Do you have an attic? Do you know what's in there?

I’d been driving around for weeks looking for just the right one. Taking a turn I chanced upon a street I hadn’t driven before. Driving slowly I spotted a For Sale sign in the window of a house set back nestled amongst several old oak trees. With one glance I knew it was the one for me. I thought about parking in the driveway but felt it might be considered to be intrusive to any occupants. I wanted to get a good feel of the place and parked at the curb then walked towards the house.

The neighborhood was quiet and peaceful. The broad street was lined with old elm trees and on large lots were beautiful older homes. It looked almost as though it were from a different time. A sense of excitement and déjà vu swept over me.

Walking up the long expanse of front lawn I spotted what must be an old coach house in the back. Like the rest of the neighborhood the main house was old, but well kept, and built in the Victorian style. I smiled when I saw the large wrap around porch complete with spindled railings. The house was a very pale yellow with green shutters and there was a steeply pitched roof over dormer windows. Different colored gingerbread trim in the traditional style was predominant. Just the right amount. Not too much so as to make it appear gaudy. The double-entry door was offset to the side of the porch. Upon a closer look the house appeared to be vacant and I peeked into one of the windows to see built-in cabinets of fine polished wood. The floors were long planked hardwood with beautiful rugs here and there. I was in love and knew I had to have it.

I grabbed my cell phone out of my bag and called the realtor. Mr. Robison was there in less than fifteen minutes. Before we entered he turned to me and said, "I need to disclose to you that the original owner died in this house. It was a long, long time ago, but even though the laws have changed, and we no longer have to reveal anything that happened more than fifty years ago, I feel morally obligated to tell you. Some people are squeamish about such things."

"Well I'm not. Not in the least. The house is obviously very old and people generally died at home in those days."

“This particular situation is a little different. In this case the man committed suicide. Some think when someone commits suicide their spirit remains. That thought tends to drive potential buyers away. It’s a shame because this house is one in a million. There aren’t many left that have been kept in their original state. Actually, I can’t think of another that’s on the market at this time. Most people nowadays want houses that have been upgraded. When that happens the house loses its charm. I’ve seen it happen over and over during my thirty years in this business,” Mr. Robison replied.

“Then it’s their loss. They'd be better off buying a track home. And, back to the original subject, those who are nervous about the possibility of a spirit dwelling within are uneducated and foolish. If his spirit is living in the house, and it might well be, it’s nothing that would frighten me. He must be a tortured soul to commit such an act. But, from what I’ve learned from diligent study, sometimes they want to remain in the same surroundings, attempting to live the life they wanted again. Perhaps to have it end differently. I wouldn’t be alarmed should I encounter him. I’d welcome and befriend him. Do you know how old he was?”

"He was a young man, thirty or so they say, I’ve shown this house to several prospects who refused to even enter when I told them how the original owner died. I was losing business and my own curiosity of the subject prompted me to study it also. I learned pretty much the same as you did.  In the late 1800s, many people felt they had the answer to this question, and that they had experienced proof of the existence of the personality after death. Spiritualism was at its peak of popularity at that time and it was believed that sometimes a spirit will not go on for reasons such as the fear that their existence will end, fear of the unknown, fear of going to hell or being judged for their suicide. These spirits are bound here because of their own fears. They remain at or near the site of their death. Some remain confused and don't know or accept that they have died. They remain in the time frame they knew, and wait to make contact with someone who will be responsive to them.”

“Are there any conditions that would prevent me from gaining a clear title if I decide to buy the house?” I felt an excitement coming over me. I didn’t believe in the mythical ghost but a spirit world I could believe in. Several years ago my elder sister’s husband hung himself in their garage when he found out he had incurable cancer. She told me many times that she’d feel or hear him, and I believed her. That was when I started reading all the material I could find on the subject. “Any covenants or restrictions?” I asked.

“He, his name was Maxwell Covington, left an ironclad will. Actually, in today's time it would be called a trust. It stated that his family and their descendants could occupy the house for as long as they wanted, providing it was kept well maintained and the furnishings intact. In the event that there were no family left, the sale of the house including its contents was left in trust to a law firm to dispose of. The last occupants were his great grandnephew and his wife but they had no children. When he died she stayed on but passed away earlier this year. So, to answer your question, there are no present covenants, restrictions or anything else preventing you from gaining a clear title and doing as you wish with property and its contents."

I stood there for a minute feeling emotions unfelt before. "The house is furnished?"

"Yes," Mr. Robison replied. "Everything has been kept in accordance to his stipulations. It’s just as it was when he died. The only things removed were her clothing, toiletries, food, etc,.

"May I see inside?"

“Follow me,” he said. “This is an expensive piece of property. I hope you’re aware of that.” he said after another quick glance at my 10-year old car parked at the curb. Then he inserted the key into the door.

I didn’t bother to reply. I wasn’t concerned with the price. I had inherited a great deal of money when my father passed away a few years back and I’d invested it wisely. Plus my interior design business was very successful and becoming more so as time went on. Whatever the price, I could afford it. I didn’t flaunt my wealth and lived a simple and frugal life. I’d learned the hard way by marrying a man who was more interested in my portfolio than he was in me. Hopefully, with the purchase of this house, my life and my lifestyle would change. Being the owner of such a house would require it.

We entered into a large foyer furnished with a few paintings of excellent quality depicting the English countryside, a Victorian style sofa, and an end table with a lovely Tiffany lamp that I knew was the real thing. There were also three large plants in what were obviously antique planters. I noticed the plants needed watering.
As we ventured further into the house I was surprised at how clean it was. There wasn’t a speck of dust anywhere. Even the windows glistened, and it smelled fresh. I mentioned this to Jim.

“Caretakers come by once a week and air the house out as they're cleaning," he explained.

"Someone needs to tell them to water the plants once in awhile," I replied." Where's the kitchen?" He led me to it and after gasping at the perfection of the spacious and well appointed room,  I found a pitcher, filled it with tap water, went back to the foyer, and watered the thirsty plants.

"That was a nice thing for you to do Suzanne. I've been meaning to water them every time I come here but somehow always forget."

"Sue. Please, call me Sue."

"Sue it is then. And I’m Jim.  It really is a lovely place, isn't it?. I'm glad my wife didn't know about it or I'm afraid we'd be moving right about now." He smiled.

He didn't have to sell me. I was hooked in the foyer but walked along with him as he pointed out the highlights such as the butler's pantry, stained glass windows over window seats, beautiful ornate mirrors and furniture an antique dealer would sell his soul for. "Go ahead, make my dreams come true ," I thought to myself.

Upstairs there was a large master bedroom suite complete with its own bath, and two large walk-in closets one of which had a mirrored dressing area and was obviously intended for the mistress of the house. Across from the master bedroom was another bedroom that was sparsely furnished. "How odd," I thought. The room had a desolate look about it. Off in a wing of their own were three smaller bedrooms and two full baths perfect for guests and above it all an attic. I passed on seeing the attic and told him I'd like to make an offer to buy.

"But you haven't seen the grounds yet, only the front. They really are something you should see."

"All right. I guess I should," and I was glad I had. Everything was beautiful. There was another covered porch in the same design as the front and it was beautifully outfitted with wicker furniture. In the yard was a gazebo with what looked like morning glories covering the top and dripping down the sides, many trees some of which were fruit bearing, a rose garden in dire need of pruning, a vegetable garden also in need of some major care, and even a hot house. I could picture my family and friends in groups around the yard. "I'll have a play center put in for my nieces and nephews, a couple of swings for them hung from the trees, and a cooking center make out of old brick," I thought to myself. My mind was quickly filling with plans. Not plans to change anything, just to bring it up to its deserved standard and a few additions for my own anticipated needs.

"Ready to go to my office?" Jim asked. "The price is firm. It was set by the court so no bargaining for this one."

I didn't even ask how much. I had to have the house. Something told me it's where I belonged. All of my life, including through the one marriage, I had looked for where I belonged and now I'd found it. Who knows, I was still young, and I might marry again and have children. This would make a wonderful family home. I felt there was something about it that would make happiness contagious.

I moved in two weeks later. It was an easy move. I gave all the furniture from my previous home to my family and friends. All I took were some household items I felt I couldn't do without, family pictures and momentous, and my clothes and other personal items.

The next day I went shopping for groceries and odds and ends, and then spent the rest of the day getting settled. About six o'clock I made myself a light supper of an omelet, sliced tomatoes, a glass of a very good wine and ate at the large old wood table in the center of the kitchen. Finished, I washed and put away the few dishes and utensils I’d used, and then took my glass and the rest of the bottle of wine and went upstairs to explore the heretofore unseen attic. It was neat but packed to the rafters with boxes and odds and ends of furniture. Where to begin?

Removing the dust cover from a chair I took one box down, opened it and began to explore the contents. It was full of very old records in their original covers. "Worth a fortune in today's collector's market," I thought. But I had no intention of selling them. I then spotted an old Victrola record player, wound it up, and the strains of Beethoven's Piano Sonata No.14, commonly referred to as Moonlight Sonata, filled the room. I sat in the chair, sipping my wine and let the music float over me. Then I played The Blue Danube and couldn't resist waltzing around the room.

One particular box seemed to be calling to me. A long rectangular shaped box that was well sealed from dust or mice. I opened it to find it full of beautiful clothes. Clothes a sophisticated lady would wear to go dancing many, many years ago. Each one was in a dress bag for added protection. I took out and undid the fasteners on the first one. It was a beautiful long dress of flowing blue. "How appropriate," I thought with a smile.