#was crawling up in the pipe when other adults were there - but particularly when uncle asparagus would bring baby tumble with him

[the-cat-at-the-theatre-door]

Mods are asleep and so are Tumble and Demeter of yesteryear 

[thewritingambition]

Difficult Homes

1. The House That Didn't Like Anybody

(posted on Reddit)

The real estate firm I work for specializes in difficult homes. Not homes with leaks or creaking floors, mind you. We focus on buildings that have been on the market for months or even years because they have a particular reputation.

Usually, that means they were once the sites of gruesome murders and meth labs, but I occasionally get the chance to sell a haunted house. Well, allegedly haunted. Sorry to disappoint, but I have yet to be proven that there is such a thing as ghosts. I have been to many creepy shacks and cobweb-covered barns and I can tell you that it all just comes down to superstition and faulty pipes.

None of this matters, though. If a house has a reputation, and if enough people believe in it, then ghosts are real and demons crawl out of dark closets at night to take your children. Normal people don't want to live in places like this, so these homes tend to sit on the market forever or sell extremely cheap.

I am proud to say that that is not the case when I'm in charge. I don't care if a family of five was murdered in their sleep or if a kindly grandmother had been secretly harvesting human organs in the basement; I can still make the sale, for the price of a significant commission, of course. I was never the kind of man to shy away from a challenge; besides, I have an eye for detail and – I've been told – a trustworthy face.

The last house I sold, however, was a little tricky. My boss assigned it to me with a dismissive, “We got another one, Tony,” but kept the details to herself. Honestly, I thought it was going to be an easy, boring sale. It was just an inconspicuous two-story home in the middle of a cul-de-sac, the mirror image of the other houses beside it, with a little porch, a blue door and two large windows on its ivory facade that made it look like a friendly face, welcoming you in. Not at all the kind of home I usually got my hands on and I was a little disappointed.

Coming into the house for the first time, nothing warned me against it. There was no creeping feeling on the back of my neck, no sixth sense flaring at something I couldn't quite put my finger on, no demonic voice whispering for me to get out. All I could see was the hardwood floors that had been recently polished, the pristine white walls, the kitchen cabinets with brass handles, the fireplace strategically located in the corner of the living room. That house was a beauty. It made very little sense for it to have been on the market for eight months, so I immediately asked the owner, an elegant woman in her forties who asked me to call her Angela, if any violent crimes had been committed on the premises.

After a moment that only lasted a heartbeat, she said, “No.” The house had once belonged to her uncle, who'd died of a heart attack months before. He had been a recluse man who'd spent all of his looking after his home. She never really visited him and she knew very little about the old man. If a particularly strong wind hadn't cracked the kitchen door open, allowing for the neighbor to catch a glimpse of his rotting body on the floor, the old man might have gone months undiscovered instead of only a couple of weeks.

I sniffed the air, but the putrefying smell had long vanished. Good. Then this was a two-bathroom, three-bedroom home that had been well looked-after and smelled nice. On top of that, it was located in a family-friendly neighborhood.

I asked the owner how much she was asking for. She told me.

“Oh, we can do better than that,” I said, offering a different, more accurate figure.

The owner opened her mouth as if she was going to fight me on it but then shook her head. “Whatever you can get for it, I don't care. I just want it off my hands.” I didn't ask, but she still told me. “This house just makes me uncomfortable.”

That suited me fine. Sentimentality can get in the way of business sometimes and I didn't have time for that. This was supposed to be an easy job.

I examined every inch of that home, jotting down its best features, which formed a rather long list. There wasn't a scratch on the hardwood floors, not a single leak, not even a quiet creak when I opened the basement door – recently renovated, no mold, brightly illuminated by surprisingly large windows. Shit, I don't think there was a single speck of dust in that house.

Advertising through the usual means, I got an immediate, positive response and in less than a week I was showing the home to a young married couple. They were both lawyers that had been recently promoted and felt ready to start what the husband called “an actual adult life, and that involves being tied down by a mortgage for the foreseeable future.” I chuckled as if I thought it was funny and, as I walked them across the lawn towards the house, I felt confident that I wouldn't have to show the house to anyone else. They were going to fall in love with the place immediately and then-

The front door didn't open.

I frowned, then smiled reassuringly at the both of them. The wife had lifted an eyebrow at me, suddenly suspicious. I forced the lock, puzzled. It had worked just fine the day before.

“I'm sorry, it's an old key,” I said, which was bullshit. I pull the key out, then tried again, pressing just a little harder until the lock gave in and the blue door opened into a small but charming foyer.

“This is quite lovely,” said the wife.

I smiled at her. “Isn't it just? Let's start upstairs. You mentioned you both wanted a home office and I think this is exactly what you-”

My foot had barely touched the first step of the stairs when I heard a loud creak. For a moment, I thought it had been the stairs, maybe I had finally found a loose floorboard by stepping on the one place I shouldn't have. Nothing I couldn't recover from, no home is perfect, but then I heard a second creak and I realized I hadn't come from the stairs at all, but the entire house.

“What was that?” asked the husband.

I tried to tell them that it was probably nothing since the plumbing had been recently updated, but the creak turned into a loud rumble that sent a violent vibration through the floor.

Over the growing sound, I tried to reassure them that this had never happened before and that it was probably coming from the property beside us, but they wouldn't hear of it. In the blink of an eye, they had turned on their heels and left, the husband telling me that the house just wasn't for them, the wife not even bothering to look at me and muttering something about it all being a waste of time.

The door slammed shut.

The rumble stopped.

“What the-” I said to myself, looking around as if the explanation would present itself to me. It didn't.

I examined every nook and cranny of that place once again, looking for something I might have missed, but there was nothing. I called Angela and relayed what had happened to her.

“Yes, it does that sometimes,” she said. “Do I need to find another agent?”

Her tone wasn't resentful, it was just very tired.

“No, no. I'm sure a plumber can-”

“It's not the pipes,” she told me.

I knew she was right, of course. Even old, terrible pipes didn't make you feel as if you were standing directly above a roaring train. Still, my brain was grasping for something rational.

“It's not the pipes, nor the floorboards, it's not anything. The house just... it doesn't like anyone.”

I raised an eyebrow at the empty room. She must have felt the skepticism through the phone line because she sighed.

“I know I sound crazy.”

“Not at all.”

“No, I do, I sound like a lunatic.” She paused. “My uncle sounded like a lunatic too. He talked about that house as if it were a goddamn person! I always thought it was because he felt so melancholy after his divorce, you know? Holding on to the past. But I don't know, I always felt there was something creepy about this place.”

“Angela, this isn't my first haunted house,” I said, trying to be kind but not wanting to encourage her fantasy. “I have heard every ghost story there is and I can tell you that there's always a rational explanation behind everything. I am sure that, if I get a contractor and we look inside the walls-”

A loud thud shook the house violently. It was so sudden and so much stronger than before that I lost my balance and fell against the stairs. Then, the house was quiet again, as if nothing had happened. Now, I've never really believed in ghosts, and I still don't, but as I sat on my ass, feeling the bruises on my back and the thundering of my heart in my chest, I couldn't help but think that the house had just shouted “No!” at the idea of being pulled apart.

Actually, no. It hadn't simply told me “no”; it had screamed at the top of its non-existent lungs, “Don't you fucking dare!”

Now, it was laying quietly again, waiting to see what I was going to do next.

“Tony?” Angela's voice called from my phone, which I had dropped on the floor. “Tony? Are you there?”

Wide-eyed, I fumbled for my phone and told her, "Yes, yes, I'm here. So..." I struggled to put my thoughts in order. “So it's a... ah... a difficult house.”

I was breathless and I think she could hear the tremor in my voice. Angela asked, “Do you want me to find someone else?” already resigned that she would have to do just that.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and shook my head. Then, realizing that she couldn't see me, I said, “No, it will be fine.” I'm not sure I meant it, but as I said, I never shy away from a challenge.

I hung up the phone and stood up, paying attention to the sudden, absolute quiet that had fallen around me. Houses aren't quiet. Not completely. That much silence was unnatural and I didn't like it.

“I'm gonna sell this house,” I said. It sounded as if I were asking for permission. “I'm going to find a nice family for it.”

Underneath my feet, I could feel a gentle vibration. It wasn't a protest, that much I could tell. Perhaps the house was considering my request. Then, it went quiet again.

“If I'm gonna find a good family for it,” I added, cautious, “I'm going to need the house to be... receptive.”

I told myself I wasn't talking to the walls. That would have been crazy. Still, I paused and waited for an answer. It came in a single, gentle rumble that sounded almost like a resigned huffing sound. Something that felt angry but otherwise contained. As far as I could tell, the house wasn't a threat to me or anyone, but I still sighed with relief when the front door opened and I was allowed to walk away.

Over the following weeks, two things happened. One, I took several people to see the house. Two, I threw any pretense of sanity out of the window and started addressing the house directly. I didn't actually believe I was having a conversation, but I really – really! - needed to vent my frustration because Angela was right. The house didn't like anybody!

It creaked and rumbled at the boyfriend and girlfriend who had been looking for a place of their own. It mimicked the sound of mice in the walls until the retiring couple who'd been looking for a quiet place scurried away, the wife shaking in fear and disgust. It shook so violently at the architect who threatened to tear down its walls that I thought the whole house was going to collapse. And it stood impossibly still when I brought in a group of paranormal investigators in search of haunted headquarters for their organization.

That was the day I finally threw my hands up and shouted in the foyer, “Are you fucking kidding me?! They were perfect for you!”

The house made its pipes growl in protest.

Not them! Not any of them!

“Oh, you are a picky bitch!” I snapped.

Somewhere above me, I heard a window fall shut with a loud bang.

And fuck you too!

“Fine! I'll find you someone else!”

I didn't. Not for another two months. People came and went, but the house simply wasn't satisfied. I know I should have been a little more freaked out about the whole thing, but mostly I just had a bruised ego. Never had I ever failed to sell a house before. For fuck's sake! I once sold a funeral home that had been owned by a cult of cannibal Satanists – and the blood hadn't been fully scrubbed off the walls! Yet, this little suburban home was proving to be a challenge. I considered cutting my losses and letting Angela find someone else to deal with her picky home, but that was when the Reyes came along.

Mr. Reyes brought his three daughters, ages six, seven and nine, when he came to meet me. Upon seeing them get out of the car, I was worried.

“Sorry,” said Mr. Reyes, seeing the look on my face. “I couldn't find a sitter.”

People usually don't bring children the first time they come to see a home, but what worried me was that the house might protest a little too harshly at having three excited little girls running up and down. However, there wasn't a single sound from the house that day. Not a tremble, not a growl. I didn't want to be optimistic, but I dared think that the house actually liked them.

We went from room to room, the girls barely paying attention to anything we were saying, as they made delighted little sounds at everything.

At one point, they came running from the backyard and oldest daughter said, “Papi! The house is so beautiful! Can we buy it?”

Her sisters joined the choir, pleading and whining.

The father smiled at them. I could tell he had already fallen in love with the home and could see himself raising his daughters there.

“You like the house, mijita?” Mr. Reyes asked, scooping up his youngest child.

“It's a funny house, daddy!” she giggled. “It winked at me!”

“Did it now?” said Mr. Reyes, smiling warmly at his daughters' silliness.

“Yeah, with the windows! I saw it!” swore the eldest.

“Oh well, I always wanted to live in a winking house, didn't you know?”

I could have kissed the man. Was he really about to take that hellish building out of my hands?

Mr. Reyes came to the house one more time, without his children, but still, the home was silent. Not a single sound of protest.

“You know, I hadn't seen Lídia smile like that since her mother left,” Mr. Reyes told me, looking to me like a man who had just found some much-needed peace. “Maybe there's something special about this house.”

“There's definitely something,” I said, not sounding as bitter as I thought I would.

In the end, everything had turned out fine. The Reyes would have a home to call their own, and the picky house would have a family to keep it company. Angela would be overjoyed.

As I walked away from it, I even whispered, “Told you I would find someone perfect for you.”

For once, the house made a sound that I took as agreement, a low, gentle rumble that felt satisfied. Perhaps even grateful.

Documents were signed, commissions were paid, and I was all too glad to move on to the next complicated building my boss had in store for me. Something that didn't protest every time I brought home someone it didn't like.

By the time the police came to talk to me, I had already learned about the girls' disappearance from the news. Well, they called it disappearance, always trying to sound hopeful that the three girls might be found someday. In truth, I have no doubt that the girls are as dead as their father.

I didn't tell the police this, obviously. I answered their questions, which were brief and ultimately pointless, then provided an alibi for the night of the disappearance. I don't think they considered me a serious suspect, but by that point, the trail had gone cold and I suspect they had been interviewing every adult they'd come into contact with, even if they didn't seem to pose a threat.

I honestly couldn't blame them. Mr. Reyes had been disposed of most violently. Whoever the kidnapper had been, they had slammed his head between the kitchen door and the doorjamb, over and over again. The news claimed it had been a quick death, though a detailed autopsy report that had subsequently been leaked claimed that he had remained alive for at least several minutes, his broken skull too damaged for him to get up and get help, but not damaged enough to allow him a mercifully quick death.

People didn't linger on that detail too much, though. You see, when Mr. Reyes' body was found, he had been clutching Lídia's severed hand in his, her little fingers curled and bloodied in her father's grasp. No one could explain the marks around what was left of her wrist. They looked like teeth marks, it was said, as if a predator with sharp fangs had bitten the rest of her off while her father tried to pull her free... but that was impossible, of course.

I didn't mention the house to anyone. What was I going to say? Even if I leave aside the absurdity of the situation for a moment, all I have is a broken theory I'm still trying to put together. I tried to call Angela one last time, but she didn't answer. I don't think she wants to deal with this shit again; after all, she never mentioned her missing cousins to me. I had to learn it from a thorough news report that unearthed a missing case from the 1980s that had happened at the same address. A boy and a girl, taken in the middle of the night while their parents slept. They didn't draw much of a parallel, though. Angela's uncle had been spared, after all.

I do wonder, though. I thought the house had been looking for a family, but now I wonder if it hadn't been looking for a meal. Children, it seems, are its food of choice. And after such a hearty dinner, I wonder if it will go dormant again. Maybe it will be quiet for another forty years before it has to eat again.

Or maybe – and I don't like to think about it, but I can't help it – maybe Angela's uncle did cherish his house as much as she claimed he did. Maybe he cherished it enough to keep it fed.

Maybe, if we had torn those walls apart, we might not have liked what we would have found.