[ WP ] You are a realtor showing a house to a young couple . They love the house , but you have something to disclose , and no its not a murder .

The tour went well. Tours of this house always went well. It didn ’ t feel empty, it didn ’ t feel like nineteen months had passed without anyone living here. The furniture looked comfortable and well-used, the air was fresh, and though everything seemed quiet, it was a companionable quiet, not an isolated one. For the first fifteen minutes, Heather didn ’ t have to fake the smile on her face whenever Joy made an excited comment over some feature of the construction, or when Randy made suggestions about the rooms. 
 
 They didn ’ t comment on the odd bowls scattered through the house, perhaps assuming they were ash trays or coin holders. If Heather didn ’ t know better, she probably would have thought the same. She looked at each one carefully as they passed through the house, and the smile slowly faded. 
 
 As always, she ended the tour in the downstairs dining room, which had a great view of the back yard. She stepped away and stood at the impressive floor to ceiling bay windows, gazing at the deck and patio. She carefully did not stare beyond the cultivated patch, though she gave the wild garden covert glances, and only once spent a second looking at the row of white paper birches that marked the boundary line, just to make sure nothing was out there. 
 
 “ I know you like the place, ” she told them, and their quiet discussion broke off at the tone in her voice, the tension and fear. “ I do too. You ’ re wondering, what ’ s wrong, that such a prime location, such lovely property, has been on the market for over a year and a half. And there is something … strange. ” 
 
 They were sensitive people, they caught on quickly and followed Heather as she headed for the kitchen. The person who designed this room loved to cook, with wide countertops, lots of cabinets, and two sinks. Heather pulled on the fridge handle. Normally a vacant house like this would have a box of baking soda and maybe some bottled water. 
 
 This had five glass milk jars, the old-fashioned kind. Heather pulled one out and set it on the counter. “ You can get these from the farmer down the road, they ’ re from his red cow, called Daffodil. He ’ ll deliver twice a week, which should be plenty. It ’ s part of the standing agreement, you see. ” 
 
 Mystified, Joy and Randy followed Heather through the house once again; this time, Heather collected the small bowls. Back in the kitchen, she gave each of the bowls a quick rinse; some were empty, some were filled with lumpy curdled milk. They were hand-formed pottery, rough and hand-glazed, and each was different, like the results of a grade school ’ s art project. Eight little bowls, one for each of the three bedrooms and two bathrooms, the living room, dining room, and kitchen. 
 
 “ It gets harder to explain every time, ” Heather admitted as she deftly poured a measure of milk into each little bowl. “ I never get used to it; even now I think it ’ s crazy. You ’ re going to think I ’ m crazy, and well, some days I don ’ t disagree. ” There was a swig of milk left at the bottom of the thick glass bottle, and she downed it in a few smooth gulps, wishing it was stronger stuff. “ Help me with these, would you? ” 
 
 She began returning the bowls of milk to each room, assisted by the prospective homeowners. She refused to talk during this portion, and instead hummed under her breath, a lively little melody that didn ’ t quite fit the mood. It was too careless, too threatening. 
 
 “ Seriously though, Miz. Rutherford, what is with the milk? ” Joy adjusted the last bowl, turning it slightly. 
 
 Heather grit her teeth and blurted it out, hoping that saying it in a rush might make it easier. “ The house has fairies. ” 
 
 “ What? ” Randy looked to his wife, then back to their realtor. 
 
 “ Fairies. The house was in the family for generations, the fairies came over from Europe as part of an agreement with that family. They live on the property. ” Heather sighed. “ See, you think it ’ s crazy. And you ’ re thinking cartoon fairies, where they ’ re cute and good helpful. These … are a different sort. ” 
 
 She couldn ’ t look at their faces anymore and went back to stare out the window. “ They ’ re not exactly malicious or hostile, but they aren ’ t friendly either. Follow the rules, though, and you ’ ll be fine. Fairies are sticklers for rules, I ’ ve come to learn. And these aren ’ t hard, really. Give them milk every day, and a bit of honeycomb or wine on certain lunar holidays, there ’ s a calendar for that. They ’ ll keep the house tidy, the food fresh, and are better than guard dogs and alarm systems, as far as home protection. You have to watch the appliances and cookware. No cast-iron pots, for example. ” 
 
 Joy and Randy were silent. Heather turned back to them and saw the answer in their faces. She gave them a tight smile and waved them off toward the living room. “ Sit on the couch a bit and talk things over. You ’ ll … you ’ ll see the truth of what I ’ m saying when I ’ m not in the house with you. So … I ’ ll go sit on the deck. ” She hefted her folder and backed up a few steps. “ Oh, and I won ’ t be offended if you run for your car after you see it. Won ’ t be the first time that ’ s happened. ” On her way out the back door, Heather picked up the milk bottle; the crate was on a little hand-carved table on the deck. 
 
 As she settled into one of the lounging chairs, there was a sound from the house, a barely discernible voice asking a question made out of music, frost, and daisy petals. Then she heard the front door slam, then hurried footsteps down the stairs of the front porch. Two car doors. An engine cranking. No squealing tires, at least. She sighed and leaned back. 
 
 She closed her eyes as the presence approached. She wanted to not believe in fairies, but had seen the evidence far too often. It made an disgruntled statement that Heather couldn ’ t quite translate into proper words. It added a reproachful comment. 
 
 She apologized, but it was half-assed; Heather was sick of the fairies scaring off prospectives. The presence sensed her lack of sincerity and made a snide remark. She returned snide for snide. “ You ’ re in the US; folks hereabouts aren ’ t used to your sort messing about. Maybe if you were nicer to your old family, the last grandkid wouldn ’ t refuse to have anything to do with you. ” 
 
 There was something filled with mourning and regret in its reply. Damnit, she didn ’ t want to feel sorry for the freaky apparition. “ We ’ ll find somebody, okay? ” Heather hated trying to reassure the creature, but that comment, at least, was partly for herself. “ Just have to find the right ones. ” 

