A while ago, while doing the realtor thing in Memphis, I had a very interesting home showing that Alex has been bugging me to write about.  Here it goes.

A former co-worker of mine at the travel agency introduced me to her daughter.  Elaine was a young woman with a good job, had saved well and thought it was time to purchase a home.  She had figured out her price point and was looking in some nice, but very reasonable neighborhoods east of Memphis.  Her father was casually scanning listings for her and giving suggestions (as fathers often do.)  He came across a very cheap home in a very nice neighborhood and suggested we take a look.  Before I took her over, I warned them that for the house to be as cheap as it was there would have to be some major problems.  The pictures in the listing didn’t seem too bad, but I did wonder at a photo of a chair under a doorknob.  It was propped under it like you do when you don’t have a lock but want to keep someone from getting in.  Elaine’s dad said if it wasn’t too bad, he’d help with repairs.  Because it could have been a great investment in a very popular neighborhood, I set up the showing.

Elaine and I showed up and went through the ritual of finding the key, knocking to make sure no one was home then entering the house.  Though it was still light outside, the house was dark because all the curtains were tightly closed.

We flipped some switches and took a look around.  First impression was that the owner had bad taste in art.  There were pieces of paper taped to the wood paneling.  I thought maybe the “art” was done by a grandkid, and then I looked around more.  The paneling was the kind that looks distressed, with little knots and wormhole marks.  At least, it should have been like that.  Masking tape had been carefully placed over each and every mark.  The vents in the living room had toweling stuffed in them.  The fireplace had been boarded up and newspapered over.  Elaine and I thought it odd, but figured maybe the owner had some sort of heating problem.  We saw several pictures in frames around the room.  None of the pictures were real, they were cut from magazines and newspapers.

We looked through the kitchen then turned to go down the hall where we assumed the bedrooms would be.  The hallway was dark.  Really dark.  The switch for the hall light didn’t work and Elaine and I both started to feel more than a little creeped out.  We laughed when I said, “I’ll go first, if I don’t come out, run and get help.”  But it was a nervous laugh.  I went to the first door and peeped in to find a pitch black room.  I flipped switches, but to no avail.  I could tell it was a bathroom because I could feel a counter, but that was it.  I went to the room across the hall, when I put my hand on the knob I pulled back quickly.  There was a washcloth tied on it.  There were cloths tied on all the doorknobs. The light switch didn’t work there, either.  I found a lamp and switched it on.  The small bedroom was junky, but uninteresting.  However, there was enough light from the lamp to shine into the bathroom.  I walked in and was startled to see that the mirror had been papered over just like the fireplace. 

At this point Elaine pointed out that even if the place were problem-free, there was no way in hell she could live somewhere that creepy.  We decided the best course of action was to leave immediately.

Of course, I went home and told Alex and my sister (who was at our home office) about the house.  Alex’s first comment was that it sounded like whoever was in the house was trying to either keep someone (or something) out, or keep it in. They were so intrigued that I set up another appointment so they could get a gander. 

This time, when we arrived, the lady who owned the house was there.  She wasn’t supposed to be, but we weren’t about to tell her to get out.  The good part was that we were able to get some lights turned on.  She made excuses about not replacing bulbs, but the fact remained that none of the mounted fixtures were working.  While she watched, we were able to get to the rest of the bedrooms.  One of them had a bunch of clothes washing powder spread over the threshold.  She said she accidentally spilled it, but the laundry room was on the other end of the house.  A powdery substance on the floor is a well-known way to keep an eye out for unseen intruders; the theory is that they’ll make foot-prints even if they’re incorporeal. 

While the washing powder may have been an assumption of the lady’s mania, the covered mirrors, blocked up vents, covered doorknobs, and fake family photos ran throughout the house.  One of the weirder finds was when my sister pulled back one of the shower curtains to find the tub filled with water and a huge lump of towels.  We looked at the other tub; it was also filled with water and towels.

The car in the carport had a thick layer of dust from lack of use.  That chair I saw in the picture securing the door?  It was there.  We didn’t ask if something was trying to get in the lady’s home.  I really didn’t want to know if it was all in her mind or not. 

I have no idea if she actually sold the house.  The last I heard, she had eight offers that she refused to answer.  I wonder if she thought whatever plagued her would follow her to the next home?