I got the first offer in the mail on the last Sunday of the month. The text appeared on a bright pink piece of paper, enclosed in an envelope addressed to my mailing address: WILL PAY 50K FOR YOUR HOUSE IN CASH.
There was no name or company information, only a telephone number with an unrecognizable area code. Seeing as I had a huge mortgage on my house that was at least several multiples of the amount being offered, I ripped the offer to shreds and promptly forgot about it.
Besides, I liked my house. It was a three-bedroom ranch-style home, with a neat little backyard, spacious bathroom, and a cheerful kitchen with a huge window looking out into the beautiful garden of my neighbor Shelby, an eighty-year-old widow who spent her days obsessing over her plants.
But the offers continued, stubbornly coming to my mailbox despite my lack of reaction to them. The 50K soon became 52K. Then 60K. Each time I didn’t respond, the envelopes started coming more aggressively, growing darker and darker in tone.
I wondered if I was the only one receiving them, or if it was our entire neighborhood. As far as neighborhoods went, it was a pretty small one, but situated on a scenic spot of land with plenty of greenery, good eco-life, and a proximity to the ocean. My neighbors were all older and led quiet lives. Besides Shelby, there was Gemma, a fifty year-old mother of twin boys, Tim and Tana, a childless couple in their sixties who spent most of their time traveling around the world, and Fenson, a seventy-year-old former photographer. All in all, this was a tranquil little neighborhood that didn’t quite explain the reason for this sudden aggressive interest in it.
On a whim, I decided to ask Shelby if she also received the ridiculous offers. Out of all my neighbors, she happened to be the most accessible one, since Gemma limited her communication to her sons, Tim and Tana were always away, and Fenson spent most of the time living inside his own head, as I learned one day when I asked him about the storm we just had and he asked me: “What storm?” As it happened, Shelby was in the middle of hosting a garage sale when I finally summoned up the guts to approach her, catching her just as she was setting up the stand.
“I’ll only talk to you if you buy something,” Shelby said as soon as I opened my mouth. Despite living next door to each other ever since I had moved in a year ago, we had spent more time watching each other than talking. Something that didn’t seem as if it would be changing any time soon.
So I played her game and grabbed the first thing I saw—a 2017 calendar of sea turtles—and paid its one dollar cost. She nodded, and after ascertaining that there were no other customers there at the moment, she took me aside.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Shelby said. “But if I was being offered something like the amounts you’re quoting, I would probably call the cops. These are criminally low!” Then she laughed at her own joke, and went back to ignoring me.
I returned back to my house and attempted to throw the calendar in my kitchen trash can, but it was already overflowing. Who the fuck sells old calendars anyway? I stared at the useless calendar, in exchange for which I received information that turned out to be just as useless.
At least the illustrations of sea turtles were pretty, though the grids sheets had random words scrawled on them. In all there were twelve words, with one word per month. Random words like “dust,” “willow,” “target,” “orange,” etc. Perhaps this was Shelby’s way of formulating a to-do list. I tore off the pretty images of sea turtles, and set aside the calendar pages to dispose of later.
Then I got back to my usual routine, which largely revolved around my greeting card business. It was still in the beginning stages, but I was working with some excellent illustrators and finding my future clients through a special events agency I had a contract with. It was this that I was working on later that evening when I heard some rustling outside my front door.
I turned on the lights and looked out the window. No one was there. I opened the door just to be sure. And that’s when I saw it: an urn with a piece of paper crudely taped to it. The text was scrawled out in red sharpie: 70K FINAL OFFER!
I suddenly realized I missed the colorful envelopes. Who the fuck uses an urn for something like this? Unless it was meant as a threat? I shivered, as I tore the damn note off.
I was just about to return to work when I heard someone approaching my front door. I froze, hoping it wasn’t the same creep. It was almost evening now, and the street lights had come on. The neighborhood was its normal peaceful self, with the exception of the sudden activity around my house.
“Hi there.” It was Shelby, looking slightly disoriented. The polar opposite to her immaculate morning self. A closer glance revealed a bruise under her right eye. Had she had it in the morning as well? I couldn’t remember.
“Hi Shelby. Do you want to come in?” I asked her, trying to sound neighborly. But Shelby seemed distracted, constantly glancing at something or someone over her shoulder. Instead of responding, she went in ahead of me, almost slamming my own front door in my face.
“Coffee? Tea?” I asked awkwardly, as soon I shut the door behind us.
“Do you have a can of Coke?” she asked.
I nodded and headed to the kitchen. When I came back, I found her in the living room, looking at the note I had torn from the urn just a moment before her arrival, but hadn’t had a chance to properly discard. For a second I wondered if she had taped it there herself.
“Wow, only 70K?” she stared at it, amused. “I hope you’re not that desperate for money.”
“That’s what I was asking you about this morning. There’s nothing special about my house. I don’t get why I’m being targeted. That’s why I was hoping it wasn’t just me.”
“How weird,” Shelby said. “Lots of idiots around here. I hope you’re not actually considering it. Anyway, I’m here to take back that calendar I sold you.”
“Calendar?”
She nodded.
“Did you find a time machine back to 2017?” I joked.
She looked at the floor, clearly uncomfortable with my question.
“Something like that. I didn’t meant for it to be a part of my garage sale.”
“No problem.” I went up to my room, stuffed it into a paper bag, and returned to the living room, handing it to her. “Do I get my dollar back as well?”
“Dollar?”
“What I paid for the calendar.”
“Oh, that’s right.” She reached into her jeans…and came out empty. “Sorry, it’s been a while since I carried cash around. Can you come around my place tomorrow morning? I’ll give it back to you.”
“Sure.”
A moment later Shelby left, looking more relaxed than when she arrived. I locked the door behind her and decided to call it a night. As I slept that night, I dreamed about urns, all lined up in rows with the inscription “FINAL OFFER!” on them.
In the morning after breakfast, I decided to check on Shelby. I didn’t really care about the dollar she owed me, but something about her had been off and I couldn’t really place what it was. But after ringing her doorbell and walking around in circles outside her front door, her door remained closed. I decided she must be sleeping in late, though she was usually an early riser.
I was just about to leave, when I hit my foot on something. I wasn’t usually nosy, but something about her whole appearance yesterday had thrown me off, as well as her not coming to the door this morning. Against my better judgment, I decided to investigate. And then I saw it. Just like the messages I’ve been getting, but with a higher number, scrawled out in a red sharpie marker, on a piece of paper taped to an identical urn: 85K FINAL OFFER!
Holy cow. I left it there, and then knocked on her door again. Still no answer. With a kind of nervous energy, I returned back to my house and called emergency services, requesting they do a welfare check. In the meantime, I got back to reviewing drafts of greeting cards.
I saw them outside of my window twenty minutes later: two cops coming out of a police cruiser, looking bored. One of them knocked on Shelby’s door. There was no answer. After milling around for another fifteen minutes, they finally jumped into action, breaking down the front door. I shivered, imagining the repair bill. And then they walked in, disappearing inside the darkness of the house.
I had just finished selecting a suitable typescript for the latest incarnation of a “Happy Birthday, Boss!” greeting card, when an ambulance stopped outside of Shelby’s residence twenty minutes later. Three paramedics exited, carrying a stretcher. A minute later, they headed inside her house. I could not tear my gaze away from them. Five minutes later they were back out again, with Shelby’s body covered by a sheet.
What the fuck? After a brief conversation with the cops, they left without turning on the sirens. I forgot all about work and caught the cops, just as they were putting up yellow crime tape in front of Shelby’s house.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Were you the neighbor who requested the welfare check?” the cops asked, as I nodded. “We’d like a word with you.”
***
I had to come out to the station for their interview, which turned out to be nothing more than me talking and them silently assessing my responses, while keeping their own information to themselves. After I finished answering their questions and saw the disappointment on their faces, I decided to switch the topic to the lowball house offers that, as it turned out, both Shelby and I have been receiving. When I was done, the cops gave me a bored look.
“And? This is a free country. I don’t see anything unlawful here,” one of them said. “As a house owner, you make your own decisions.”
“But..but…” I stumbled for words, as they were rapidly losing interest. “Why was the ‘final offer’ taped to an urn? Don’t you think that’s at the very least…kind of disturbing? Especially if Shelby turned up dead afterwards?”
The cops glared at me.
“Think about it,” I continued, feeling slightly encouraged. “Now her house will definitely be on the market! Maybe even for a much lower asking price than the one she would’ve wanted. Or, depending on how much they’re in need of money, her relatives, or whoever she left the house to in her will, might even accept the low offer outright!”
The cops looked skeptical, but at least agreed to “look into the matter.”
****
Back at home, I at least felt slightly calmer. After making myself a cup of tea and watching the news, I was about to take a shower when I heard it again. Some noise outside my front door. I put down my empty mug and walked up to my front door, staring out the window.
“Hello?” I yelled through my front door, without opening it. “Is anyone there?”
But there was silence, followed by footsteps of someone running away. I stood there for what seemed like ten minutes, as if glued to the spot. There was no one there. At least, not anymore. After double-checking that the front door was locked, I moved a heavy dresser to it from the living room.
In the morning, when I woke up, the dresser looked worse for wear, as if someone had been repeatedly banging the door against it. I couldn’t focus on my work. Not anymore. So I left my house via the back door, and decided that now would be a good time to consult my other neighbors. Maybe if we all teamed up, we wouldn’t have to follow Shelby to the great beyond, if this was the strategy the would-be buyer was using.
First up was Gemma’s house. Probably the neatest on the street. The front door was opened by Lucian, one of her twin boys, who looked captivated by his tablet. I asked him if I could talk to the mom. He gave me a questioning look, but didn’t say anything. As I waited for Gemma, I spotted a collection of rocks on the windowsill. A minute later Gemma appeared and caught me looking at them.
“Those are Lucian’s. He likes to use them against those damn raccoons. Anyway, what do you want?” she asked, pulling her bathrobe tight around her.
I told her about Shelby and the house purchase offers we’ve both been receiving, before asking her if she also received anything of the sort.
“The boys check the mail, and they know better than to show that crap to me,” she said, unimpressed. “Now get out of my house.”
I tried to shrug off her hostile attitude, but admitted my whole visit there had been a waste of time. Next up was the house belonging to Tim and Tana, the worldwide travelers who were never home. After knocking several times and almost giving up, I was surprised when the door finally opened. In the doorway stood a college-age guy, who looked nothing like Tim. I froze, unsure of how to approach the situation.
“I’m just renting this place, while Tim and Tana are traveling,” he said as if reading my mind. “My name’s Nathan, by the way.” He stuck out his hand. I noticed he had decked out the entire room in Halloween decorations, complete with a life-like witch.
“Isn’t Halloween still far away?” I asked him, curious.
“It’s my favorite holiday,” he grinned.
I decided it would be useless to ask if he received any offers for a house that didn’t even belong to him, so after making meaningless small talk, I made my way back. Last up was Fenson. To my surprise, he knew right away what I was talking about. As it turned out, he had also been receiving the house purchase offers, though he thought it was some kind of ruse. When I told him about Shelby, his body stiffened.
“Do you want me to go stay with you?” he asked.
I was about to respond, when I spotted detailed photographs of our houses on the wall behind him. Odd. He caught my glance, and blushed.
“I used to be a photographer, as you know, so I couldn’t help it. I’m not the one sending out those offers, I promise.”
I stared at him, but couldn’t tell if the was telling the truth or not. Either way, the photographs had freaked me out and I ended our talk as quickly as possible. After returning home, I lay in bed, wondering if I should say something to the cops about them. Maybe I was overreacting and it was all just some big coincidence…
Somehow, I got through the work day, and was just settling down for the evening when I heard it again. Footsteps. But this time, inside my house.
It took all I had not to scream, as I locked myself inside my bedroom. After frantically searching for my cell phone, I suddenly remembered that I had left it charging in the living room. Idiot! I held my breath as the footsteps stopped outside my door.
“I’m not selling my house to you!” I yelled, breaking out in sweat. “Go away!”
The footsteps hesitated. I studied my tiny, windowless bedroom. No way to hide or escape. I looked at the ceiling, and started praying. For a minute, there was complete silence. And then I heard a metallic scraping sound.
I screamed. A moment later, the door flew open, my lock having failed to offer any meaningful resistance.
“I’m not selling my house to you!” I repeated. “I’m not—“
And then I froze. The figure in front of me was wearing a green mask and a medical uniform, holding a scalpel in his hands.
“I’m not interested in your ugly house,” he said in a whispery voice, as if he was trying to disguise his real voice.
“But—“ I was suddenly unable to put a string of words together. None of it made sense. As he leaned over me, I was hit with the scent of strong disinfectant. He had come here to kill me. The realization made my head start spinning in a million directions, as my skin broke out in goose bumps.
“I don’t need your ugly house,” the surgeon, as I had nicknamed him in my mind, repeated. “That’s Nathan’s deal.”
“Nathan?” I suddenly realized he was talking about the Halloween-loving college kid renting Tim’s and Tana’s property. “That’s who wanted to buy the houses on the cheap?”
The surgeon ignored me.
“Give me the calendar,” he said.
“The what?” I stared at the scalpel, as it stopped inches from my face.
“The calendar Shelby sold you. Give it to me.”
It took me a moment to remember what he was talking about, with most of my cognition taken up by a sense of panic rapidly spreading to my limbs.
“But I already gave it back to her.”
The surgeon shook his head.
“You gave her back half of it. Where’s the other half?”
“What?” And then it came back to me. I had disbanded the calendar after buying it, separating the pictures from the grid sheets. “Wait, which half did I give her?” I asked him.
“The pictures.” His whispery voice was giving me the creeps.
“Hold on, I’ll go search for the grid sheets. S-sorry about that.” I found myself stuttering for the first time since I was five.
The surgeon nodded, closely following me as I left the bedroom and headed for my living room, trying to remember where I had left the stupid pages, while stepping over the mess the surgeon had made all over my house, evidently trying to find it himself. Twenty minutes later, I finally found the remaining pages, and handed him the remaining half of the calendar.
“If you don’t mind me asking, what’s so…important about a 2017 calendar?” I asked, as soon as the surgeon put the scalpel down. The way he stared back at me through his green mask made me regret I even asked. But to my surprise, he responded.
“All I needed was the seed phrase to restore my crypto wallet, and Aunt Shelby goes off and sells it to a total stranger!”
“Seed phrase?” I stared at the calendar pages in his hands. And then I remembered: the twelve words scrawled on the grid sheets. Guess they weren’t that random after all. “That’s why you killed her?”
Out went the scalpel again. I screamed.
“I’m going to give you a choice,” he whispered. “A shot or a pill. If it’s no to both then…” He pointed to the scalpel. I gulped.
“What’s…what’s in the pill?” I asked.
“Something to make you forget everything that happened,” he whispered. “It’s your only chance of staying alive.”
***
This all happened a year ago. The pill initially wiped out my memories of not just that day, but of my current life in general. It took a long time to put everything back together, and by that time, the surgeon had long since vanished.
As it turned out, Shelby had left behind a large family. But no nephew.