Nobody could remember a time when it hadn’t sat on the corner lot; the flat-top hillock, well-manicured lawn, freshly-painted siding, hundred-year-old trees. It was a quaint little house, well-maintained, no trouble to anyone. If anything, it helped property values. According to rumor, it was built before the Civil War and survived cannon fire with nary a scratch. It might also have been a stop on the underground railroad before all the development of the twentieth century.
I asked around. A couple of the older neighbors said they thought the house was painted green when they were kids, but obviously it was a shiny blue. The window panes were accentuated by crisp white grids. The roof could have been put on yesterday, but no one could recall seeing anyone install it. Likewise, no one could remember seeing anyone mow the lawn or trim the shrubs – not once – nevertheless everything looked like it was a scene from an English park.
Some of the neighborhood children claimed they saw people going into the house but didn’t remember seeing anyone come out. Others thought the place was haunted. One boy said he saw a little old lady open the door one night. One girl said, “no, it was a little old man. He looked out and then shut the door.” The more I asked around, the less certain I was about anything.
The house simply stood there, on the corner of Mulberry and Walnut streets, for generations, seemingly a place out-of-time.
There was the blizzard of 1978 which caused damage to several homes in the surrounding block. The house on the corner suffered no harm. There was a big hail storm in 1995, after which several neighbors had to have their roofs replaced. The roof of the house on the corner still looked neat and new. Then there was the gas explosion in 2017. The house next-door was a total loss. The house on the other side caught fire. The house on the corner was no worse for the wear. “It was a miracle,” one neighbor said. “I had my windows blown out, all-the-way across the street, no less, but that corner house was like the house on the rock – you know, the one in the song.”
According to the county, the property was owned by someone named, F. Smith. Taxes had been paid-in-full, on-time, for as long as they had records. Yet, nobody could recall ever meeting the owner. “He or she probably pays by mail,” one clerk offered. There was no record of the construction date.
As I dug further, I found there were no recent gas or electric bills, no building permits – even though some neighbors thought the house had been remodeled some time ago – and oddly, no water bill either. But the lawn and flowers looked freshly-watered at all times. One could have sworn the corner had its own Camelot-like climate.
I paid a visit to the house on the corner. Several visits, actually. I called out, knocked on the door, and looked through the windows. Inside was a quirky décor: a combination of furnishings including everything from antiques to IKEA; 19th century pieces, mid-twentieth century, doilies, chandeliers, Frank Lloyd Wright chairs, and a flat screen TV. It looked more like a museum collection than anything else. White-glove clean, with hardly any wear on the carpet. But there were footprints, and signs of life. At night, from the vantage point of my car, I could see lights going on and off. But I never saw anyone moving about.
I spent days in front of the house on the corner. And days interviewing everyone from the neighborhood busy-body to the paperboy. It became apparent that nobody knew for certain how the house on the corner came to be as it was, much less when it came to be built.
I couldn’t just break into the house. There was no evidence of a crime being committed and no one seemed to be under duress.
One night, I risked being a stalker and took a closer look at a lighted room. An attractive, well-dressed woman appeared in the window. She pointed towards the door and said, “Please, come in, Mr. Murray.”
As I entered the house, she introduced herself. “Florence Smith, at your service.” And added, “You must be tired of sitting in your car.”
I asked how she knew who I was. She told me she was aware that I was asking about the house. She offered me a seat and some tea. The rest of the story might be difficult to believe.
As I suspected, Smith was not her real name, and neither was Florence. She told me she had been observing our history for over 200 years. She said she admired Florence Nightingale and took the name Florence in her honor. She spoke of Ms. Nightingale as if she had known her personally. And I was not mistaken – I checked – she bore a striking resemblance to her namesake. Her house was a repository of memorabilia, one of several she said her people had sent to various locations on Earth for the same purpose: monitoring us. She gave me the “grand tour” and I have to say the house seemed much larger on the inside than on the outside, especially when I took the basement and the attic into consideration. Florence explained that the house was impervious to damage as well as the ravages of time. Every 30-40 years, the “Docent” would change its appearance, according to the tastes of the day. There was no need for supplemental power. The house was designed with a built-in generator to supply all the power it needed. When it was time, the house would be re-assigned – and moved – as required by “circumstances.”
Florence was a pleasant, highly-intelligent woman, if I could call her that. Her mannerisms led me to believe she was indeed “not from around here,” as the saying goes. It seems to me, if there are extra-terrestrials visiting Earth, one way to go unnoticed would be to live in a quaint little house and not cause any trouble. By now, you might think I’ve lost touch with reality, but after you visit the corner of Mulberry and Walnut, you might change your mind.
We had a delightful evening. Tea, scones, and crumpets. The best I’ve ever had. Florence had an encyclopedic knowledge of Earth history and sounded like she witnessed things first-hand. She said she was present at the Battle of Gettysburg, Appomattox Courthouse, and Ford’s Theatre. She saw “the war to end all wars” unfold. She watched Truman agonize over the decision to drop the first atomic bombs. She told me the real stories of the Kennedy assassination and the “war on terror.” Then she swore me to secrecy. The next thing I knew she was telling me the house might not be where it was much longer. As I passed out, I told her I wanted to return in the daytime and hoped to see her again.
I wanted to know more. How did she keep her presence secret? Where did she and the house come from? How was the house powered? What was it made of? If the house wasn’t going to be here, where was it going? I’d swear Florence carried me to my car in her arms, like a mother would carry her sleeping child.
When I awoke the next morning, the house on the corner was gone, and in its place was a green-space surrounded by trees. None of the neighbors saw anything.
MurrayWorks 