It was the worst house I had ever seen. From the street, I felt nauseous just observing it. Later, when my real estate agent wanted to show it to us, I did not realize which house he was taking us to. He thought it was a great deal–south of Ventura Boulevard in Woodland Hills, under 600K–an impossible price for the area, considering it spanned well over 2,000 square feet and sat on a huge lot. There is always a reason for such bargains. I don’t know how long this house has remained vacant, alone, completely unwanted even in this rabid sellers’ market.
We drove down the cracked, asphalt driveway and parked. The house stared at us through its 1970s windows, blank, unresponsive. The patio in the front was littered with the occasional concrete bricks and pieces of something that might have been rain gutters. I opened the door and did not want to go in. A wave of dizziness and distress hit me as I forced myself to walk down the white, institutional hallway. I tried, as usual, to downplay my feelings. I attributed them to the utter lack of charm and the terrible remodel, which had stripped away any semblance of charm or coziness. The laminate floors, the white walls, the cheap office windows, the dingy 70s era yellow lights, the faux wood cabinets in the kitchen painted white, the rooms like boxes, the utter lack of decor, not even a hint of woodwork, all combined to produce the impression of a group home for criminals or an office performing illegal activities for desperate people.
I set up the ghost radar in the kitchen, and my agent saw the expression of disgust and dismay play across my face in a continuous loop. “so,” he laughed, “wanna make an offer?” I didn’t respond. I walked upstairs and faced another array of box rooms, white, cheap office windows, laminate floors or dirty, white carpet. My husband, who claims to not be sensitive to such things, was unable to muster even the slightest spark of enthusiasm. I walked in with him to the master bathroom and was blinded by white tiles, white walls, white cabinets, white sink and white counters.
“This,” said Ty with a note of depression, “looks like a kill room.”
Then I knew: this house was seriously sick. It needed an entire spiritual overhaul, not just a good decorator’s touch. I gave up attempting to control my impressions. I sensed that there was one man who lived here, in spite of the enormous number of rooms. He was secretive, engaged in activities either on the margins of the law or engaged in completely illegal activities. The Ghost Radar had spit out “Account, Stuck, Bound, After.” I wondered if people were kept here against their will. I knew that under all that white paint and laminate floor there was blood. The house could not disguise its history of violence.
A week later, I asked Jennifer and Erin of the Paranormal Housewives to take a look at the photos of the house and give me their impressions. Jennifer said that a single man had lived there, foreign, and that kidnapping was involved or at the least, people were held their against their will, almost like indentured servants. They were ‘bound’ there for a reason, either financial, for issues regarding legal status, or for something darker. They both saw this single man as someone without a defined personality, as if driven by a job or an obsession that he felt compelled to carry out. He was quiet, disturbed, secretive and utterly alone.
After I finish this, I’m going to start searching for information on the property and the owner. I don’t know how much I’ll be able to find online. However, there is one thing I have learned in the process of tuning in to alternative ways of knowing: I trust my instincts and my impressions. More often than not, they are correct. Another important point I want to make to my readers: EVERYONE, TO A DEGREE, IS SENSITIVE. Even those people who deny that they can pick up on such things are simply ignoring their reactions or choosing not to interpret them. My real estate agent, whose sole job it is to sell us a house (poor, poor man), left that house with “clammy hands” and an uneasy feeling. He told me this, and then immediately denied that what he was feeling had any significance whatsoever. But he knew, my husband knew, and anyone who has even walked into that house knew: something terrible happened here.
When a big house in a desirable neighborhood at the top of a sellers’ market languishes for months, there is a reason. We are spiritual beings designed to pick up on spiritual distress signals. We ignore those signals at our own peril.
–Kirsten A. Thorne, PhD/PHW