It was a block west of the OldTown renaissance; it should have been easy money. But Jerry bought the two-story Victorian in November, then didn't touch it while the winter blew in. As soon as the weatherman said we were getting to 40, he gave me a call. He understands that family gets you availability(not a discount) so I met him after work.
I was there to give estimates on the work he'd have to pay for, supplies to get, etc... First thing to the grocery list: a back door. The ground floor was definitely explored, but unoccupied. He shrugged it off; I reminded him that crackhouses aren't bought, they're found.
I was stepping around turds and looking for mold, while he was taking pictures, when we heard some thumping upstairs. The house had no power and I had the Mag, so I took the lead. There were four doors upstairs, all closed.
He ran up when I kicked open the first one; I told him he was buying new doorknobs. I heard the noise at the end of the hall, but I slammed open the rest of the doors, in case the noise would scare it off (not he or she; they didn't shoot or run when I was slamming doors or Jerry was yelling "police!" in a very un-authoritative voice...)
So there's one door left, and it's the bathroom, by process of elimination. We bang on the door, tell them to get down on the ground, and I get ready to turn the doorknob. Jerry's behind me, ready to swing. I push it open-
And that's when we found the deer - a six-point buck - thrashing its head, bucking, honking like a goose from hell. Me and my light get out of its way; it runs, tumbling down the stairs, and out the back door. I look for Jerry - no sign. I call for him - not a sound. I feel a breeze out of the second bedroom; I go to the window... he'd jumped out the second story, landed on a trash tub, lost himself a tooth.
He sold me the property the next week, and I flipped that house in a month. Amateur.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "The Search for Life Trapped Under Antartica's Ice"
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