My mom works as a stager for real estate, one day she invited me
to come to work with her and I thought it would be a fun experience. The house
was vacant and it was going to be an easy days work so why not capitalize on
the opportunity to change the schedule up a bit. She enticed me with a pitch
about enjoying the home school experience in the great outdoors since the house
was a bit of a drive west into the hill country. "You can prop your feet
up and hit the books, it'll be nice," she said, "and if there is time
to spare you might be able to relax with your favorite book and afterward
we can get ice cream."
We
pulled up the directions on Google to find that it was about a forty-five
minute drive. We left our house with anticipation of the scenic byways and of a
house set in bucolic beauty. We had driven for the allotted Google drive
time estimate but we couldn't find the road we were supposed to turn on to get
to the house. We drove back and forth for what seemed like forever when finally
we gave up and took what we thought was the right road.
"Look!" I shouted. We had made it to the right road. The green
road sign was placed where one wouldn't naturally install it. This area looked
like a toddler paved out the road system with his Tonka truck set. It made
sense only to the mind that mastered the illogical path. Relieved, we make a
turn onto the street only to realize that the path is scattered with dirt and
rocks. We didn't have the right vehicle for four-wheeling. The car shook
and grumbled as it slowly rolled over the gravel sending pebbles flying.
Finally, we groaned to a stop and looked up to see that we had made our
arrival.
The
house was built in a craftsman style facade and was two stories. The exterior
looked decent from the road. We hopped out of the car and started for the door.
As my mom fumbled with the lock I stared at the bare, flower beds riddled with
weeds the place clearly needed some proper landscaping. Overgrown, dead,
field grass made up what should have been the lawn. The view next door wasn't
much better, the footprint for a new house with exposed concrete walls and
plumbing lines poured as close to the property line as possible made the lot
feel encroached upon. "OK," I thought, "This is why my Mom was
here, to help make the place look better," but nothing was going to
prepare me for what was behind the front door.
The
lock clicked and the door opened. Mom stepped in and I followed. Upon my
entrance I was struck with a tidal wave of stench that was beyond describing.
The whole place reeked of sewage and everything was plastered with cat hair. I
could tell by my Mom's expression that we both were thinking the same thing. I
soon found the origins of the stench matted on the carpeted stairs. I looked
the staircase up and down gaping at the moldy barf and old cat scat integrated
within the fibers of the carpet. As we approached each new corner and room the
horrifying terrors just got worse and worse. I cautiously opened the bathroom
door, half expecting a rabid raccoon to pounce on me. I flipped on the light
and stared into the bowl of a ferociously stained toilet. I staggered back out
and tried to find a chair that was decent to sit on so I could regain my
composure and attempt to do what I came on the journey for; to concentrate on
my work but there was nothing to sit on, not a chair in the house. It was
either sit in a pool of cat fur or sit on the front steps outside. I found
myself queasy from the persistent, nauseating fetor so I decided the front
steps would be my best option.
My head was still spinning as I stepped
outside I plopped down on the steps and opened my book to my current lesson
only to find that I still couldn't concentrate! I was tired and hungry and that
awful smell had seeped in and poisoned my brain. I asked my mom how much longer
it was going to take and she told me with relief in her eyes that it was almost
over and we could leave that rotten, putrid house. I sat on the steps patiently
waiting for the moment to come when suddenly my mom announced that she was
finished and we were free to go. I lit up and immediately grabbed my stuff and
joyfully bolted for the car and my mom quickly followed.
The wheels of our car slowly mowed over the rock- riddled road once more
and then we were off. Freedom from the house of horrors stretched far
behind in the rear view mirror. Halfway home my mom gasped, I asked what was
troubling her and she turned to me dramatically with a look of terror on her
face and exclaimed "I forgot to look in the garage!" With dismay we
had realized that in the rush of the moment we had skipped over the garage. The
car made a hasty U-turn and we headed in the direction we came, once more the
car stumbled down the unforgiving gravely road, and we were once again standing
before the monstrous house. My mom gave me the option of staying in the car, I
gratefully nodded and she shut the car door and disappeared into the garage.
About ten minutes later she came back out and jumped in the car I looked at her
with a straight face and said, "Please tell me you didn't forget anything
else!" She assured me that she had everything covered.
Completely spent, we headed down the
road to home again. The experience was so traumatizing we knew we needed retail
therapy to get over it. We decided to treat ourselves after our disastrous day
at a small but lavish shopping center. We found that food therapy and retail
therapy go hand in hand! A delicious pizza place supplied us with garlic knots
to soothe our misfortune. After stuffing ourselves we popped into a few stores
and boutiques to window shop. The beautifully arranged displays enchanted us
and the monster house became a distant memory. Thankfully, the story of the
worst house in my Mother's working career ended with a sold sign and new owners
who would take tender loving care of the property.
