Still Here

The house came up third.

I decided that I wasn't going to buy anything that day, I sat in the second row brochure in hand folded over my knee. Holding a pen that had almost ran out of ink. The first two properties were out of habit, no interest - water damage, structural issues, an asking price that just assumed optimism but wasn't warranted. I wasn't fond of optimism in houses it just hides things.

The auctioneer cleared his throat, disinterested his voice as neutral as I felt. He spoke with a cadence that never changed, no matter the history attached to the house, location, square footage, plot size. Then almost like an afterthought the disclosure.

Previously occupied, sold as-is.

The words lightly landed in the room, absorbed by worn carpet and polite indifference.

A man near the back of the room shifted in his seat. Someone else flipped a page too quickly to be casual. I didn't look up right away, I just traced the crease in the brochure with my thumb, following the outline of a floorplan that had been reduced to lines and measurements, its rooms stripped of any indication that people had once lived there. Of course I knew the address.

I had passed by it a few months prior, I had only noticed it because the lawn hadn't been mowed and the curtains in the windows still had been hung. Most abandoned houses stripped themselves bare eventually - windows open, doors kicked in. This one hadn't it had simply stopped participating.

Then the opening bid had stated, low. Too low. Lower than it should've been. No one spoke.

I lifted my head scanning the room. I noticed a few familiar faces, an older man who liked to buy cheap rentals, a younger lady who liked to resell new builds with little to no effort. But neither one of them moved, no one moved. The silence along the room lasted long enough to become noticeable and awkward.

I wonder if they know something I don't.

Sitting up in his chair the auctioneer tried again, even lowering the price a fraction, it felt way more symbolic than practical. But still...nothing.

I thought about the disclosure again. Previously occupied. It was a strange phrasing. As if all houses were not previously occupied, as if the emptiness were not the inevitable state they moved toward once people left them alone for long enough.

I raised my hand.

The auctioneer looked at me with little surprise, "I have one."

The entire room seemed to exhale in relief, someone a few chairs down from me seemed to be inclined to also raise their hand. I could feel it, the subtle shift of attention, their recalculation. But no one followed me. The gavel came down, it was done.

I waited until the paperwork was finalised to let myself breathe again. I felt relief yes, but mostly annoyed about how easy it had been. Houses like this are never easy. The difficulty surely must've arrived later, faulty electrical systems, maybe a leak somewhere.

Outside the sky was a uniform grey that looked like it was about to snow but without the commitment. I folded the brochure and stuffed it into my pocket, I no longer need to be reminded why I bothered coming today.

The woman who was filing my paperwork handed me a small envelope with a pair of keys in, their weight unremarkable. "All the reports are included," she said "you will find them...thorough." I nodded, thorough meant things she doesn't want to explain to me out loud.

I never asked about the previous owners or their son.

That information existed, technically. It had been available in the packet, summarised in neutral language that reduced death to a factor in pricing. I had read it once, quickly, then not again. People didn't abandon houses for no reason, but the reasons were rarely useful. What mattered was the structure, the bones, the work.

I decided to drive down to the house directly from the auction house, a habit I formed for leaving it too long then allowing myself to have doubts. The street was quieter than I remembered, the house sitting far back from the road lined with trees that had grown too close. The house sagged enough to suggest neglect without collapse. It looked a lot smaller up close, that was usually a good sign.

I unlocked the door and took a step inside without ceremony and paused in the threshold. The air was a lot colder than the weather suggested. I stood there for a moment allowing my eyes to adjust to the dark space, listening. Nothing.

The house luckily didn't smell of mould or rot, which was also a good sign. All I could smell was old wood and dust. I moved through rooms mentally cataloguing issues, what could be salvaged, what needed to be discarded and replacing. The flooring creaked under my steps evenly no sudden dips no protestations. I stopped in the living room the curtains still drawn.

Frowning I crossed the living room to the windows and yanked the curtains aside allowing the light to pour into the room, illuminating the dust particles floating in the air. The furniture had been removed but you could still tell it had been there. Faint shapes on the floor, a place patch on the wall where a picture had once been hung. Evidence of absence was still evidence.

I continued on, checking the kitchen, the stairs. Half way up I noticed a door that resisted when I tried the handle. Locked. Not unusual, but I made note of it anyway. At the top of the stairs I turned back once observing the space that I would soon replace and repair. Houses always felt like themselves in moments like these before the work began, before they were restored, improved. I've learnt over the years not to trust that feeling.

I set my bag down in what would be the bedroom and returned to the front hall. I slipped my keys out my pocket listening as the keys clinked softly against each other. I told myself, as I always did, that his was temporary.

The house did not respond.

But as I turned off the light and closed the door behind me, the air inside the house seemed to settle- not emptying, exactly, but adjusting, as if accommodating a new weight.

I did not notice.

Not yet.