In honor of Halloween, I offer the following tale of realty terror.
Dumpy little houses always appear as sweet Victorian cottages to Realtors. Just need a little paint and some flowerboxes. I’m all fired up about a shack in a sweet area & entice, I mean flat out lie to my wife that we’re going to Fields and on the way, park in front of shack. Now you know I’m brave. One I’m a Ninja of some variety. Two I handle all pest control at home. Three I have come between a woman and a 13 hour sale. Though the rusty gate, up an overgrown path into a shag carpeted living room full of boxes tall as a man. I go for the light switch. Click click – no power. Through the musty dining room with torn shades. The kitchen cabinets creak and something scurries across the floor. I lure her to the cellar with the promise of future rumpus room glory. Down the narrow wooden stairs lined with old glass jars full of who knows what. We creep around the little torture workshop rooms past carcasses of old snow blowers and tennis rackets. I work up all my courage and go for the last ditch save. Storage. I reach up through the cobwebs. She looks anxiously at the fading sun through the tiny cracked windows. In the back of the room is a cubbyhole with a set of sliding wood doors. I give it a shove but the side near my wife’s head opens. Out leaps a naked glassy eyed doll, hands grasping for my wife’s throat.
To this day when we walk past with the dog, my wife eyes the dark windows, hastens her step and gives me a little jab in the kidney.
Dumpy little houses always appear as sweet Victorian cottages to Realtors. Just need a little paint and some flowerboxes. I’m all fired up about a shack in a sweet area & entice, I mean flat out lie to my wife that we’re going to Fields and on the way, park in front of shack. Now you know I’m brave. One I’m a Ninja of some variety. Two I handle all pest control at home. Three I have come between a woman and a 13 hour sale. Though the rusty gate, up an overgrown path into a shag carpeted living room full of boxes tall as a man. I go for the light switch. Click click – no power. Through the musty dining room with torn shades. The kitchen cabinets creak and something scurries across the floor. I lure her to the cellar with the promise of future rumpus room glory. Down the narrow wooden stairs lined with old glass jars full of who knows what. We creep around the little torture workshop rooms past carcasses of old snow blowers and tennis rackets. I work up all my courage and go for the last ditch save. Storage. I reach up through the cobwebs. She looks anxiously at the fading sun through the tiny cracked windows. In the back of the room is a cubbyhole with a set of sliding wood doors. I give it a shove but the side near my wife’s head opens. Out leaps a naked glassy eyed doll, hands grasping for my wife’s throat.
To this day when we walk past with the dog, my wife eyes the dark windows, hastens her step and gives me a little jab in the kidney.
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