Something in the House
It was my first client in my new house-organizing business. I thought I’d clean, declutter, and stage homes for sale. Easy enough. But I had no idea what I was getting myself into.
I stood outside at 8 a.m., buzzing with energy. Nina — my best friend’s brother’s wife — gave me the keys.
“Clean up, throw away what’s useless, bag the rest in the hallway,” she ordered.
Nothing strange in the orders. What was strange was that she and her husband had bought this house only two years before, renovated it, and moved in, ready to start a family. Now, one and a half years later, they were back at their parents’ tiny apartment again.
Why?
The moment I walked in, unease washed over me. The air was heavy, acidic, off. I told myself it was just the disarray. I flung open the windows. Summer breeze would fix it.
The house was beautiful beneath the mess. Two stories: kitchen, pantry, dining hall, living room, sitting room on the bottom; four bedrooms and two baths on top. Modern finishes, polished floors, gleaming bathrooms. And yet… it was cold.
In the master bedroom, the walk-in closet was exploding with clothing — baby clothing, for the most part. Folded, stacked, scattered around. I froze. Nina hadn’t appeared. She’d looked pale, sickly.
I shoved the thought away and worked. Bathroom, bedrooms, dust, mop, bag, haul. Hours passed.
In the closet, my mop knocked against the back wall. Hollow. Unusual for an exterior wall. I frowned, then shrugged it off.
Later, after I had come out of the closet, I shut the doors. While I was cleaning the hall, I noticed them open again. I stared at them, anxious. Had I imagined that I had closed them? The floors upstairs were wet; I did not return.
By lunch, I’d cleared most of the house. Had tuna sandwich at the dining table, then back to the kitchen. That’s where the smell got worse: rotting food, mildew, something fetid that clung to my hair and skin. I gagged as I shoveled it into trash bags. Two hours later, gleaming surfaces.
Then the pantry. Directly beneath the closet. While I was clearing shelves, I rapped against the wall with my mop handle. Hollow again. My scalp prickled. I forced myself to keep scrubbing.
At 5 p.m., exhausted but victorious, I closed the last window. Nine hours of work. Two hundred euros in my pocket. Done.
I was making for the front door when I heard it.
Footsteps. Upstairs.
I froze.
The house was empty. Had to be.
My stomach screamed. Get out.
I felt for the door, but contrary to all reason, I glanced upstairs. That was when the stench struck me — raw, decaying, like flesh exposed to the sun.
Something stood at the top of the stairs.
Tall. Human-like. Eyes burning orange in the dim light.
It moved.
I slammed the door, double-locked it, raced to my car. I don’t remember the drive, only the pounding of my heart and the fact that I’d been in there with it all day.
The closet doors. The breathing that wasn’t mine. The smell that didn’t go away.
I could have woken it up.
That night, when I returned the keys, Nina smiled, thrilled with the pictures I showed her. She paid me, even added a tip.
I inquired, delicately, “I noticed baby clothes. Are you pregnant?”
Her smile faltered. “We tried. For so long. Nothing worked. That’s why we’re selling. We don’t need such a big house.”
Later, at Sam’s, I told him all of this. He looked at the photos, frowning. In one, the closet doors were open. Between them, faint and all but hidden, something glowed. Orange.
“She miscarried four times in that house,” he said quietly.
I grasped my pendant. My skin went cold.
“When I was leaving,” I whispered, “it was standing on the stairs, watching me. That smell. I’ve never moved so fast in my life.”
Sam’s jaw set. “She should’ve told you. Somebody should’ve. They just want to sell. Recover their money.”
“What happens when a young family moves in?” My voice cracked.
Silence.
That night, I prayed for dreamless sleep.
Because I’m a professional organizer. Not an exorcist.