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House for Sale
April 7, 2018
From the outside, no one would suspect a thing.
The three-story colonial stood on a half-acre lot shaded by gnarled oaks and silver maples old enough to remember farmland, stone mills, and the prayer songs of the Shakers. A vision of English character and charm, it lured prospective buyers in with promises of grand fireplaces, custom millwork, crystal chandeliers, and servants’ quarters hidden beneath the slate roof. The builders had spared no expense back in the gilded optimism of 1922.
A middle-aged man stood at the edge of the property in a slim sport coat and Italian shoes. The stubble on his squarish jaw and the wire-rimmed glasses on his nose drew an image of an intellectual. Not short but not tall, he had wavy salt-and-pepper hair that fell strategically over his middling brow. He glanced over his shoulder at the four-lane road on the other side of the thick hedge. Downtown Cleveland lay seven miles behind it.
The pretty woman next to him gazed up at the stately brick facade, counting the leaded glass windows, imagining the view from inside. Thin and petite with deep brown eyes, she might have been mistaken for a girl if it weren’t for the high-heeled boots and sharpened angles of her face. Designer sunglasses perched at the top of her head, holding back salon-blonde hair. A silk scarf draped artfully over her shoulders. Gold jewelry hung from her tiny ears and wrists. The trappings of wealth didn’t quite match her uneasy gait or the apprehension on her face as the real estate agent led the couple up the winding flagstone path to the front door.
On closer inspection, the lawn was a bit overgrown, and the flower beds needed mulching. The edging needed tidying up. The paint along the eaves had begun to peel. Easy things to fix, the sales agent explained hurriedly.
A white cat darted across the entryway, stopping in front of the nearest tree to study the intruders. Its cool, appraising gaze turned the blonde woman’s head. The cat wasn’t wearing a collar. It cocked its head at her before sauntering around the side of the house like it owned the place.
Unnerved, the woman continued up the steps of the grand portico. A wrinkled piece of white paper had been taped to one of the windows flanking the mahogany door. It read:
NOTICE:
This property has been determined to be vacant and/or abandoned. This information will be reported to the mortgage servicer responsible for maintaining this property. It is likely this property will have its locks changed and its plumbing winterized within the next seven business days. If this property is NOT VACANT, please call the number provided below. Date: January 3, 2016
The ink had faded under the glare of the sun. The paper had curled up at the corners. Two years had passed since its posting. Behind them, the rusted chains of the For Sale sign creaked with a shift of the wind as the plastic shingle swayed back and forth in the yard.
“When we go in, try to reserve judgment. True, this place needs a lot of work, but for the right buyer it’s an unbelievable opportunity.” The sales agent fumbled with the lockbox affixed to the scrolled brass door handle and retrieved the key. “You just can’t get a house like this at this price point anymore.”
“I’m a little concerned about that busy road,” the man said.
“You can barely hear the cars from inside,” she reassured him. “You get so much more house this way. And you’re within walking distance of the grocery store and the library. Besides, with the old-growth trees . . .”
The husband’s pensive smile dropped when he glimpsed beyond the door.
His wife let out a startled gasp as the smell hit her.
The stench of rotting garbage and mildew hung heavily in the foyer as the man stepped over the threshold. Cigarette butts and fast food wrappers lay scattered across the quartersawn oak floors. A pile of dirty clothes and torn rags sat in the center of the formal dining room to their right. The iron radiator was missing from the foyer. Graffiti of all colors slashed the walls and custom oak paneling, shrieking warnings and epitaphs as the man wandered from the foyer to the living room.
Welcome to Hell House!
Get Out! Run!
The Evil Dead Live!
“Jesus,” the husband whispered and covered his nose with a handkerchief.
The wife stayed in the doorway for several moments, her face half-buried in her scarf. She finally braved a step into the foyer to take stock. The custom features of the house competed with the smell as she surveyed the original floorboards, the huge leaded glass window over the front door, the heights of the ceilings, the custom fixtures, and the enormous fireplaces in the rooms to her left and right.
“Obviously, you will need to do an extensive remodel.” The real estate agent did her best to project optimism into the two-story foyer. “But at this price, you can afford to customize every detail and really make this place your own. The bones of the house really are quite good.”
A teenage boy trailed up the front walkway behind them, scanning the empty windows of the house, wary and disgruntled. Hating it already. Pockmarked and sprouting with unwanted hair and oversize bones, his body had clearly betrayed him. The baby blue eyes under his furry brow looked to be about twelve years old, but the rest of him looked twenty. Neither of his parents noticed as he stopped in the doorway, dumbstruck by the violence that had been done to the place. His mouth hung open as his gaze traveled up the monumental staircase to the second floor.
As his parents moved from the living room to the center hall to the library to the breakfast room, more insults and vandalism greeted them. With each blemish, the price fell in their minds until the house was practically free. The real estate agent held her tongue, waiting for the damage to scare them off as it had all the others.
The first floor powder room contained a cracked porcelain sink and a toilet crusted over in shades of brown. The acrid smell of sewer gas wafted up through the dry pipes from the ground below.
The agent cleared her throat of the taste and said cheerily, “The plumbing will need to be updated, of course.” The house made her shift uncomfortably in her sensible shoes, and she preferred to stay close to the open front door. “I’ll let you two wander around a bit. Just holler if you have questions.”
The couple proceeded up the back staircase to the first enormous bedroom. A tiled fireplace sat charred and empty to the right. The walls were institutional blue, and the windows looked out over the street outside. “I think this might be the master bedroom,” the husband speculated, cracking open a door leading to an attached bathroom. Dead flies and mouse droppings littered the tiny white floor tiles.
A bare mattress sat on the floor in one of the smaller bedrooms farther down the hall. A dark brown stain smeared across the center of the makeshift bed and onto the floor. The wife crinkled her nose at it. Blood? Crumpled tinfoil and a syringe lay next to it. “Myron,” she whispered and threw her husband a look of revulsion.
“I know. Just give it a chance,” he whispered back and kept walking.
The woman stopped outside a third bedroom and drew in a breath. The walls had been painted a pale pink decades earlier. Torn drapes hung raggedly from the windows, and the afternoon sun filtered in through faded linen flowers. Hand-painted butterflies flitted over the plaster between more crudely drawn satanic symbols and lewd messages.
Who’s a pretty girl?
Tears swelled in the woman’s eyes as they drifted from the flowers to the butterflies and back again. Who’s a pretty girl?