My wife and I were finally house hunting. She’d been looking for months, but I finally put my hat in the ring once the summer started winding down. After all, who wants to worry about grownup things like that in the middle of a gorgeous summer?
Last Wednesday, the realtor and my wife picked out 4 homes to visit. Each house we visited we observed things we loved and hated. From outlets not grounded to wood paneling, we had managed to see quite a vast spectrum within our small price range.
As we observed one house, it became apparent the last house on our list was only down the street. The two homes shared a street with the local high school and football field, but was noticeably quiet this time of year. The first home had a feline and precocious beagle greet us. The two seemed to walk us through the top floor and waited for us as we examined the finished basement. It was a charming little house, but it wasn’t for us.
We left and walked down the street to the final house of the day. The pictures appeared promising and it was on the low end of our price range, so potential was there. As we walk in, the realtor reminds us that the home is not currently occupied, emphasizing the ability to not rushing the final visit of the day.
The kitchen was open and the carpet had the distinct pattern of a modernized Howard Johnson. So far, it appeared unremarkable. As we descended to the basement, we began to notice what had not been pictured. It was no surprise. All showings needed to focus on the positive elements and attempt to compensate for any shortcomings.
In our short time on the market, we’d seen at least a dozen basements. With the exception of one or two, they all maintained the ominous nature of dank, earthen walls that explicitly required horror movie mentalities. Some of these questionable cellars even had toilets, though the hookup and the lack of anything resembling civilization lead us to calling them punishment potties. It was the Spanish Inquisition for bowels in some of these homes.
In this particular structure, the basement was finished. The bathroom appeared to be both reasonable and free of supernatural elements. The rest of the floor was as unassuming as the one above. That is, until I stepped into the last room.
Wood paneling existed as two of the walls while a jaundiced yellow paint ordained the other two. The ceiling was just exposed beams, with only the thinnest of canvas stapled up to isolate the insulation from the rooms.
Even with the finished nature of the basement, the small space was almost as humid and moist as the sinister undergrounds we’d seen in others. As I observed the ceiling, I invite both the realtor to see the ceiling. As the two entered, I reach to close the door. After a failed attempt to subconscious close it, I notice it could scarcely be what it was pretending to be.
In lieu of a legitimate door, the threshold was to be filled with a spare piece of wood paneling. The handle was taken from a discarded refrigerator and only was usable on the inside. The door seemed to want to keep things out. Demonstrating my love of the macabre, I had my realtor and I step out and shut my wife in the room. The paneling almost camouflaged the door to anyone in the hallway.
I was definitely not thrilled about this house. The feeling of this one room full of features left me uneasy and feeling my fight-or-flight response begin to question our presence in this home.
Once the door opened, I was ready to look around somewhere else. Ever as bit as interested as I was, my wife pulls back sliding closet door in what had become the room we all were uncomfortable being in. Behind the door was a collection of tools, meant for woodworking and home improvement projects. The glistening metal of the well-used saws that were tacked on the walls was the final straw. More saws than a single home could ever have a purpose for seemed to be more terrifying than anything we could have haphazardly joked about.
We promptly left the house and ended our day. That home has never left my thoughts since. Its outward appearance was deceptive to why startling things were found inside. I have yet to learn of any information as to what happened to the previous owner or anything abnormal that has occurred in that area. I’ve been tempted to go back to photograph the room, but my intentions seem to point to only causing more harm than good. Whatever happened in that home, I’m not quite sure I actually want to know.