“Why of course!” says the real estate agent, who inexplicably has a French Canadian accent. “Let me show you around! This is a very beautiful property, with 3 bedrooms and 2.5 baths, very good for smashing your head against a mirror.”
“Is that a metaphor?” you ask. “For the show?”
The realtor shrugs, and suddenly he is eating a can of creamed corn and laughing, laughing hysterically.
“So tell me,” you say, walking around the man, whose eyes are white with cataracts. His mouth is full of black mush. “Does this horse come with the living room?”
“Oh most certainly!” says the man, cleaning himself off. “It’s actually part of the living room. But don’t worry, it’s only here once in awhile. If you stay away from mixing Ambien and red wine, you shouldn’t have any problems with the horse.”
You nod, but inside you know this will be an issue going forward.
“But I must tell you, says the man. “The horse, she is dead.” He shrugs. “We beat her, regardless.”
“Okay,” you say, surveying the moulding. “Now THAT is a metaphor!”
“Where??” Gasps the man, as red lights begin to flash on and off. Suddenly you are in the woods and there are those stupid human chess pieces from the second season that no one talks about, the one with Billy Zane. “Oh no, sir, that is not a metaphor,” sighs the agent with relief, looking in the kitchen. “That is the director.”
“What’s he doing here?” You ask. “Is HE part of the house?”
“No, he’s just making quinoa,” admits the realtor, whose arms sometimes bend back. “But it’s really spoooooooky quinoa.”
You make a mental note and move on.
“And how many diaries, exactly, are associated with this property?”
“All the diaries, ma’am.”
Hmm. That DOES change things. Think of what you could or could not do with all the diaries.
“And what’s the deal with those birds outside?”
The realtor squints through the window. “I can’t see through this damn eyepatch. What kind of birds do they look like?”
“Owls.” You have done your research.
“Well, there is your answer,” replies the realtor, eating some damn fine cherry pie and wearing a wig, insisting that he is actually his cousin. “They are not owls.”
“I don’t know,” says the agent. “Just…it’s here in my notes…” He flips open a page of a diary (which could be YOUR diary!), and a locket falls out. “Okay, yes. The owls are not what they appear.”
“What the fuck,” you say. “This is worse than Lost with the polar bears.”
“Maybe the owls ARE polar bears,” says the agent, helpfully. He has rudely not offered you any coffee or cherry pie, you think.
“So let’s talk about price,” you say, walking past a bedroom through the open door of which you see a man crouching, menacingly. “I’m going to need to knock off a few hundred grand, on account of the constant, horrifying screaming.”
“What screaming?” asks the realtor.
You tap your foot.
“Okay,” he relents. “It’s pretty unsettling.”
“And I see here in the ad that it is ceaseless?” you ask. “Is that correct? Are we talking ‘Time off for the holidays and the odd weekend,’ ceaseless, or ‘The unending wails of a mother who just found out her child was raped and murdered out by the train tracks’ ceaseless.”
“Hmmm,” you say. Still, it’s not as bad as that house you visited that was right next to the opening of The Leftovers.
“Okay, so one final question,” you say. “Tell me straight, was anyone murdered HERE? Like directly in this home?”
“No, no,” the realtor assures you. “All murders were done off-site.”
You smile, because now you’ve got him.
“What about Maddie?”
Here, the realtor looks genuinely disconcerted, like he’s remembering the remnants of a dream, or finally realizing how offensive it was to show a mentally handicapped child wearing an Indian headdress, not to mention in a Pacific Northwest town where the deputy was Native American.
“Fuck, I forgot about Maddie,” the realtor grumbles under his breath.
“That’s okay,” you say. “We all forgot about Maddie.”
You turn to leave, but the realtor bars your exit. “You haven’t even seen the silent drape runners yet!” he cries, desperately. “Or your cast of kooky, if admittedly one-dimensional, neighbors! Look, there’s a lady with a log! How weird is that?!”
“Sorry buddy,” you say. “No sale.”
“Well, leave if you must,” he sniffs. “But have I mentioned how much this house makes you look like Audrey Horne?”
“Sold!” you say.
The realtor’s hair turns white.
“Haha,” he laughs. “Hahahaha.”
“Aha,” you agree. “Ahahahaha.”
Then you are both midgets, or giants, or whatever, and you are dancing, and nearby somebody is screaming, screaming endlessly.