Fixer Upper, Fully Furnished

Lacey stood up from unpacking another box, brushing sweat from her forehead and pushing her neglected red frizz back from her flushed face in one motion. I forgot how stressful this was!

Children too young to help, and parents too old, a husband with a tendency to fixate on the wrong things... Lacey felt like she was moving them in single-handedly, and juggling the task with the care of three children under seven to boot.

Her voice rose to a testy bark at Elliot, the littlest, who was zooming the circuit through the kitchen, hallway and dining room again.

The house had been owned by a widow who'd moved abroad, and rented it out fully furnished. They'd been assured that a skip would be hired, and the place cleared before they moved in. Lacey wouldn't hear of it. It was mostly perfectly serviceable furniture, and if not suitable for themselves, easily sellable. Who knew what treasures they might find?

Now Lacey second guessed that decision, made in a moment of creative optimism. One of the draws of moving to this larger property was the space it would afford them to spread and grow. The tiny townhouse had felt cluttered and cramped for years; they could have fitted in here with all their stuff comfortably twice over. It would have felt spacious. Room to spread, to sigh. To grow. Breathe. If it'd been cleared first.

Instead of a blank state on which she could make her mark as an excited first-time home owner, she felt the weight of scrubbing the slate clean first herself.

A lot of post arrived for the previous occupants. But there was no forwarding address. Didn't they tell anyone they were moving?

Over the following weeks, the pair tackled the many projects the house had to offer. Stripping wallpaper in the lounge uncovered a dark and ugly stain. "Probably just wine," Christian shrugged. "Or paint; someone's idea of a joke."

Ripping open one of the letters to discover a threatening message, Lacey felt certain that the strange stains weren't wine or paint at all.

Finding a human hand in the decrepit hot tub was the last straw.

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Word count, excluding note: 366

Submitted on 31st May at 23.57

*Quick Author's Note*

First, and most importantly: thank you so much for reading my story! The ha'penny that Vocal will toss in my hat for your eyeballs landing on this humble piece will be well-spent.

If you enjoyed this one, the very best compliment you can give me is to share it, or read another!

A Year of Stories: I'm writing a story every day this year. This one continues my 152 day streak since 1st January.

Please do consider lending your support to the other creators who are also on this madcap "a story every day" adventure. They are putting out excellent content every day!

Rachel Deeming

Gerard DiLeo

Leave a comment: Please do leave me a comment. It makes it easier for me to reciprocate the read.

The story behind the story: Probably a very boring reason why some homes aren't cleared out properly before the new people move in, but fluff that. Sometimes it's because they were tangled up in crime and had to go on the run, or into witness protection or something. There's always a story, if you look.

Thank you

Thank you again, most especially if you are one of the wonderful people who has been staunchly reading these daily scribbles since the start of the year. I see you, and appreciate you very much indeed! 😁

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