Isabelle’s house

Last night I was watching the Travel Channel, hoping to catch a glimpse of the newest tropical hot spots. The feature was on haunting and supernatural occurrences. Paranormal scientists went from location to location with their gadgets and gizmos to measure electromagnetic deviations. Although inconclusive at best, I knew of a home that would make their little meters scream.

I was a relatively new agent at the time when I got the listing for a fabulous Queen Anne Victorian. It was a stunning fall day when I drove up the winding driveway through an old orchard to this amazing home. The owners welcomed me through the double oak doors. I stood in amazement, transformed in time, viewing the mahogany staircase bathed in light from a stained glass window from the second floor landing. Our tour went past sandstone fireplaces and 10-foot ceilings and led to a back kitchen. There I noticed the air became noticeably colder. We sat down at the table to sign the papers for the listing. I don’t know why, but I turned to the present mistress and asked who the ghost was. To my surprise she answered, “Her name is Isabelle. Do you want to see her picture?

“We weren’t sure that we should tell you,” the owner said with a half smile. “We have been here for the past 10 years and learned to adjust to her but recently we decided to do some renovations and well Isabelle just doesn’t want her home changed. She wins and we are moving. One other thing, she doesn’t really care for men.”

I rubbed my brow and thought back to real estate school. I don’t remember any chapter on temperamental spirits.

The following day I came back with a group of agents to preview the house before the weekend. I mentioned the owner’s comments about the spunky little spirit named Isabelle. One of the guys in the group laughed and said outloud “there is no such thing as spooks.”

With that comment an apple flew off the tree above him and nailed him in the back of the head.

The following day, I had two appointments. The first couple went through the house without a hitch, until their daughter asked me who the beautiful lady by the bottom of the stairs was. I pretended that I didn’t hear her.

The second appointment was late in the evening. I have to admit that I did not want to show that house at dusk. I met the guy in my office and immediately didn’t like him; he was arrogant, cocky with a really nasty hairpiece. I knew that if anything was going to happen this guy was going to be the one to stir Isabelle up.

We got to the house just about 4:00 p.m. with only an hour of daylight left. On edge I repeated to myself, “I do believe in spooks and please Isabelle, I know he’s a jerk but don’t take it out on me!”

As soon as the guy walked into the house he started to complain about the shabby construction . With that I heard a door slam upstairs. His reaction was to confirm the inferior construction and shifting of the floors. Onward we went through the upstairs. With each step I took, I knew that the light outside was fading. We came to the kitchen. I hit the light switch and nothing happened. He mumbled something and I suggested that he check out the grounds while I lock up the house…one more great bang came from upstairs.

I hurried to the light switch and clicked it again. The kitchen light turned on and so did the hall light leading to the second floor. I hit it again and the upstairs light went out. I stepped up the speed and made it outside. Realtor’s habits are to glance around and make sure that no lights are left on. Looking in the upstairs window I saw that the hall light was back on again. Back inside I hit that switch again and the light turned off. I stepped back out of the door and watched as the hall light clicked on one more time.

I really didn’t know what to do and I sure wasn’t going back in that house, especially since it was now dark. I just stood there staring at that window waiting to see a ghostly apparition of Isabelle when the buyer walked up behind me. I let out a little scream until I noticed that he was rubbing the back of his head.

His bad hairpiece was shifted just slightly. I didn’t want to bring attention to his hair so I just calmly stood there until he blasted out how an apple hit him from that stinking orchard. That was it for me. I got back in the car leaving the keys right in the door and the lights on. Back at the office, I called the owners and filled them in. I told them that I left the keys in the door and the hall light on and that I was not going back. They said that they would go back and get my keys and shut off the light. I didn’t speak a word about the experience again. The next morning the owners called me they had arrived at the house an hour or so after I left. The house was dark, the door was locked and the keys that I left in the lock were found on the kitchen table. I never showed the house again. It could belong only to Isabelle.