Selling Murder House

Chapter 5

With a new outfit and a new perspective, I walked to Saddlebrook feeling like I belonged there more than ever. When I entered the neighborhood, I didn't have to pretend I was a resident. I owned this neighborhood, it was my domain, and Leo Larson himself had said so. It might be my curse, but it was also the only thing that could lift me from my hole. It didn't hurt that it was also the most beautiful neighborhood I'd ever laid eyes on, especially in the fall.

I breathed the cool, fresh air, and watched as red and orange and yellow leaves danced in the wind onto roofs and gables. It was hard to believe, in that moment, that I had ever felt afraid there. The "Shadow Man" felt both far away and far-fetched, standing there at the head of the neighborhood, in the light of day.

Taking a deep breath, I approached the first house on the right of the main street. In my head, I planned to go door-to-door, starting on the right side, then circling back on the left. All the homes in Saddlebrook were situated on large plots of land, often atop high hills. Walking up the driveway of the first house, feeling my new heels biting into my flesh, it was dawning on me just how much work this was going to be.

When I reached the door, I rang the doorbell and waited, rehearsing my lines in my head. Hello! I'm Mary Lately from the Larson Group. Do you have any interest in selling your home? From our estimates it could be worth up to 1.5 million . . .

But when the door finally opened, and a grey-hair woman stood before me, I didn't have a chance to even start my pitch.

"We're not interested," she yelled through her screen door, as if I wasn't standing two feet in front of her.

Before I knew it, the door was closing firmly shut. At least she hadn't hit me in the nose, I thought. If I had been better prepared, I would slip a business card between the door and the screen. I made a mental note to order some as I trekked to the next house.

The next few houses I visited were similar to the first, if anyone answered the door at all. One house was outfitted with some kind of expensive-looking doorbell, where when I rang it, a voice spoke to me through an intercom: whatever you're selling no thank you we're not interested, a voice blared and then cut off abruptly. The intercom apparently didn't work two ways.

At the next house, a man answered the door. He was probably in his late 30s, early 40s, and he wore an expensive-looking ironed shirt paired awkwardly with blue sweatpants. Based on the headset he wore on his head, he must work from his home-office. The way he held his hand over the headset's speaker didn't bode well for me -- I could hear tinny voices coming through the headphones.

"How can I help you?" he said, surprising me. Apparently his conference call wasn't that important.

"Hi, I'm Mary Lately, from the Larson Group . . ." I made my pitch.

He shook his head a little dramatically.

"No, sorry, I'm stuck with this house and it's stuck with me," he said with a slightly southern accent I hadn't first noticed.

I was taken aback by the idea of being "stuck" with a beautiful home in the most exclusive neighborhood in town, but if I wanted to make it anywhere in this industry, I was going to have to start understanding people like him.

"Well, I'd love to help you find a home that doesn't make you feel stuck," I said, and laughed in a way I hoped was charming. "Tell me, does this house require a lot of upkeep? I know how these historical homes can be."

It was a guess, both based on the man's use of the word "stuck" and his work-from-home attire, which suggested a man with an important job and a busy schedule. Someone who lives in Saddlebrook should have enough wealth to coast through life, especially if they'd inherited a home, which I assumed based on his age and attitude. The house must be costing him a lot of money to maintain.

"Oh yeah," he confirmed. "You know when we moved in, the place didn't have central air? The wiring is all over the place too."

I perked up.

"Let me show you some properties in the area. With the profit you'll make off this place, you can get something bigger, brand-new. You could live in a beautiful home that no one has ever lived in before. How does that sound?" I said.

The man smiled a little sadly.

"I'm sorry, I can't sell this place," he said. "Sure, there's a lot of work involved, but the location? It's to die for."

I deflated, and thanked the man for his time.

"I'm afraid you won't have much luck around here," he called after me as I made my way back down the long drive. "Nobody sells. That's just the way we do things around here -- everything stays in the family."

"So I've heard," I muttered. I waved goodbye but he was still talking.

"The only place you might have some luck is at the old Madsen House," he said, with a laugh that seemed to come out a little too loud. The joke landed flat, and after an awkward silence, he waved me goodbye.

I walked toward the next house, shaking my head. He had suggested it as a kind of distasteful joke, but it was dawning on me that he was, without a doubt, absolutely right. Everyone did keep their properties in the family, and nobody was interested in selling, no matter how much money I told them they'd sell for. The houses in Saddlebrook were worth something more than money -- they contained centuries of history, family history, and that was impossible to put a price on. Not to mention the neighborhood's exclusivity and its prime location. The man was right, nobody was going to sell.

Except for maybe a house that's history was forever tarnished by a horrific tragedy. Would the family even want to keep the place that housed such a terrible memory, to pass down generations? Maybe.

But maybe not.

I kept moving, visiting one house after another, meeting scornful, suspicious faces and many, many slamming doors. Some people spoke with me, maybe some old-fashioned urge to be polite, but most wouldn't let me get a word in, shooed me off with quick "no thank you." It was like the man in the sweatpants had said: nobody wanted to sell.

My feet were killing me, and I was pretty certain blisters had already formed and broken in several places during this long, arduous walk. I decided to make my way home, feeling defeated. That old thought was coming back again, that voice: Nobody. You're nobody . . .

I had fully planned to ride this wave of self-pity all the way home, where I'd take off those evil, duplicitous heels and fall into an emotionally-exhausted sleep, but when I passed the sidestreet leading to the Madsen House, I paused. For the first time in weeks, the house wasn't covered in yellow tape. It wasn't dark and closed, sad and lifeless. It was still gloomy and dilapidated, that hadn't changed, but the windows were pulled wide open and there was light and movement inside.

Someone was home, and before I even knew what I was doing, I was heading straight toward the house.