smell terrific.”
“Let me get you a cup to go. It’s the least I can do for this special trip you made to deliver the box to us. Do you want anything in it?”
“Just black.”
The man stepped into the entryway as Michael took the box into the kitchen. He set the box down on the countertop near Patty. She smiled as he made a to-go cup for the man.
Michael walked back to the entryway. He handed the to-go cup of coffee to the man and sent him on his way. As he closed the door, Patty projected her voice from the kitchen.
“You were right.”
Michael rushed back into the kitchen. The box was open on the counter. Patty held a small white card that had gold wedding bells etched on the front.
She read the card to Michael. “To the Newlyweds – May your love be shared over countless cups of coffee. – The Dickens”
One of Michael’s eyebrows dropped. “The Dickens? As in, give them the dickens?”
“Yes.”
The First Week of Daily Coffee
Patty’s schedule the next week required her to wake before Michael did. Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday, she made their morning coffee. On Monday, the coffee tasted like the beans had been burnt rather than roasted. It was drinkable, but not terrific. On Tuesday, Patty made sure to inspect the beans before making the coffee. It was sour. A unique taste, undoubtedly, but not an acceptable taste for morning coffee. She poured out the coffee and left a note telling Michael to pick up a cup at the shop near his work. The Wednesday brew that Patty created with the percolator was a combination of burnt and tangy. Another pot destined to be poured down the drain.
Michael stepped up behind her as she poured the pot of coffee down the drain. He heard her curse, “Damn you old woman. Leave this coffee pot alone.”
She was surprised when Michael giggled behind her. “Are we cursing the dead now? Maybe that’s why our coffee has been undrinkable this week.”
“Not our coffee, but my coffee,” she set the percolator on the countertop and spun around to look at Michael. “She doesn’t want me to make coffee with her pot.”
“She doesn’t?” Michael smiled about to make a joke but he could see that Patty was serious. Patty threw out the used grinds and rinsed off the components of the coffee maker. She set them on a towel on the countertop to dry.
“Why don’t we get coffee made by the local baristas for the rest of the week. When we go shopping on Saturday, we’ll pick up some new beans.” He suggested.
“I’m not sure the beans will help.”
“I think it is a better explanation than an angry supernatural barista.” Michael hugged his wife closely. “We’re supposed to enjoy coffee. It doesn’t need to stress our days.”
“You’re right.” She pushed Michael away from her. “No stress, but I have to leave for work now.”
After his wife left, Michael looked at the percolator as it lay on the towel drying in the air. He thought about taking the time to dry it properly with a clean dish towel but decided against drying it at that moment. He needed to get ready for work.
After showering and dressing, Michael stepped into the kitchen to grab his coffee to-go but remembered that no coffee was made. He looked at the percolator which sat in pristine condition, dried and assembled, ready in its place beside the stove.
“Patty?” Michael called out. His wife had left for work thirty minutes earlier. For a moment, seeing the coffee pot reassembled and put in its place, Michael started to believe she might be onto something with her ghost idea.
The Second Week of Daily Coffee
During their Saturday shopping, Michael and Patty decided to buy beans from three different origins: one from Africa, the other two from South America. All beans that they had enjoyed in the past.
“There’s no chance that all of these beans could be bad,” Michael assured his wife.
Since Michael had to go to work earlier this week, he was responsible for making the morning coffee. Automatically, driven by habit without much thought, he rolled out of bed and went into the kitchen Monday morning. The loud sound as he ground the beans made him one hundred percent alert. He felt someone brush against his back as the grinder sound prevented him from hearing anyone enter the room.
“You decided to get up early,” he asked after he stopped grinding. There was no response. He turned around and found himself alone in the kitchen. He put the beans in the percolator and plugged it in.
When he got out of the shower, he headed into the kitchen to check on the coffee before getting dressed. The percolator clicked off just as he entered the kitchen. The smooth coffee with a whiff of vanilla was ready.
When Patty entered the kitchen, she asked him, “What did you do differently? I’m glad you figured it out.”
“Figured what out?”
“The coffee.”
“New beans.”
“And a hint of vanilla again. Nice addition.”
Michael smiled and nodded. He didn’t add vanilla but he could smell it. He decided not to tell Patty that it was not his addition. She already put too much energy into her belief in ghosts. He was in denial that an old woman might be attached to the percolator.
Week Three
Michael was scheduled for early work again. When he entered the kitchen on Monday, not only was the coffee brewed with exact timing, clicking off as he entered, but there was also one plate setting at the table for him to eat breakfast.
When Patty entered, he told her she was starting to creep him out.
“I didn’t make the coffee.”
“Neither did I.”
“Don’t play with me.”
Michael laughed, “Me joke around with you about your belief in ghosts? Never.”
After Michael left for work, Patty looked around the kitchen and then addressed the percolator specifically.
“Michael is my husband. You may not like me, but you are dead, and I am here. Don’t get cute with us. A percolator can be replaced.”
The smooth coffee with a whiff of vanilla was ready each morning for Michael when he came into the kitchen early. He didn’t know how, but he assumed that Patty was secretly playing a trick on him.
On Saturday, Patty was more energetic when she awoke. She let Michael sleep in. As she left the bedroom Michael asked, “Can you make the coffee again?”
“I have not been making it this week, but I can try.”
A few minutes later Michael rose to the acrid smell of coffee too strong to drink. He stumbled into the kitchen to complain. “Why are you ruining the coffee again?”
“I told you, I have not been making the coffee this week.” Patty said.
“Just tell me you don’t want to make it for me. Don’t waste the beans.” Michael frowned at her. He didn’t believe that someone dead or alive snuck into the kitchen to make coffee early every day. It had to be his wife. He was getting annoyed with her persistence in the supernatural explanation.
Week Four
With multiple deadlines at work, Michael left before Patty each day. He felt too stressed to make his coffee daily and opted to get his first cup from the Bunn machine at work. Patty decided not make coffee with the percolator since it has never produced a good brew for her. She would shower and get a cup at the local coffee shop.
Michael was giving a 9 am presentation to a client when his secretary interrupted the meeting.
“May I speak to you privately?”
Michael nodded and excused himself. His project collaborator took over the presentation.
“Your wife has been admitted to the hospital.”
“What happened?”
“She was burned.”
“Which hospital?” Michael took down the information and rushed to his wife’s bedside within the intensive care unit.
Patty was sedated. She had bandages from head to toe.
As a doctor approached, Michael asked, “What happened?”
There were two police officers following behind the doctor. The physician told Michael, “She will recover, but there will be a painful rehabilitation time from her burns.”
“Burns? What happened?”
“I think the police would like to talk to you about that.”
The two officers led Michael into a private, family room.
“I’m sorry your wife has been burned by this attack.” The officers watched Michael for every reaction.
“Attack? How? Was there a fire? An accident?”
“Do you know anyone who might want to hurt your wife?”
“Everyone loves Patty.”
“We know you were at work at the time, so you’re not currently a suspect.”
“Someone did this to her?”
“On the nine-one-one call it sounded like she was fighting with an older woman. Has anyone been staying with you?”
“No.”
“Any local relatives who might have stopped by? Someone with access to the townhome?”
“No. Did someone break in?”
“It didn’t look like it when paramedics and police arrived.”
“Do you know what happened?”
“We’re trying to put it together.”
Michael thought for a moment. “Was there anyone else in the townhome when you arrived?”
“Our colleagues didn’t find anyone else.”
“Was something taken? Was it a robbery?”
“You’ll have to let us know. Your townhome appeared untouched and your wife was alone when help arrived.”
“I’d like to get back to my wife.”
“Of course,” the officers stood and shook Micheal’s hand. “Please come down to the station today. Perhaps you can recognize the second voice on the nine-one-one call.”
“I’ll do that, just as soon as I am certain there’s nothing else I need to do here.”
Later that day at the police station, the officers played the recording of the call back for Michael. Patty’s voice is heard over the sound of a shower running.
“The old bitch is attacking me.”
“Who is attacking you,” the operator asked.
“I don’t know. She’s old and powerful.” Patty’s statements were intermingled with growling from another source.
“Have you seen her before?”
“Help me! No, I’ve never seen her before.” Patty can be heard crashing against a wall and pulling the shower curtain off the rod. The metal rings ping as they hit the tub and the tile floor.
“Get away from me,” Patty’s shout was overpowered by another growl.
“Help is on the way to you. Please describe her.”
“She’s an old brunette about five foot four. From perco…” Patty’s voice was cut off as her head was heard being slammed against the tile wall and her phone sounded like it bounced off the floor.
For the next several seconds a loud growl emerged from the recording. The officers look shocked. One apologized, “The recording is obviously damaged. There was a woman’s voice there.”
“Where?” Michael asked.
“That growl is new,” the officer started to replay the nine-one-one recording but the growl was still present. No voice of an elderly woman remained.
Michael couldn’t listen to his wife pleading for help. “Is this some kind of sick joke? I can’t listen to her pleading for help again.”
“I’m sorry,” the officer turned off the recording. “We’ll have to get a new copy from the call center. There was a woman’s voice on the call in addition to your wife.”
“Was Patty conscious when they found her?”
“She was not alert, but she had managed to drag herself out of the scalding shower and collapsed on the floor.”
The second officer asked, “Do you know who perco might be? She said ‘from perco’ before she was knocked out momentarily.”
“It doesn’t make any sense,” Michael shook his head.
“Try us,” the officer pressed him.
“Percolator.”
The officers had no idea what Michael was talking about. One repeated “Percolator?”
“It’s a coffee maker. We just purchased it at an estate sale. Patty has not gotten along with it since we made the first pot of coffee.”
“You want us to believe that a coffee maker did this?”
“No. I didn’t believe her either. I don’t believe in ghosts, but Patty said the ghost of the dead woman is attached to the percolator.”
One of the officers slapped the table and stood up. He had heard enough and was dismissive. “Thank you. If you can think of any details that might help us, call us. We’ll get a new copy of the call and see if you can identify the woman’s voice.”
Week Five
While Patty was recovering in the hospital, Michael found a fresh brew prepared each morning. Midweek he smelled a breakfast of toast, eggs and bacon in the kitchen. As he entered, he glimpsed the backside of a middle-aged brunette wearing an apron. She turned and smiled at him just before she faded out of sight.
The smell of breakfast faded slowly. As he unplugged the percolator, he noticed nothing else unusual about the kitchen. He poured the brew into a to-go cup.
“Well, you’ve made me hungry. I’m going out to breakfast now.” Michael spoke to thin air.
After he put on his jacket and grabbed his work tablet from the desk, he tried to leave the townhome. The door lock would not move. The deadbolt felt like it was melted into place.
Michael didn’t think it was supernatural at first. He looked at the Philips head screws on the lock and pulled a screwdriver out of a nearby drawer to pull the lock apart. When he touched the screwdriver tip to the screw, the deadbolt unlocked without his effort.
“Alright. We’re going to have to set parameters for you to stay with us. You can’t hurt my wife. You can’t keep me a prisoner in the townhome.” Michael spoke to the unresponsive air as he put the screwdriver back in the drawer.
As he walked back to the door, he threatened. “You are a guest. You can be removed as easily as you were invited in.”
As he reached for the doorknob, the deadbolt locked itself.
“Really. Patty wants me to remove you before she comes home. You are not leaving me much of a choice.”
The deadbolt unlocked. Michael turned the doorknob and left the townhome. He was disgusted not fearful. Disgusted that his wife was right about ghosts. Disturbed that this old woman had a thing for him. Confused that the ghost felt empowered to intervene in their lives without any previous connection to their family.
As Michael headed to work, he decided that he wouldn’t tell Patty what he saw or what had happened in the weeks during her absence.
Week Seven
After two weeks in a rehabilitation facility, Patty came home. Before she returned, she insisted that Michael remove the percolator. After his experience of the old woman locking him in the townhome, he had already put the percolator back in its original box, with the original wedding note, and put it in the cellar storage.
“It’s gone?” Patty asked before she opened the door.
“It’s gone.”
Patty rubbed a thin bandage that remained on her right forearm. She remembered the horrifying incident of scalding in the shower. She had recovered almost completely. Rehabbed successfully and healed. The only permanent scar would be a small patch of skin on her right forearm. It was the first area to deflect the boiling water and suffered the worst burns.
“Did you sell it?” Patty asked.
“Something like that.”
“I hope you destroyed it.” Patty pushed her way into the apartment. The air felt thick and seemed to put up resistance to her entry. “No one should have that woman in their home.”
Michael didn’t tell Patty that he put it in the basement for storage. He assumed that the woman would move on to the other side eventually. Then at a later date, they could safely use or sell the pristine percolator.
“The air is so heavy,” Patty observed. “Didn’t you open a window even once while I was gone.”
The question was offered rhetorically. Patty didn’t expect Michael to answer. She cautiously entered kitchen. A small Breville Barista Expresso Machine sat beside the stove where the percolator previously perched.
“Oh,” Patty went to the machine and caressed the stainless-steel surface. “I approve. A real coffee machine, designed for afficionados like us.”
“It’s a bit more work than a drip machine or the percolator.”
“But worth the effort. The institutional coffee in rehab tasted like an ashtray.”
“Have you been tasting ashtrays while you were there?”
“Don’t be funny,” Patty smiled at Michael. “You know what I mean. Can you make us a cup.”
“For my beautiful wife, I’m happy to be a barista.”
Michael took a bag of beans from the freezer and measured out the correct amount for grinding. Patty sat and watched him.
“I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you too,” Michael replied as he finished the grinding.
“Can you be sure to add some of that vanilla you have been using?”
“I’ve never used,” Michael looked at his wife. It was as if she didn’t remember that the old woman flavored the coffee with vanilla, not him. Rather than remind her, Michael changed tact and finished by saying, “I never picked up more vanilla. I don’t have any today. We’ll get some when we go shopping.”
“Oh, okay.”
Michael prepared two Americano style cups of coffee. He motioned to the living room. “Why don’t we relax in the living room and catch up.”
Patty agreed and they moved into the next room. Michael carried the coffee cups. He waited until Patty was seated before he handed one to her.
“Thank you,” Patty reached out to take her cup.
“A votre sante,” Michael responded and sat down beside Patty. They both sipped the coffee for a few minutes.
Patty perked up. She looked at Michael and playfully accused him, “Liar!”
Michael gave a half-smile. He tasted vanilla when he sipped the coffee but hoped that it was just a suggestion from his mind. Not an actual taste.
Patty said, “I guess you found some vanilla.”
Week Ten
Several weeks passed by. Patty returned to work and Michael felt secure that they were without ghosts. Patty didn’t mention it.
When they went shopping, Michael picked up vanilla beans to add to the coffee. It took several tries before he got the flavor similar to the hint of vanilla their ghost had created. Patty didn’t comment as he experimented with the flavoring.
“We are going to a summer schedule. I have every other Friday off.” Patty announced one Friday morning.
“Starting next month?”
“Starting today. Do you have any laundry you want me to do.”
“No. You should let me continue to do our laundry. I don’t want you going downstairs.”
“Don’t patronize me. I’ve completely recovered.” Patty gave Michael a moment to respond. He didn’t. “I remember how to do laundry. Oddly, I’m sort of looking forward to it.”
Michael didn’t mention that he put the percolator in the basement storage across from the laundry. He briefly considered whether or not there was any real danger. He decided there was none.
“Okay. Great to have you back doing my laundry. Woman!” Michael tried to imitate a masculine misogynistic male. “Next we need to work on your barefoot and pregnant status.”
“Don’t joke,” Patty scolded him. “I want children and I’m not getting any younger.”
“I do too. Hold that thought until I get home from work.”
“I’ll be ready to work on that goal when you get home. Call me when you leave the office.”
“I will.”
The day passed by quickly for Michael. He was inspired by his wife’s desire to make a baby. As Michael prepared to leave work, he was not able to get his wife on the phone. When he ran the “locate my phone” app, it was in their townhome, but she wasn’t answering. He was worried and rushed home.
The front door to the townhome was unlocked. Michael rushed to the door to the cellar. He had no doubt that his wife was in the laundry. As he went down the stairs, he saw Patty lying underneath a stack of boxes that had fallen on her. She wasn’t moving.
In The Police Station
The officers that had met with Michael two months previously sat at a table and listened to a recording.
“This is the nine-one-one call in question?” The older officer asked.
“Yes.”
The voice on the recording was Michael’s. He shouted, “Send an ambulance.”
There was a elderly woman’s voice. Her words were indistinct. Michael shouted, “You bitch. I told you to leave my wife alone.”
The nine-one-one operator asked, “Sir, who are you talking to?”
“The perco….” A loud crash cut Michael’s voice off.
“Hold on sir. Help is almost there.”
The remainder of the recording was a series of vicious growls.
A Month Later
A young man held up the boxed percolator, trying to get the attention of his wife.
The estate sale host approached him at the same time his wife did.
“A tragic story goes with that item.” He said.
The wife pulled a percolator in pristine condition from the box. She exclaimed, “Honey, it’s beautiful. Just like my grandmother had.”
The host continued the story, “Maybe you heard about that rare sinkhole?”
“In the next county?” the young man asked.
“Yes. That one. Well, all the possessions sank into the hole. They only recovered the bodies of the couple and this appliance.”
“Sad story,” the husband was not phased. He smiled, “How much for it?”
For a moment the smile on the estate host’s face looked demonic. The young couple was focused on the percolator and did not notice the brief change in the man’s appearance. The host said, “Five dollars.”
“What a bargain!” the young wife exclaimed.
The young husband handed the host a five-dollar bill. He put the percolator under his arm as they left the sale.