The old grey pavement is cracked and uneven, the overgrown weeds and grass almost overtaking the cement pieces. Beyond that is the porch. It was once a light cream, but is now covered with grime and dirty snow. Pieces are chipping off and hidden among the tall dead grass and flowers. The periwinkle blue paint on the rest of the big house is also chipped. The door and windows have it the worst. All of them on the first floor are broken and boarded up. Even the second story windows are shut out with old wood, the one on the right has iron bars in front of it.
The O’Brian house is certainly due for a fixer-upper, that’s clear as day. It looks even worse in contrast to the Chester House to its left. The ruby red house is about as big as the O’Brian House, with two floors plus an attic and cellar, but its yard is well kept. It’s white and red paint looks new, with lots of windows. No one lives in it yet thanks to the price.
You hope that whoever buys it – and the periwinkle house – will be a family with other teenagers. It sucks being the only one on the block.
Adjusting your violet scarf, you continue to walk down the cracked pavement, your arms weighed down by bags of tools for the renovation. Once you and Dad get the essentials in and Haneul finishes eating, everything can get started.
The porch creeks with every step but isn’t completely covered with ice. Your eye catches an old spider web hanging on a corner of the door’s window. The spider is nowhere to be seen, but little frozen droplets of water stick to the webbing, reflecting your pale face and brown hair.
“This place does have an abandoned charm to it,” you say, your breath puffing out in front of you. You’ve been able to take some pictures of the house and photoshop it during the summer to great results. With a smile, you slide the bag’s handle to your wrist and open the unlocked door. A thick, putrid air assaults you, burning your lungs. You drop the bags in front of you as heavy coughs rack your body. Out of habit, you swing your arm in front of your mouth and continue coughing.
“Ugh…” That took a fraction of your energy for the day. You stand up and check your arm, half surprised you didn’t cough up blood or a lung, and look around. The lamps Dad had set up reveal peeled wall paper, cracked, discoloured plaster, and clumps of mold spreading across the walls and ceiling. Leftover pieces of furniture are covered in grey sheets. The fireplace is a black hole, the mud brown bricks cracked and broken, littering what was once a spacious living room. Parts of the floor were missing and marked off for safety.
Forget it, this place is a dump.
“What. A. Dump!” You whip around the see Haneul trudging up the cracked pathway and the stairs, disgust written on her face.
“It’s not that bad,” you respond. She walks up and peeks behind you, gaping.
“Not that bad? This house doesn’t need a renovation, it needs to be rebuilt!” She shoves her hand into the plastic bag she is holding and takes out a white face mask and clear glasses.
“Great investigation, Sherlock, and thanks,” you say when she hands them to you, taking out her own pair. ‘Was I like this when I was fifteen?’ Two years seems like a long time ago. You slip on the mask and glasses as she walks in.
“Hmmm…” She adjusts the rubber bands around her hair and scans the place. Her navy blue book bag sags on her back from all the junk she’s no doubt stuffed in there. You pick up the bags and walk by her. Every step kicks up dust. You place the bags in the center of the room where everything else is just as Dad walks up the porch.
“Hello, girls!” He marches in, old jeans and lavender sweater somehow keeping out the cold. He hands you a pair of cerulean rubber gloves. “Ready?”
“Yep!” You return his smile eyes falling on Haneul. Your smile drops.
She’s standing right in front of a stairway that leads to a boarded up door. No mold touches it and the wood looks sturdy, but that’s not what chills you. That is the stairway to the second floor and the way that Haneul is standing in front of it, hands on her hips and shifting her weight from one foot to the other, is definitely thinking of how to get in there.
“Haneul,” you call out. “Ready to start?” She turns and walks over.
“Yeah,” she answers and takes the salmon gloves Dad gives her.
The three of you make slow progress in the morning. Haneul peels off the wall paper from one end of the room. You and Dad spray the walls, him working on the ceiling from the ladder while you work on the lower portion. You three do the rest of the first floor walls, including the parlor, bathroom, and kitchen.
“Don’t bother with the sink and cabinets,” Dad says, waving them off dismissively and checks his vibrating phone. “They’re beyond saving.” What was once probably a dark brown oak set is now rotted and moldy pieces of wood taking up a third of the room’s space.
“Thank God. It smells like something died in here,” Haneul exclaims and you both sigh in relief. If it wasn’t for the last six years of karate, you’re sure that the both of you would have been exhausted within the first hour.
"Maybe it's the murderer," you tease, but frown when Haneul stares at the cabinets. "No. Don't. It's probably a raccoon corpse. One with diseases."
“Well,” Dad slips off a glove to check his phone. “The wife just texted and says her famous Irish Stew is ready.” Haneul’s face lights up. “I’d say it’s about time for lunch.” With a squeal of joy, she races out the door, you and Dad following along.
Back at the house, Haneul gobbles up her second bowl while you finish up your first.
“This is great! Thanks again,” she says to Mom.
“Yeah, thanks!” The fresh smell of cooked vegetables, meat and spices beats mold must any day.
“You’re all very welcome,” she smiles, pouring another bowl for herself and sitting down at the table. You finish your bowl and excuse yourself to the bathroom. Before you leave, you take a minute to look yourself over in the mirror. Your brown hair is still messy and covered with a layer of dust. “Going to need a shower tonight.”
You walk out and to the kitchen, but stop when only your father and mother are at the table.
“Where’s Haneul?”
“Oh, she went out early,” Dad says. “Said she was just going to use the crowbar to tear down the plaster.”
It’s not the wall she’s going to tear down. Her heavy, navy blue book bag comes to mind.
“Better go help her,” you say and pull your boots on. If the second floor is anything like the first, she might fall right through. Just because the stairs look safe doesn’t mean they are, either.
You dash next door and leap up the porch.
‘With her strength, how quickly could she do it?’
Stomping into the house and ignoring the stench, you look to your left to see the forest green crowbar at the bottom of the stairs.
“Haneul,” you call, sprinting to the crowbar and picking it up. There’s no answer from the top of the stairs, but there are wooden boards catching the lamp’s light and the second floor door left ajar.
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