To The Person Who Buys My House

Months ago, I uprooted my entire life and moved across the country with very little plan. My wife left me out of the blue. With no tether, I cashed out my 401K and threw caution to the wind. I drove until I saw snow before deciding to try out the small town life. After nailing down a full time job and growing tired of life in the town's only hotel, I reached out to a realtor and asked her to show me the house that’s been on the market the longest. A fixer upper was just what I needed. The realtor didn’t have much information on the home outside of the basics, but I was sold as soon as I saw it. Three stories, isolated deep in the woods, what more could a man looking to start over with a project ask for? 

After closing, I was given a file folder containing all the important information. With all the standard documents was a handwritten letter from the previous homeowner. The contents of the letter have me questioning if I made the right choice, but I’ve never been one to turn down a challenge. I have typed the contents of the letter below. 

To The Person Who Buys My House,

Congratulations on the purchase of your new home! Or perhaps should I say, you’re welcome for your new home. I can only imagine what type of person you may be. A first time home buyer? A newlywed couple just starting out? A growing family looking for more space? A retiree longing to be away from the hustle and bustle of the city? Or even just an investor looking for rental properties? The possibilities are endless, but no less exciting. Just as exciting as when my late husband and I first purchased the property so many years ago. 

The tree covering so far off the main road made such a serene setting, we just couldn’t picture ourselves living anywhere else. However, all things must come to an end. Such is life. I’m not as young as I once was, my children worried for me out here all alone. Or so they say. My oldest daughter decided the property was too much for me to care for on my own anymore and encouraged me to move to the old folks home in the next town. 

As loath as I was to leave the home we spent such wonderful years in, I could no longer argue with her. The upkeep was getting to be a little much for these old bones. I agreed, on one condition: that the home not be put up for sale until my death. So, if you are receiving this letter, I have shuffled off this mortal coil. That also means that the house has most likely sat vacant for some time. In that case, there are a few matters of housekeeping you should be aware of. 

As you may have noticed when you viewed the property, the house is quite the old gal. Her three stories stand tall and formidable in the dense forest surrounding it. Though the trees tower over her, she will not be cowed. The roof has held up better than we ever expected with so many trees around. It was replaced in 2018, another urging of my oldest daughter, though it had only a few cosmetic issues at the time. The tree’s closest to the home are sturdy, and hardly ever dare to drop their branches directly on the roof. 

By the time you move in, it may be time for a fresh coat of paint, though I found the house does prefer to be a light blue with white trim. She likes to stand out amongst the darkness of the forest. I’ll never forget the way the old gal gleamed at Christmas time, with string lights shining bright enough to light up the snow all around. Oh, I do hope you have the most wondrous Christmas’s there. 

Anyway, I’ve gotten off track. Yes, the house will require a new coat of paint and I’m sure you will decorate the inside as you see fit. Before you start to move too much around, be aware that some of the items in the house have been strategically placed. For you to fully understand what a treasure you have just purchased, I feel it is pertinent for me to tell you a little story.  

My Reginald and I purchased the home, fully furnished, before any of our children were brought into this world. The first year we lived there was pure bliss. Young and in love, we dedicated almost all of our time to each other. My husband fondly referred to this time as our homeymoon phase. One of our favorite activities was exploring the vast property surrounding us. When the weather did not permit roaming, we explored the home itself. 

Though from the outside it appears as any manor in the woods would, inside is much to be discovered. During that first year, we enjoyed the convenience of it being fully furnished and move-in ready. But over time, I yearned to decorate. To make the space my own. Reginald, ever the obedient husband, humored me. We started by taking down every painting that hung on the walls, deciding which to keep, which to sell away, and which to simply move to a different area. 

That is when the first odd discovery was made. Behind a great many of the paintings, there were holes. Right in the plaster walls. Some appeared to be methodically cut in perfect squares. Others, as though a fist was punched straight through it. We of course decided that those would eventually be covered back up. I piled the painting up in the drawing room and set about cleaning the walls. 

By the end of the day I had yet to decide on what exactly to do with them, so I let them lie and went to bed. In the morning however, they were all hung perfectly back in their spots, as if all my work had never happened. For days I assumed Reginald had done it, and he assumed I had. We ultimately didn’t speak of it until it was too late. 

When my Reginald started back to work as supervisor of the factory in town, I resumed my endeavor to make the home feel like it was mine. I hated the big rugs scattered all around the place. I’ve always preferred a nice hardwood floor. No need for carpets that hold all the dirt and hair that’s dragged in. The furniture was easy enough to move out of my way, and the rugs all rolled up nicely. I was mighty proud of my hard work, until I got a good look at the wood. 

Large dark discolored splotches marred what should have been beautiful hardwood hiding under those gastley rugs, which I’m sure you’ve seen. Unfortunately, much like the paintings, the rugs remained. I’d go into more detail, but some of the full truths have been lost to time, but I will tell you, be careful what you look behind or under. Though the house allowed me to dust and paint and add decor as my heart desired, it did not allow me to leave any of its secret spots uncovered. Behind dressers, cabinets, doors, paintings, mirrors, and under couches, chairs and beds, the house hides. 

After the first year, I gave up trying to rearrange and became content with adding a few of my own touches here and there. I think that once the house realized I’d stopped trying to change it so much, It settled down. For a while at least. 

We entered a time of peace again, but the monotony of loneliness began to get to me. Thankfully, we soon welcomed our oldest daughter. As soon as she arrived, the house awoke with laughter and joy. All hours of the night, she would giggle, and the house seemed to echo with it. Those echoes long lingering even after she fell asleep. 

As we welcomed more children, it seemed that no matter how much we tied the house remained scattered with toys. It was as if I’d turn my back and they’d all jump right off the shelf and resume their places on the floor. The never ending chore of putting away made me weary to my bones. 

In a stroke of wisdom, my Reginald decided one summer to send the children to my mothers for a week. She lived on the coast, never one for the colder air where we chose to live. We didn’t see her often and the children did love her so. Off they went without a complaint, leaving my love and I alone for the first time in over a decade. We didn’t know what to do with ourselves. 

That first night, it was as if we were newlyweds again, but I won’t traumatize you with any of that. We felt so young again, only waking when the sun finally shone through our bedroom window, with no rush to feed the masses. When we finally emerged from our bed a little after noon we walked into an unexpected scene. 

Every toy, book, pen, shoe, and piece of sports equipment that belonged to the children had been strewn about the first floor in the most uncivilized manner. There was no question that the house had been perfectly clean the night before. Our first thought was that we’d been burgled. That someone had broken in, thinking we’d all left for the coast. The only problem is, we told no one the children were leaving and we had no neighbors to have noticed their departure. 

Regardless we checked for signs of forced entry on all the doors and windows. Finding nothing, we were forced to believe it was whatever force we had once felt in our home, agitated with us once more. 

As you’ve probably ascertained, the house is very particular. We had come to accept not being able to move the furniture or pictures but were only just realizing that the house did not like many of the new things we’d brought in either. How many times had I picked certain toys up off the floor, only to find them there again in the morning? How many times had I unfairly blamed the children for messes they claimed they knew nothing about?

That morning we saw the truth of the matter. And I knew something had to change. The children didn’t deserve my anger or anxiety. They were not to blame, when they returned I was sure to tell them as much. But before then, we had to find a way to coexist again with the forces in the house.

What should have been a week of relaxation and reconnecting became a week of trial and error. On the first day we tidied the house, putting everything back where we thought everything should go. Each room made perfect. Then we waited. Waited for the first item to fall out of place. 

As if the house was testing us, it took hours for anything to happen that first day. Then it started. Slowly at first. Giving us time to notice the items that were out of place, time to correct. It seemed to go in order of the things that bothered it the most, or maybe just the longest. 

The first toy to go was a set of bells we’d gotten when our oldest was small. The set was a popular toy amongst all our babies. With our youngest being nearly eight at the time, these bells hadn’t truly rung joyously through the house in years, yet they always made their way off the shelf onto the rug. Our family's peace was more important than any sentimentality, or at least that’s what my husband and I agreed, and into the bin they went. 

Quickly we noticed patterns. Toys that made too much noise. Shoes that left scuffs on the floor. Sports equipment that may or may not have been involved in a few broken windows and busted light bulbs. Books that sat too heavy on the overburdened bookshelves. Room by room we went, removing any and all items the house found to be offensive.

It was by no means an easy undertaking. So many items had many more years of use left in them. But, knowing what I knew, I could no longer sacrifice my sanity for a few boxes full of possessions. When the last box of offending items left the property it was as if the house itself took a deep calming breath. 

I hadn’t quite realized just how stressed I’d been feeling, until I didn’t feel it anymore. Weight I’d grown accustomed to bearing eased off my shoulders. The air was lighter, the lights were brighter, and the house even seemed to smell better. Not that there was a noticeable bad smell before. Everything just felt better. That night Reginald and I slept deeply for the first time in years, waking refreshed and ready for anything. 

I was ready for my children to come home. This week had been the longest we’d been apart since the youngest was born. I’d spent two weeks in the hospital that time, but that’s neither here nor there. We had two more days before my mother would return them to us, sunkissed and spoiled rotten in the best way. 

In those two days I made time to sit quietly and listen to the house the way I used to when it was just Reginald and myself. Familiar creaks and groans greeted my ears. My senses were filled with the house. The smell of wood, water, earth, detergents, fabric, food, all seemed to swirl around me. For a long while it was all just the normal feelings of home. Of any home. 

Every house I’d ever lived in had the same smells and sounds. I assume every house in the whole world has the same base set of smells, sounds, and lights. I knew there was something past that though here. So I waited.

A few months back, I’d read a book on meditation, hoping to help lift some of the stress I’d been buried under. While I waited, I took a few ques from my readings. I methodically relaxed each muscle starting at my toes and working my way to my head. I felt each breath as it traveled in and out of my lungs. I tried to tune my ears inward to listen to the beating of my heart. Attempting to hear the blood rushing through my veins. 

That’s when I finally heard the breathing. It wasn’t my own, it was off beat of mine. Reginald wasn’t home. We had no pets. But the slow, deep, steady breaths were just a whisper in my ear. I focused with all my might on the sound. Hoping to pinpoint the direction it was coming from. 

Realization dawned on me. I was all around me. As if I was inside a lung. Then, a heartbeat, slower than my own, reverberated around me. Slowly I opened my eyes. What I saw changed everything. 

Ever so lightly, the walls billowed in and out. Ever so slightly, the chandelier above my head rhythmically bobbed. As if contracting, thrumming. Everything in the central family room moved in a steady beat. How many days had we spent in this room? The majority of our lives circulated in this room, where we were most often all together as a family. The way a family room should be used. 

We often joked that this room was the heart of the house, because there was always so much love here. We were not wrong. This room truly holds the heart of the home. You may think I’m crazy, but I am telling you here and now. The house is alive. 

It is not haunted, there are no goblins or ghouls. The house itself is a living breathing being. A being that I have cared for, just as it has cared for me, for more years than I care to count. 

You see, my daughter never believed. She did not understand. When I finally agreed that I was too old to care for the house on my own, it was because the house told me so. Not her. I was growing too old to care for it, and in turn, it could no longer care for me. It needs someone younger. Someone to breathe new life into it again. And if you care for it, it will care for you. When tended to properly, it will multiply your life, and give you more than you can ever imagine. 

I do hope Carmen found the right person to take on the challenge. I pray the house does not miss us too terribly much. If you follow the rules, then it should grow to love you too I’m sure.

With Love,

Cynthia

Rule 1: Don’t move the furniture

Rule 2: Don’t leave any holes uncovered. 

Rule 3: Don’t make changes, only fix things that break.

Rule 4: Don’t put anything on the mantel in the bedroom.

Rule 5: Never throw balls inside. 

Rule 6: Never scream at your partner inside. On the grounds is fine. 

Rule 7: Always walk gently.

Rule 8: Always lock the doors. 

Rule 9: Always listen to the house. Take care of it and it will take care of you. 

I have lived in the house for a week now. What I thought to be the ramblings of a crazy old woman who wanted nothing more than to stay with her home, have quickly become undeniable truths. On my second night, the house welcomed me in a way only it could have. I’m not sure if this makes me just as crazy as her, but I’ve vowed to care for this home as long as it cares for me. We’re off to a great start.