Shirley Jefferson had never had so much trouble selling a house before. It was a beautiful brick colonial with undeniable curb appeal. It had four bedrooms and three-and-a-half bathrooms. It had new hardwood floors on the main level and fresh paint throughout. While the house was old (historic, great character!), the roof and windows had been replaced only two years ago. Most important, it was in a terrific location with good schools.
It had everything, and that, unfortunately, was the problem.
Because “everything” included a door that led directly to Hell.
Shirley tried every trick she could think of to get the prospective buyers not to open the door. She asked nicely. She put a polite sign on it. She put a passive-aggressive sign on it. She put an openly aggressive sign on it. She screwed a lock onto it. She moved the couch in front of it.
But somehow, the door was always opened. Prospective buyers ignored the signs. The lock vanished. The couch moved itself back across the room.
The owners, who had absconded to Florida, said they’d tried to have it walled over, but the door had simply reappeared the next day, reclaiming its prominent place in the living room.
She did have one interested buyer who hadn’t opened the door. He’d made an offer on the house, but then the home inspector just had to open the door, and all Hell had broken loose—metaphorically. Literally, all Hell had stayed firmly on the other side of the door. Nothing ever came out of the door. However, the inspector had run screaming from the property, and the sale fell through.
After that incident, Shirley decided to change her approach and go by the old truism: if you can’t fix it, feature it.
She updated the house listing:
Outstanding home priced to sell! 4 bedrooms 3.5 baths. DOOR THAT LEADS DIRECTLY TO HELL. Spacious living room with lots of natural light. Large kitchen…
This change did generate an increase in prospective buyers, or at least people posing as prospective buyers. They were all extremely interested in seeing the door that led directly to Hell. However, they were no more interested in purchasing the house.
All of them left the property screaming, crying, or both.
Soon all the other real estate agents in the area refused to show the house to their clients. The owners agreed to take $20,000 off the list price, but still no one came to see it. After a month passed in which not a single person looked at the house, Shirley began to fear that she’d never get rid of it. It started haunting her thoughts, haunting her dreams, haunting her otherwise perfect sales record.
But she refused to fail, spurred on by the memory of how her ex-husband—back before he’d received that prefix—had laughed when she’d said she wanted to quit her teaching job and go into real estate. Laughed and said she couldn’t handle a real job.
She was selling this house.
She decided to hold another open house—although she had no reason to believe it would be anymore successful than the prior ones.
On the day of the open house, she paced around the kitchen, waiting for someone, anyone, to show. An hour passed, but not a single soul had arrived. She sat on the living room couch and idly flipped through her flyers.
Every so often, she’d glance over at the door that led directly to Hell. It was carved from a single piece of dark wood, so dark it was hard to believe it hadn’t simply been painted black. It reminded Shirley of the door to an old church. Except more sinister.
Spurred by a strange impulse, she got to her feet, still carrying the flyers, and approached the door. She’d never opened the door. And she still didn’t. Instead, she bent down and slid one of the flyers under the door.
She straightened up and wandered back into the kitchen to peer out the window on the off chance someone was coming. No one was. The street was empty.
She was striding back to the living room, her sensible heels clicking on the hardwood, when there was a firm, confident knock. Plastering a smile on her face, she hurried to the front door and opened it, but no one was there. Frowning, she started to close the door when there was another knock.
From behind her.
She turned and stared into the living room. Her heart rate began to elevate. She approached the door that led directly to Hell as there came a third knock.
Part of her felt the urge to flee the house, but a bigger part of her—the seasoned real estate agent part of her—reapplied her fake smile and opened the door.
“Welcome,” she said. “Please come right in.”
A man stepped through the door and into the room clutching her flyer in one hand. She did her best not to look at anything else behind the door, but she felt a wave of heat, as if she had opened an oven.
The man looked surprisingly ordinary—if you ignored the horns, and she did, in fact, ignore the horns. Her brain did its best to disregard all his terrifying features and focus on how well fitted his suit was and how shiny his black loafers were. He smiled at her, and she ignored the length and sharpness of his teeth as she babbled about the house, telling him about the new hardwood floors, excellent location, and recently replaced roof. The words tumbled out of her mouth without her brain’s involvement.
“It sounds perfect,” he said. “In fact, I’d like to make an offer.”
“I can get the paperwork right now,” she said.
She couldn’t help but feel that she was doing a terrible thing for humanity, but she didn’t care. She was selling this damned house.
About the author:
Victoria Brun is a writer and project manager at a national laboratory. When not bugging hardworking scientists about budget reports and service agreements, she’s writing stories you can find at Nature Futures, Little Blue Marble, Factor Four Magazine, and beyond. She’s also the editor of the microfiction zine 100-Foot Crow. Find all her stories at victoriabrun.com.
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