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The Sweet Blue House
I unapologetically write fiction and tell lies, but this is a true story. It happened in January 2022.
I moved to Philadelphia in early April 2020, right at the beginning of the pandemic. I was lucky to secure an apartment in a newly renovated building on Baltimore Avenue that had just started accepting tenant applications, but this place had problems. It wasn’t complete before they allowed people to start moving in, and social distancing measures put a halt to the construction. The roof leaked, the floorboards were dangerously uneven, and the basement flooded every time it rained. To make matters worse, the landlords decided to raise the rent by $700 when it came time for me to renew my lease.
The building was falling apart, and I couldn’t afford to stay there. It’s relatively inexpensive to buy a house in Philadelphia, so I applied for a home loan and signed up for Redfin. In the end, I found a small townhouse in the beautiful South Philadelphia neighborhood of Point Breeze. Everything worked out okay, but house hunting was a journey.
The area of West Philadelphia around Baltimore Avenue is gentrifying quickly. The entire neighborhood was out of my price range, so I started looking at the western suburbs along Route One. This brought me to Drexel Hill, a residential neighborhood in a section of West Philadelphia called Upper Darby. I was especially intrigued by a listing on Redfin for a three-story townhouse that was painted an eye-catching shade of navy blue. The listing was titled “Sweet Blue House in Drexel Hill.”
The house was described as being completely refurbished and having a small backyard. It was also surprisingly inexpensive for its size and location. This was exactly what I was looking for, so I made an appointment to view the property.
The Redfin agent met me at the front door and walked me through the ground floor of the townhouse, a typical open-plan rectangle with the kitchen awkwardly arranged at the far end. So far, so good. We then proceeded to the second floor, which also had a standard three-bedroom, one-bathroom layout. There was a smaller door next to the bathroom, so I opened it, thinking it might be a linen closet. It was a staircase.
Out of curiosity, I asked if I could climb up to see what was there. The agent frowned but said it was fine.
The staircase opened onto a windowless corridor, and the side connected to the adjoining townhouse was divided into seven windowless rooms. I didn’t think this was too strange, as I assumed the row of closets was a clever way to arrange storage space in what was essentially a refurbished attic.
I said as much to the agent, but his frown only deepened. This wasn’t in the floorplans included with the listing, he said. The third floor was supposed to be the basement.
I tried to make conversation as we went down to see the basement, but the agent wasn’t having it. His silence was starting to creep me out, but it felt impolite not to look at the rest of the house before leaving.
Like the first floor, the basement was an open rectangle with a clean tile floor and freshly installed track lighting. Next to the hot water heater in the far corner was a clear glass shower cubicle. There was no toilet, and no sink, and no walls or doors for privacy, just a shower next to the hot water heater – and a door on the opposite wall.
I made the long walk across the basement and forced myself to open the door, thinking that perhaps this would be a utility closet.
Once again, I was wrong. It was another set of stairs.
The stairs were completely clean and refinished, just like everything else in the house, and there was a brand-new plastic light switch on the wall of the stairwell. I flicked it on to find a subbasement not in alignment with the rest of the house. The concrete floor was smooth and polished, and in the middle of the room was an open stone well like something out of a Japanese horror movie.
I turned around and walked right past the agent without saying anything. He took one look at the well in the subbasement and followed me without bothering to close the door or turn off the light.
Back on the ground floor, the agent asked me to wait while he put his briefcase on the kitchen counter and rifled through a stack of papers. When I asked if his documents said anything about the well in the subbasement, he said there wasn’t supposed to be a subbasement. “And actually,” he continued, “this house…”
He stopped talking as he read one of the sheets of paper, and we stood in silence for a full minute.
Right as I was about to make an excuse to go, he said, in a voice that sounded like he was choking, “I think we should leave.”
Back outside, I tried to laugh off the strangeness by saying that I’m probably not a good fit for this particular house, seeing as how I’m not a serial killer, but that I would be in touch to schedule other viewings. The agent returned my smile as he gave me his business card, but he practically ran down the block to get to his car.
When I got home half an hour later, I immediately sat down with my laptop. I was going to screencap the listing and then google the address, but the house’s page had already been deleted. I was tired and didn’t think too much about it, but the email I sent to the agent the next morning bounced back with an error message. I contacted Redfin’s local Philadelphia customer support, and the woman I spoke with told me that the agent had delisted himself. She apologized and explained that this sort of thing sometimes happens with freelancers. I hope that guy is doing okay.
The next agent I worked with encouraged me to start looking at refurbished houses in South Philadelphia instead of the suburbs. After what I’d seen, I was more than willing to allow myself to be convinced.
I was never able to figure out what was going on with the “Sweet Blue House,” but it haunted me for months. I used to have nightmares that I somehow bought the house by accident, and I would wake up early in the morning bathed in sweat.
The housing market in the Philadelphia suburbs is extremely competitive, and I can’t imagine that a property in that particular school district would remain unsold for long. I hope whoever lives in that place now is making full use of their creepy basement shower and enjoying their horrible murder well.
.
This is somewhat unrelated, but I want to end the story on a softer note.
Remember when I said that West Philadelphia is gentrifying? The only listing in my old neighborhood that I could find on Redfin in my price range was a literal shack slumped beside an unpaved mudpit by the train tracks. When I went out to see the property, the Redfin agent and I were greeted by a family of foxes living in the house, three adults and six babies who were presumably taking advantage a rodent infestation. The agent and I took one look at the lot and agreed that there was no need for us to inspect the inside of the building, as the foxes clearly had a prior claim.
Out of curiosity, I just checked that listing on Redfin. The asking price has gone up by more than $50k in the past two years, but it hasn’t sold. I can only imagine that the fox family is still there, happy and healthy and living their best lives.
I moved to Philadelphia in early April 2020, right at the beginning of the pandemic. I was lucky to secure an apartment in a newly renovated building on Baltimore Avenue that had just started accepting tenant applications, but this place had problems. It wasn’t complete before they allowed people to start moving in, and social distancing measures put a halt to the construction. The roof leaked, the floorboards were dangerously uneven, and the basement flooded every time it rained. To make matters worse, the landlords decided to raise the rent by $700 when it came time for me to renew my lease.
The building was falling apart, and I couldn’t afford to stay there. It’s relatively inexpensive to buy a house in Philadelphia, so I applied for a home loan and signed up for Redfin. In the end, I found a small townhouse in the beautiful South Philadelphia neighborhood of Point Breeze. Everything worked out okay, but house hunting was a journey.
The area of West Philadelphia around Baltimore Avenue is gentrifying quickly. The entire neighborhood was out of my price range, so I started looking at the western suburbs along Route One. This brought me to Drexel Hill, a residential neighborhood in a section of West Philadelphia called Upper Darby. I was especially intrigued by a listing on Redfin for a three-story townhouse that was painted an eye-catching shade of navy blue. The listing was titled “Sweet Blue House in Drexel Hill.”
The house was described as being completely refurbished and having a small backyard. It was also surprisingly inexpensive for its size and location. This was exactly what I was looking for, so I made an appointment to view the property.
The Redfin agent met me at the front door and walked me through the ground floor of the townhouse, a typical open-plan rectangle with the kitchen awkwardly arranged at the far end. So far, so good. We then proceeded to the second floor, which also had a standard three-bedroom, one-bathroom layout. There was a smaller door next to the bathroom, so I opened it, thinking it might be a linen closet. It was a staircase.
Out of curiosity, I asked if I could climb up to see what was there. The agent frowned but said it was fine.
The staircase opened onto a windowless corridor, and the side connected to the adjoining townhouse was divided into seven windowless rooms. I didn’t think this was too strange, as I assumed the row of closets was a clever way to arrange storage space in what was essentially a refurbished attic.
I said as much to the agent, but his frown only deepened. This wasn’t in the floorplans included with the listing, he said. The third floor was supposed to be the basement.
I tried to make conversation as we went down to see the basement, but the agent wasn’t having it. His silence was starting to creep me out, but it felt impolite not to look at the rest of the house before leaving.
Like the first floor, the basement was an open rectangle with a clean tile floor and freshly installed track lighting. Next to the hot water heater in the far corner was a clear glass shower cubicle. There was no toilet, and no sink, and no walls or doors for privacy, just a shower next to the hot water heater – and a door on the opposite wall.
I made the long walk across the basement and forced myself to open the door, thinking that perhaps this would be a utility closet.
Once again, I was wrong. It was another set of stairs.
The stairs were completely clean and refinished, just like everything else in the house, and there was a brand-new plastic light switch on the wall of the stairwell. I flicked it on to find a subbasement not in alignment with the rest of the house. The concrete floor was smooth and polished, and in the middle of the room was an open stone well like something out of a Japanese horror movie.
I turned around and walked right past the agent without saying anything. He took one look at the well in the subbasement and followed me without bothering to close the door or turn off the light.
Back on the ground floor, the agent asked me to wait while he put his briefcase on the kitchen counter and rifled through a stack of papers. When I asked if his documents said anything about the well in the subbasement, he said there wasn’t supposed to be a subbasement. “And actually,” he continued, “this house…”
He stopped talking as he read one of the sheets of paper, and we stood in silence for a full minute.
Right as I was about to make an excuse to go, he said, in a voice that sounded like he was choking, “I think we should leave.”
Back outside, I tried to laugh off the strangeness by saying that I’m probably not a good fit for this particular house, seeing as how I’m not a serial killer, but that I would be in touch to schedule other viewings. The agent returned my smile as he gave me his business card, but he practically ran down the block to get to his car.
When I got home half an hour later, I immediately sat down with my laptop. I was going to screencap the listing and then google the address, but the house’s page had already been deleted. I was tired and didn’t think too much about it, but the email I sent to the agent the next morning bounced back with an error message. I contacted Redfin’s local Philadelphia customer support, and the woman I spoke with told me that the agent had delisted himself. She apologized and explained that this sort of thing sometimes happens with freelancers. I hope that guy is doing okay.
The next agent I worked with encouraged me to start looking at refurbished houses in South Philadelphia instead of the suburbs. After what I’d seen, I was more than willing to allow myself to be convinced.
I was never able to figure out what was going on with the “Sweet Blue House,” but it haunted me for months. I used to have nightmares that I somehow bought the house by accident, and I would wake up early in the morning bathed in sweat.
The housing market in the Philadelphia suburbs is extremely competitive, and I can’t imagine that a property in that particular school district would remain unsold for long. I hope whoever lives in that place now is making full use of their creepy basement shower and enjoying their horrible murder well.
.
This is somewhat unrelated, but I want to end the story on a softer note.
Remember when I said that West Philadelphia is gentrifying? The only listing in my old neighborhood that I could find on Redfin in my price range was a literal shack slumped beside an unpaved mudpit by the train tracks. When I went out to see the property, the Redfin agent and I were greeted by a family of foxes living in the house, three adults and six babies who were presumably taking advantage a rodent infestation. The agent and I took one look at the lot and agreed that there was no need for us to inspect the inside of the building, as the foxes clearly had a prior claim.
Out of curiosity, I just checked that listing on Redfin. The asking price has gone up by more than $50k in the past two years, but it hasn’t sold. I can only imagine that the fox family is still there, happy and healthy and living their best lives.
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In Disco Elysium, there are various points at which you can get your character into such a socially awkward situation that he literally dies.
This is what would happen to me if I went to a viewing with the current owners watching me go through the house. Instant game over.
Also, I was not expecting to see a reference to Blackwater in this context. Wow.
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YEAH it was like "oh plaques! I wonder--oh. Uh. Hm." We left the house (having picked up speed as we went through and traded looks over various problems) and I was frantically searching for something neutral to say when our realtor (who is also a friend) said flatly "That is not your house." And I was so fucking glad I didn't have to explain to her.