Every time around this time of year, I find myself reminiscing about that time 7 years ago where I drove 9 hours to a house that needed $100k of work done, in a city that I had never been to.
In hindsight, I realize how obsessed I was. Unhealthily obsessed to be honest. It had such a strong hold on me though. A firm grip. It’s all I thought about when I was awake, and all I dreamt about when I slept - for weeks on end.
I remember how much it creeped out my son and husband and to be completely honest, I couldn’t care less. It chilled them to some degree to imagine living there and yet I couldn’t see myself anywhere else.
I was ready.
Ready to pack up my family and all of my things, completely ok with moving my entire life to a city, away from my friends, where I knew literally no one. This half blue and half pink 100 year old Victorian on N. Emily Street was the place of my dreams. Even with all the disrepair and neglect, it felt like home. It truly had my heart.
I remember how the realtor wouldn’t go beyond the porch - which was shocking to me because all I could see was what it could be, or maybe even what once was. I remember not liking her because of it. Like my home wasn’t good enough for her. “My home”. I already had a weird protectiveness about it.
The main floor had been sealed off from the other 2 floors above. You had to use an entirely different entrance to get to the other levels. It was filled with antiques, religious statues, and old family photos that were to come with the sale of the house.
It had 2 full suites upstairs. Each had their own full bathrooms, kitchens, living rooms, and fireplaces. A total of 2 original claw foot tubs, 5 fireplaces, one grand oak staircase, and without counting the walk up attic - 5 huge bedrooms. The solid wood kitchen door to the outside was literally nailed shut despite there already being 3 locks on it.
I found a way to finance the house and then couldn’t get a single contractor to take on the job.
Shortly after leaving Pennsylvania and being wildly unsuccessful with retaining anyone to work on it, it was taken off the market. Eventually I forced myself to quit looking at the pictures everyday.
I realized months later what a powerful grasp this house somehow had on me. It’s creepy how you think and convince yourself that you’re completely unaffected by something - especially when it’s a force you can’t see thats pulling at you. The mind is a tricky thing I guess.
This place was nothing short of enchanting. Literally. It captured me completely and romanticized even the most unattractive of its aspects - which, as you all reading this can imagine, there was a lot.
Yet even still, it still has a part of me. It still shows up in my dreams, just less often now. I still check on it from time to time on Zillow. And much like right now, I find myself wishing I could go back to her.
Affectionately hers,
Heather
Have you had any experiences like this? I'd love to hear about them!
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