When D and I were looking for a house three years ago, we went to a lot of open houses.

(I think I've written about my love of open houses before. There's something so interesting about taking a peek into other people's lives. It definitely appeals to my voyeuristic side. I love seeing the choices people have made with their decor and imagining what kind of people they are. One type of person uses the spare room as a craft room, another type has floor-to-ceiling mirrors and a home gym. It's just interesting, you know?)

The California real estate market was really starting to get crazy back then (of course, not as crazy as it is now), so we were really looking for a bargain. A fixer-upper in a good area was the ideal.

So one day our realtor said, "I have a house that's in a great area, needs a little work, but it has good bones and a lot of potential. The price is flexible because it's been on the market for a while."

Why had it been on the market so long? we asked.

"Well," he said. "There IS something that might bother you. The previous owner died in it. And she wasn't discovered for ... a couple of weeks."

I was undeterred, naturally. "When can we see it?"

The house itself was built in the late 40s and was indeed in a good area, one known for horse property - large lots, mature trees, etc.

Before we entered the house, our realtor said, "I have to warn you - there may be an ... odor."

Undeterred.

As it turns out, there was no odor at all. The house had been aired out and smelled just fine. But there was something else that was extremely distracting.

The previous owner's belongings had not been removed from the house. In fact, the house was exactly the way she'd left it. Her toothbrush was still by the sink. There was shampoo in the shower. A note by the phone. Her clothes were still in the closet.

And her pictures were still on the wall. I kid you not, she looked sad and miserable in every single fucking picture. Her big, sad eyes glowered out from every frame. I could tell from the pictures that she'd been middle-aged when she died - late 40s, early 50s at the oldest.

"Ugh," D. shuddered. "She's creepy looking." I was glad to hear him say this - at least I wasn't the only one who thought so.

Ultimately, we passed on the house. I was wrong when I thought I wouldn't mind living in a house where a sad-looking woman had died and then rotted, unnoticed for two weeks. Even D, the most unsuperstitious, practical and non-ghost-believing guy there is, said it would have creeped him out to get up and get a glass of water in the middle of the night.

***
Cut to three years later. We'd love to move to a bigger house, but the market is just insane unless you're a billionaire.

"Too bad we can't find a rotted corpse deal now," D said the other day.