I bought a house built in the 1800’s. It was a total mess and had been largely abandoned for 30 years while the last occupant languished in a mental facility before eventually passing away. I had been watching the house for some time and when the family finally put the house on the market, I bought it the very next day.
I bought it because of its locale—close to a huge city park and because it backed onto a ravine path the city routinely maintained. But I also knew the house had good bones – the structure was sound and the main problems were cosmetic—‘it had been neglecting itself for some time,’ the aunt of the deceased confided to me, whispering in conspiratorial tones as if divulging that family secret might somehow offend the household spirits.
In retrospect, I imagine the old woman’s loose lips probably did send ripples through the ether. I noticed whenever she visited the property the local crows sent up alarm calls, noisily declaring her as persona non grata, and I had to agree.
I loved the house and resented her dismissive attitude.
“Renovate? Surely you don’t expect to move in,” Nate Granger croaked. His mouth hung open with wonder as I stood in the main floor hallway making notes in my memo pad while he stood aghast in the doorway, almost loathe to come in.
“Why wouldn’t I move in?” I countered testily, “I love these century houses. They have character.”
“It’s more a bi-centennial house, Dawes, and anything this ancient is bound to have all sorts of critters lurking under the floorboards and behind walls—besides these old dowagers harbour all kinds of toxic materials from lead paint to noxious fumes in the wallpaper.”
“You make it sound like a deathtrap,” I laughed.
“Speaking of which—I wonder how many people died here—I mean, two hundred years of history and all those scourges before the advent of antibiotics—Smallpox, Diphtheria, The Spanish Flu.”
“Did I ever tell you that you’re a real cheerleader, Nate?”
His face clouded over and I almost thought I reached him, but then he frowned and muttered, “Consumption—that was a real killer back then. I hear those germs last forever.”
I groaned inwardly, but wisely held my tongue.
Nate had been leaning against the doorframe bracing his weight on one hand. He now thought better of that as he pondered the centuries of accumulated bacteria and I half expected him to reprise Felix Unger and fish a Sani-Wipe from his coat pocket, but he opted instead to wipe his palms on his pristine cashmere coat.
I made a mental note: No grime marks visible on the light camel fabric.
That was an important detail. Score one for the good guys, or the household gods, or good old common sense but it was evident the family of the previous owner had the house regularly cleaned at least twice a year—not so bad for an unoccupied dwelling.
The thought gave rise to a possible new objection from Nate— was it really clean—not only in the physical sense, but metaphysically clear of ancestral spirits? I half-expected him to get around to suggesting an exorcism just to make sure it was free of ghosts and ghoulies—after all, that type of thinking is typical of financial advisors who are inclined to cover all bases.
But even superstitious Nate couldn’t find fault with the genial atmosphere of the house, and seeing it basking placidly in the mellow light of an early October afternoon, waylaid any doubts I may have felt.
All was well on heaven and earth.
Ancestral spirits? I didn’t think so, or at least the possibility seemed remote to me at the time.