The Eleventh

Today I showed a house for the second time to a family from out of town, and then we met at my office to write up their second offer on this property.  When I got done, I was straightening up the desk when my phone rang; someone was in front of another of my listings and wanted to see it. 

I called PC and told him the name the person had given me and the address of the house where I would be meeting him.  PC wrote it all down and exactly at the time I was walking into the house with the guy and his mother, PC called to check up on me.  I made sure the people knew I was getting a safety call and that my husband had the address and their names, and they were fine with it. 

It might seem strange to someone who isn’t in my line of work, but I had a scare three years ago that has made us pretty cautious.

I showed a house to a person my boss couldn’t meet with because of a prior appointment.  I met the guy, his adult daughter and a granddaughter at a house, and the guy was driving a beat up van.  His daughter was pleasant, and the granddaughter was out of control. 

During the showing, the guy wanted to look in the attic, and climbed up. We chit-chatted and then he said “Shoot, I can’t see anything up here!”  He went to his van for a flashlight and couldn’t find one. 

“I really like this house, but I have to see that attic,” he said. 

Knowing it was only a couple of minutes from my house, I said “If you guys have some other stuff to do for a little bit, I can run home and get my flashlight and meet you back here in about half an hour.  I don’t live far.”

“Okay, sounds good,” he said.  He barked at his granddaughter to stop yelling, and she froze, then trudged out the door to the van.  The daughter shrugged and laughed and then left with him.

I met them back at the house later.  The granddaughter wasn’t with them, having been left at home with another adult.  I talked  about how much we enjoyed the neighborhood, etc. as part of a rapport building thing, and the guy and his daughter made small talk while he was in the attic and I stood at the bottom of the ladder.

Ultimately, he decided the house wasn’t for him, but he wanted to buy one and we made an appointment for the following Saturday to look at some properties in his price range that might work out. 

When I arrived that Saturday, he was already at the office.  A co-worker had let him in and he had made himself comfortable in my office, where pictures of my daughter were on display on my desk.  Masking my irritation with my colleague, I got out the list of houses to look at and went over them with “Don.”

As we got ready to leave, he said “Why don’t I ride with you?  Save gas…I’m almost on empty.” 

And even though I had up until then frequently driven clients around, I automatically said “Oh, I make a practice to not drive clients, for liability reasons.  I’ll meet you at the first house after you gas up.”

“Aw, c’mon!” he grinned. “What are you afraid of?”

Well, nothing until just now I thought.

“Sorry Don.  Really, it’s a policy.”

He scowled and walked out.  I got in my car, drove to the first house, and let myself in while waiting for him to arrive from the gas station.   He pulled up and I opened the door.  Looking around the house, he said “Where’s the basement?”

I pointed toward the back of the house, and he started for the stairs.  “Aren’t you going to go downstairs with me?” he asked.

“Oh, basements creep me out, Don.  You go ahead!”  I said cheerfully.  And usually, I go with the clients to every part of the house.  I don’t know why I was being such a goober, but I didn’t want to go into the basement.

“Aw, come on!  What are you scared of?”

Um….what?

After finishing up at that house, we went to the next one, a foreclosure property in really bad condition.  Don whistled, not seeming troubled by the condition of the property.  The inside was a disaster, with no electricity, and smelled as though dogs had been living inside.

“Let’s go look at the basement,” he said.

“Ugh, no thanks.  Don, you go ahead.  I’ll wait here.”

“Oh, seriously.  Come on!  I’m not going to hurt you.”

What?

I was starting to get skeeved out. We had two more houses to go, but I was determined that the next one was going to be the last.  On the way there, I called PC and told him I wanted him to call me in ten minutes when I was at the house.

We pulled up, Don’s van behind my car.  Going in the house, I felt relieved.  It wasn’t skeevy like the other two, so maybe it was just the icky houses that were making me nervous.

Don looked around, opening cupboards, making small talk.  “So, did I hear you telling my daughter you have a little girl?” 

“Yeah, she’s four.  She’s great!”  When the subject is Rabbit, I’m a little goofy.  He smiled. 

“My granddaughter is four. We have a neighbor kid about that age.”

He wandered off.  PC called me.  “Everything okay?” he asked. 

“I think so…[whispering] can you call me back in five minutes, though?  Pretend I’m late for a dinner date with you?”

PC said “OK…five minutes?  Are you sure everything is okay?”

“Yeah, just call back.”

Don came up from the basement.  I cleared my throat.  “That was my husband on the phone.  I didn’t realize it was getting so late.  I’m supposed to meet him in fifteen minutes for dinner with friends.  I’m sorry!”

“Oh…where are you eating?”

Rattled, I said “Oh, at Macaroni Grill,” I said, naming a chain restaurant in the far south part of town.  We were in the north part of town so that made it more pressing that I leave right away to make it there.

“Okay…well I suppose we can look at the other house Monday?”

“Sure,” I lied, not feeling right.  Then my phone rang.  PC asked “Everything okay?”

“I know, I know, I’m late for dinner.  Tell them to order me a salad til I get there,” I babbled.  PC said “What’s going on?”  I said “I’m just finishing up–yes….yeah, I know, it’s getting dark…no you don’t have to meet me….nope.  Salad.  Yeah.”  I rolled my eyes at Don. PC, on the other end of the line, said “Are you getting out of there now?”  And I said “Yep.  I’ll be there in just a few.”

By this time we were on the porch and I was locking the house.  Don wanted to talk about the house some more, but I apologized, saying I really needed to go.  I got in my car, locked it, and pulled away from the curb, watching in my mirror as Don pulled up behind me.  All I wanted to do was go home, so I turned right, headed for the north thoroughfare to take me home instead of the road south to the restaurant I’d lied about going to.  Don turned left. 

A moment later, my cellphone rang.  It was not my husband’s number.  I answered, and Don’s voice said flatly “Why did you turn right?”

I hung up and looked in my mirror.  No cars.  I raced home and ran inside, seriously rattled.  PC said “What the hell?”

I told him about the afternoon’s showings, and he said “He’s probably just weird, but I don’t want you showing him any more houses.”

I went into my office and sat down, running a Google search. 

Don’s name turned up under the sexual offender registry for our state.  I ran a search in the state’s prison inmate database and found that he had served four years for aggravated sexual assault of a child, having been released only a year before.

The following Monday, I talked with our company’s attorney and drafted a very generic letter telling him that because of personal reasons I would no longer be able to assist him in his home search.  He came to our office three or four times asking for me, but my boss intercepted him every time and got him to leave. 

A month later we hired a new receptionist, a chatty woman who was telling us one day about the creepy guy who lived next door and watched them with binoculars through his window.  She was upset because they’d just bought the house and found out he was a tenant, a sexual offender who lived right next door.  Dreading her answer, I asked if she knew his name.

It was him.

And three months later, she came to the office full of news.  Don had been arrested and wouldn’t be bothering them any more.  He was going to prison, but sadly, it was for assault.  He had molested his granddaughter.

Now, every time I meet a new client, if it’s not during office hours and I have to meet them off site, PC demands that I call him with their name, the address where we’re meeting, and he calls me every five to ten minutes to make sure I’m okay.  Our office manager does the same for us during regular working hours if we are unfamiliar with the person who asks to meet us at a property. 

What’s been your creepiest encounter at work?