Home Sweet Home
“They did a good job cleaning up the blood,” I observed as my realtor, Sales Pitch, accompanied me into the foyer.
The egg-colored earth pony mare flattened her ears. “Oh, so you know what happened here.”
Shrugging my blue wings at her, I said, “The Clover family murders are well-known, even in Cloudsdale.”
“It’s not often I get Pegasus clients looking for earth pony homes. I thought the rents were cheaper in cloud-based towns.”
Sniffing the air, casting about for the coppery smell of blood, I replied, “This house has been sitting on the market for so long, I’d be a dope to not at least check the place out.”
“Have you shopped for, shall we say, stigmatized properties before, Mister Whetstone?”
I shrugged. “Murder houses stay on the market forty five percent longer than regular homes. It’s a mostly untapped market, why not?”
“What do you mean, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Equestria’s housing market loses over two billion bits annually because of homicides. A place like this takes months longer than regular houses to sell. All I have to do is sit back, wait for the property value to drop to its lowest point and then swoop in to make my money.”
“How do you do that?”
“It’s simple. Years ago, I bought a house where three ponies were stabbed to death. Since the place was on coastal property, I tore it down. Removing the infamous home made the land jump up in value. I sold the house lot to a condo company and tripled the money I put into the property. That’s how I made my first million.”
“Through murder house purchases?”
“A tragedy for one is an opportunity for another.” Sensing the temperature dropping a few degrees, I quickly added, “I’m sorry. That was a little callous of me. When both parents and their three children get slaughtered, it can make a house particularly infamous.”
She signed, looking at the kitchen corner where the Clover parents were clubbed to death. “Normally, I can sell stigmatized properties to out-of-towners faster than to local ponies. But not this house.”
“We’re stuck with a vicious housing market, aren’t we? It doesn’t help that the true crime book about this house helped spread the word even further.”
Sale’s ears twitched in irritation. An informed client like me is hard to deal with. “What was it called? ’Make Me Smile’? Why is the book called that, by the way?”
Walking down the hallway where the oldest child tried to escape with two broken legs, I replied, “Apparently, one of the Clover fillies had called the police on her cell phone. The operator heard the killer say those words before the line was cut.”
“It’s monsters like him that make me lock my door at night.” She quickly smiled and perked up. “N-not that this house isn’t safe! I’ve made sure that Equestrian Defense Technologies have installed the latest home protection in this home.”
Opening the door to the children’s bedroom, I snorted. “Safety and security are illusions, Sales Pitch. Phone lines can be cut. Guard dogs can be poisoned or shot. When I was just a colt, I read about a serial killer that broke into unoccupied houses, hid bondage ropes and unlocked the windows. He would later return in the middle of the night, easily slip into the then-undefended home, tie up and then kill his victims.”
“It’s not often I get true crime buffs for clients, Mister Whetstone,” she quipped, her smile on auto-pilot.
“I spent a lot of time alone as a youngster, so reading books were a needed escape for me. Violent crime books just interest me.” Sniffing the air again, I thought I caught a teasing whiff of blood. The three severed legs of the youngest filly would have left a lot of it.
The book’s police photos showed the blood streaking all the way up to the ceiling. Instant camera pictures of the murders were taken for the police to find. The book showed a few of those as well, revealing that one pony had been repeatedly slammed into the bedroom walls after his throat was cut. It’s no surprise that “Make Me Smile” is a bestseller. I have an autographed copy.
“This is a fairly large house, sir. Are you planning to bring your family here?”
I shook my head. “My folks divorced a long time ago. My brother drank himself to death. Thanks to them, I came to realize that it’s not always just a family that makes a house a home.”
“What is it, then?” She asked as her phone rang. “I’m sorry, just give me a minute.”
Smiling, I waved her away. “Don’t worry. Take care of your call. I’m definitely buying this house.”
She cheerfully trotted away, happy for the sales commission she would soon receive.
What makes a house a home?
The memories. Sweet, delightful, blood soaked, scream filled memories. Every knife thrust, every tear drop, every crushed skull, every severed limb and every pleading for mercy from my victims will live on in my new home. I’m so flattered that the true crime book chose to use so many of my pictures. I kept the best, goriest ones for myself, of course.
The serial killers that I read about and admired for years always collected jewelry or clothing from their victims in order to keep their accomplishments vivid in their recollections. The problem is that those items always led to the killers getting caught.
My method of collecting precious memories of my greatest triumphs, however, could never get me arrested.
This house is also close to another home that I’ve had my eye on. It has a lot of bedrooms, so I can simply convert it into a bed and breakfast. The senior citizens there will be easy to destroy. Soon I’ll have not only a source of money, but also another set of precious memories for me to hold onto.
That will always make me smile.
“The ache for home lives in all of us, the safe place where we go as we are and not be questioned.”
--Maya Angelou