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The Devil and the White Room

Jennifer L. Smith

    I’ll admit it. I am an impatient person. I will not wait for a listing agent’s permission to visit an already vacant house. I have a MLS key, and as a real estate agent, I have privileges.
    “Want to go in?” I asked my husband, Darren, as I waved to the old man across the street.
    “Should we wait for the guy to call us back?”
    “Nah, it is unnecessary.” I smiled. “A cedar with a prow front. Wraparound deck. It is a fixer, though.”
    The wood paneling was everywhere, except for the kitchen, where the hideous forget-me-not wallpaper hung. Cheap white appliances, too. My business card was the first on the kitchen counter.
    “Tiny bedrooms.” I looked at the sheet. “Where’s all the square footage?”
    “Basement maybe? There’s a door by the refrigerator.”
    I felt crushed. “I thought that was a pantry?”
    I’ve always hated basements. My childhood home had one. We never finished it, so it had the exposed concrete walls. The washer and dryer were down there too. My grandmother would admonish me for being too scared to get the clothes out of the dryer. There was never enough lighting to show what lay beyond the darkness, which hid the devil himself I was sure of it.
    Strike one for this house. We walked down the stairs to a renovation zone disaster, a small open area strewn with wood laminate boxes, commercial sized containers of white paint and loose yellow “CAUTION” tape.
    Darren looked it all over. “Well, someone started work.”
    “Doesn’t smell like paint.” We walked down the narrow hall aglow with cheap yellow-white track lighting. It opened into a great room, painted so white the light bouncing off the walls was blinding.
    “Wow,” he said. “I know you agents like white, but this is too much.”
    “Yeah.” I walked toward the bathroom. “Looks like there’s a sauna in the—oh my god!” I covered my mouth. “What is that?”
    Darren saw the same thing and went over to it.
    “No, don’t!”
    “Relax!” He lifted it. “It’s just a prosthetic.” He put it down. “Just a leg.”
    My eyes widened. “What’s it doing in the tub?”
    “I don’t know. Someone forgot it?” He laughed. “It’s not attached. Maybe they didn’t need it anymore.”
    “Yeah, I guess. Whatever.”
    “I want to check outside,” he said. He tried the wood door, but it was sealed. “Someone painted the hinges over.”
    He went back upstairs. I felt sick to my stomach just looking at the leg. The dank smell reminded me of the old basement and my grandmother, who was admonishing me again. Her face. Her finger. I saw them, taunting me again.
    I just had to leave. Like a child looking over my shoulder for the devil, I retraced the path upstairs. I reached the door and slammed into it, but it wouldn’t open. I tried shoving. My fists pounded.
    “Darren! Help! Come get me!” Where was he? My back slid against the door. I looked at the yellow tape. I was sinking. I could feel it.
    Finally, after my eyes closed, the door opened and I fell toward Darren.
    “What the hell?” He grabbed me. “Are you OK? I heard yelling. What happened?”
    “The door—it was locked.” I choked.
    “I didn’t lock it.”
    He looked at it. He locked it again, but the knob remained loose, unlocked. “Maybe it got stuck or something.”
    “Whatever. I want out of here.” I ran to the outside door. “That basement! It’s too white or something.”
    “Yeah, I’m getting a weird vibe. You think they have cameras? I feel like I’m being watched or something.”
    I locked up. “Some sellers do to prevent theft. But this home is empty.”
    I took some deep breaths. “You must think I was crazy. I’m sorry, but the door would not open.”
    “It’s OK. I know you don’t like basements.”
    I checked my messages. Eric texted: PLZ CALL ME.
    “Yeah, Melinda, you don’t want that place.” Eric coughed. “You’re relatively new to the area, so you might not know. How should I say this?”
    “Straight.” I put my keys in and hit lock. Darren looked at me, but I didn’t care.
    “OK,” he sighed. “I know the owner. A son and his elderly parents lived there. Mom wasn’t in great health, had diabetes, dementia. They lived in the mother-in-law suite.
    “Downstairs?”
    “Apparently, they liked it. It was handicapped accessible through the back door and separate from the son. They had some issues. Anyway, son goes on fishing trip and all hell breaks loose. The dad said that mom killed herself in the bedroom and he tried to stop her.”
    Darren and I exchanged looks.
    “No one believes that though. She was immobile with just one leg. Her wheelchair was on the other side of the room. She was dead three days before they found her. We will never know.”
    “OK?”
    “Brain matter was splattered all over. I couldn’t imagine the clean up. There was no way she did it. The dad died before the police got to him. Heart attack. ” He coughed again.
    “Oh my!” I felt cold. I thought I saw my grandmother down there.
    “It was the dad’s rifle. He said he saw her do it and ran out the door for help. He was found outside covered in blood.”
    “Right across the street?”
    “Yeah, actually, in the ditch.” He paused. “Did you hear about this?”
    I started to pull out of the driveway. “No, I just guessed.”
    “Yeah, in the ditch. Said she was possessed, people coming after her and such. He died of a heart attack in the hospital. Son tried renovating it, but the crew felt funny down there or something. Just awful.”
    The man across the street was still there. Darren waved to him, but he did not wave back.
    “Sounds like it.” I picked up speed. “Yeah, I think we will pass on this one. I’m sorry for the family.”
    “I understand.”
    I kept driving. There was no way I was telling either of them what happened down there.

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