A Three-Bedroom Victorian to Kill For

House Hunting

It’s Saturday, which means Greg and I are house hunting. We’ve done this every weekend for the past four years and it’s a miracle we’ve lasted this long. Of the other couples we know, only a few have managed to get an offer on the table; fewer have had them accepted. The rest—those who are still together—have decided no house is worth the physical and emotional toll the buying process takes. We were ready to give up, too, but then our dream house came on the market, so we’re giving it one last shot.

We’re dressed in our best house-hunting attire: smart khakis and crisp button-downs, comfortable sneakers and Kevlar vests—something that says “serious homebuyer” while also keeping us safe. Once, all you needed was an offer over asking and a thoughtful letter to the seller. Now you need good reflexes and great aim.

New places hit the market on Thursdays, so on Fridays we pick a few we’re interested in and study the photos and digital walkthroughs so we know what to expect—the size of the bathrooms and state of the kitchen, best rooms to attack from and places to hide. 

Today, we’re only viewing the dream house: a blue Victorian on Magazine Street that’s been in same family for a century. The most recent owners, a childless couple in their sixties, died trying to get a winter condo in Florida. Lucky us. We’ve been renting a one-bedroom around the corner for eight years and often stop to peek through the hedges imagining walk-in closets, his-and-hers sinks, an office for each of us and space for children, should we decide to have them. Once, we spotted the couple on the front porch sipping dark cocktails from crystal glasses and wondered if they’d ever had to work for anything, feeling, even then, we deserved their home more than they did.

I like to get to these things early so I can feel out the competition, but Greg forgot to iron his shirt last night and made us late leaving the apartment. Now we’re walking up that same porch with less than five minutes to spare, and I’m trying not to be annoyed. But when I push through the front door and see the height of the ceilings—the listing didn’t do them justice—all is forgiven. I grab Greg’s hand and squeeze it three times. This. Is. It.

We enter the living room, still hand-in-hand. There are twenty-odd people gathered in front of a bay window where, every December, we see a glowing Christmas tree from the street. The realtor, a middle-aged blonde in a white linen suit—bold choice—welcomes us with a smile and glass of prosecco and tells us to sign in, select a weapon, let her know if we have any questions. She means about the house, but one woman, who’s holding a lance like it’s a walking stick asks how, exactly, it all works, and the seasoned among us cringe. First-timer, surely. Doubtful she’ll make it out of the room before she’s eliminated.

The realtor explains: Tour at your leisure; only target people inside the house; those still standing at the end of the hour will have the opportunity to make an offer. And keep it civil, she says.

I’ve missed out on the crossbow, my usual weapon of choice, so I go for the stave sling while Greg grabs a club, then we step back to sip our drinks and take stock of our competitors. Most are couples like us: mid-thirties professionals; the kind of people, under different circumstances, we might invite over for drinks. Then there’s a sweet-looking older gentleman, a redheaded woman we’ve seen before, and a couple in camouflage I rule out immediately. Even if they make it to the end, it’s unlikely the estate managers will accept their offer. Their attire does not scream, “We care about maintaining the historical integrity of the property.”

A clock strikes noon, and the open house begins. While the others hesitate, Greg and I seize the opportunity to slip away from the crowd and up the stairs. Primary bedroom, first door on the left. It’s as big as our current living room and kitchen combined, with parquet flooring, built-in wardrobes, and a four-poster bed we hope comes with the house. In the corner, there’s a window seat where Greg says he expects to find me every morning. I take the uncracked copy of Don Quixote from the bedside table and pose on the yellow cushion. Greg snaps a picture and hands me the phone. This house is your perfect lighting, he says, and we laugh.

We’re admiring the chrome fixtures in the adjoining bathroom when we hear the first scream. I run back to the window to see a dozen people fleeing the house, the last of them bleeding from his head. You can always count on half the prospective homebuyers to give up at the first sight of blood. Greg darts to the bedroom doorway and I crouch behind him, gripping my weapon in both hands, the stone in its sling bouncing against my back. 

There’s a creak on the stairs, the flash of a camouflage arm. Greg takes the man out at the knees; I nail the woman in the right shoulder. They tumble down the stairs and I run after to check for a pulse—we never kill—and am satisfied they’ll recover for the next open house.

End of the hall, the library. Greg narrowly misses a swinging battle axe and takes out the redhead. She joins five others bleeding into the plush carpet—maroon, thank God. The room smells of polished oak, metal, and must, and has floor-to-ceiling cabinets stacked with leather-bound books. I run my fingers along the spines imagining nightcaps by the fire, sex on the desk.

At the sound of a tightening bowstring, I whip around to see the tip of an arrow slide between the door and the frame, and launch a stone just as Greg raises his club, knocking my arm. The stone sails past the door, hitting the bookcase to the right of it. I wince as glass shatters and falls to the floor. When I look up again, the archer is gone and the arrow is resting at my feet. I inhale deeply, trying to forgive, again, Greg’s wrinkled shirt, our late arrival, getting stuck with a weapon I don’t know how to use.

Two doors down, the dining room. Here, we find the realtor lying on a velvet chaise lounge with a spike in her calf, red blooming on her white suit. We ask her if she’s okay, then how many are left. Not sure, she groans, but the person who did this won’t be buying a house anytime soon. My money’s on the first-timer. Anyone else would know to use extra caution around realtors, who are there only to answer questions and prevent people from stealing. I note the size of the table we’ll need, thank the realtor, and leave.

We always save the kitchen, our favorite room in any house, for last. Here, it’s the central room, the heart of the home. Though renovated two years ago, it hasn’t lost its late-1800s charm. The floor is original checkerboard terra cotta, and a wide chimney serves as the backsplash to a polished brass La Cornue oven. There are arrows stuck in the solid oak cabinets, dents in the Subzero fridge. A shame, really, but you can’t buy a house these days without expecting to do a little work.

The only other people in the room are heaped at the base of an island, an arrow in each of their backs. It’s the woman with the lance and her partner, who made it further than I thought they would. Greg scans the room, gives a thumbs-up. All clear. Quietly, I test the weight of the cupboard doors, feel the gentle pull of soft-close drawers, take a hanging copper pot from its hook and see that it’s never been used. I wonder if we could negotiate those into the price, offer an extra thousand for the pots, the knives, the bone-white place settings.

I’m inspecting a second oven—Thermador—when I see movement in its glass door, hear an oomph, and turn to see Greg drop to the floor, his shirt still perfectly crisp. An arrow that should have been mine to shoot flies from a butler pantry and hits me in the left breast. I feel the blunt edge of Carrera marble split my head open as I fall back.

It’s over, I think, but then Greg’s face appears, haloed by a Tiffany chandelier. He’s taken off his shirt and ripped it in two. He ties one half around my head and the other around his thigh. We’re so close, he whispers, pointing to the time on the Thermador—12:58. He props me up against the island.

In darker moments, when it’s felt like we’d be renters forever, I’ve tried to visualize getting the house, like my therapist taught me. I’ve pictured receiving the call that our offer was accepted, the realtor handing us a set of keys, me and Greg walking through the front door of our new home for the very first time. What I’ve never dared picture is what it would actually take to own.

Now, I’m watching it all unfold in the reflection of the oven door: the older gentleman emerging from the pantry, crossbow raised in victory, a minute too soon. Greg leaping out from behind the island and clubbing him hard, again and again, until the clock strikes one and the realtor limps through the swinging door. She asks if we’re the only ones left. Greg, panting, nods. Makes my job easy, she says, slapping a thick stack of paperwork onto the island and sliding onto a stool. Greg sits beside her and signs his name everywhere she points.

The paramedics arrive. I hear their stretchers rumbling across the hardwood floors as I close my eyes. Already, the carnage of the last hour is fading, and the only thing I see is coffee brewing in the mornings, the Christmas dinners we’ll cook in here, the wine Greg will pour while we make his grandmother’s Bolognese—something tannic and ashy, dark red as blood seeping through terra cotta cracks.