Featuring America's Home Inspector: Nationally Syndicated Columnist, Barry Stone

The House Detective:  by Barry Stone, Certified Home Inspector

Dear Barry: You never do columns that recognize holidays. Even at Christmas time and the 4th of July, your articles are always about property defects, real estate disclosure, and home inspections. Now that Halloween is here, how about a spooky house story; something in keeping with the season. Surely you’ve inspected a few creaky old houses. How about it?  Bram

Dear Bram: Home inspections tend to be business-as-usual events: checking the foundations, roofing, plumbing, electrical wiring, etc. But there was one inspection that I recall with dread and discomfort; an inspection where property defects ceased to be of concern, where routine was over-shadowed by fear, where disclosures were eclipsed by a frenzied struggle to flee the premises. And it just so happened that this inspection occurred on the eve of Halloween.

The house was an old, neglected, two-story Victorian, with leaning fences, tangled vegetation, and dense vines engulfing the walls, windows, and roof. The property, in escrow as a probate sale, had been the subject of headlines when the owner had been found hanging from the rafters of the foyer. The police investigation had not determined whether death was from suicide or foul play, and the body’s subsequent disappearance from the local mortuary had unsettled the community.

The buyers and agent were unable to attend the inspection, but the agent had left a key under the mat. Pressing open the massive door, I entered slowly and commenced what I had hoped would be a routine inspection. But then, beneath the lofty ceiling of the darkened interior, I beheld the noosed rope, still attached to a high, dusty beam. A foul odor of decay permeated the stagnant air, and I recalled reading that the man had spent many days at the end of that rope before the neighbors had found him. The prospect of working alone in those dim, silent rooms unsettled me, and my foremost thought was to complete the job and get out of that ominous place.

A steep stairway descended to the basement, where I proceeded to inspect the old stone foundations, but the sounds of creaking timbers echoed throughout the building, disrupting my attention. And then there seemed to be a different sound, somewhere upstairs. At first, it blended with the incessant creaking of the structure, but the difference soon became apparent. This was not the sound of timbers. It was the slow but steady motion of footsteps. Someone was in the house. Hoping that it was the real estate agent, I called out, “Hello, is someone upstairs?” No one answered, but the footsteps continued down the hallway and stopped at the dark entrance to the basement staircase. I called again, “Hello, who’s there?” Again, no answer. Then, a shadow appeared on the stairs and moved slowly, silently downward.

The dark, disfigured form gradually took shape, his head laid awkwardly against his left shoulder. Yet my attention was drawn from this to some shadowy, indistinct object that dangled from his left hand. As he reached the basement floor, a putrid foulness filled the room, so that breathing became difficult and repugnant. Gripped with horror and disbelief, I was unable to move. But then, the eyes of that disjointed head found me, the lips formed a sardonic grin, dripping with thick gray saliva, and my mobility was wakened by a wave of terror. Clawing my way up the basement wall, I squeezed into the narrow space between the ground and the floor framing, seeking desperately for any way of escape. But the advancing form appeared atop the foundation wall and steadily pursued me into that dark crawlspace.

Trapped in a corner where the foundation walls joined, I realized with desperate finality that I could flee no further. Somewhere is the nearby darkness, I could hear that half dead form crawling toward me. Clutching at my flashlight, I was startled at the impending nearness of his face: the glare of cold eyes, the glint of gray teeth, the viscous fluid that dripped from grimacing lips — and that mysterious object gripped in his left hand.

Terror pounded in my chest as I faced those final, hopeless, remaining seconds. The feet between us became inches. His right hand gripped my ankle as he drew forward. Then his left hand extended the old gunny sack that he held, and the acrid smell of cold breath filled my face, as he cried, “Trick or treat!!”