The last of the original Spires, the dead one, was gone. His buisnesses were sold off, his possessions exchanged for new ones. No ghost would be haunting THIS Jonathon Spires. So he moved into the import trade and opened a coal dock.
Underneath would be a fine spacious home, free from the prying eyes of the city, nestled like a sleeping bear under the earth, with hundreds of tonnes of coal overhead.
He tried not to think about that part. His engineering seemed sound.
A system of powerful hydraulics would lift the house at night, and retract the fencing facing south so he could see the beauty of the ocean by moonlight. It would be fine, it would be perfect.
And it worked for a day, or so. Unfortunately the hydraulics froze and the seals stuck fast when the house was raised, not some accident entombing him below.
“What a pickle” he remaked. He looked over the problem with mechanics and engineers. The builng was stable, but she wasn’t going to be changing elevation any time soon.
“Parts will have to be custom made.” a person who happened to be the only supplier of stuck parts, said, looking over the damage. “That particular gizmoframitz is no longer produced, nor in inventory.”
“Yes, how soon can they be made?” Spires said, looking out his windows to the noon sky.
“Soon. They were made in Steelhead. We’ll have to contact them first, get an estimate, make the order, ship it here..”
Spires thought he heard “Oh, no more than a year. Maybe just months!” but he wasn’t sure. Someone would have to be hired to clean the windows.