The owner is hoping for a quick sale prior to his having to relocate. You see, like so many others, he’s about to lose his job. And, given his age and bad heart, one might naturally think he’ll have difficulty finding a new job, what with the Mortgage Crisis and the Financial Crisis and The WarS and all. There are hard times ahead.
The house is kind of an anomaly in the neighborhood, relatively small and somewhat uninviting, unlike the other homes designed for entertaining and society type activities. Inside, the kitchen is rather small, not suitable for dinners for a dozen or more, the dining room tiny relatively speaking and the living room probably couldn’t accomodate a cocktail party for more than a dozen people - at best. There isn’t even room for a piano. And the fireplace is less than impressive - hardly big enough to warm two people in wing back chairs sitting directly in front of it.
The agent trying to sell the house has apparently signed a confidentiality agreement, for he absolutely refuses to say who currently owns this house - something to do with Halliburton. The neighbors are equally tight lipped about who lived next door. When asked they go into “I see nothing. I hear nothing. I know nothing” mode. Perhaps their neighbor was a serial killer and they fear property values in the neighborhood will drop if anyone finds out.
Those who have looked at the house comment on the fact that it has an “odd feel to it”, something about it being vaguely disturbing, a certain darkness to it, an oppressive ambiance. Word is it’ll be a tough house to sell.
And if some of the rumors are true, it’s going to be on the market for a LONG time. Some think it may become one of THOSE houses you find in older small towns - the old house the kids refer to by its name, in whispers, and avoid around Halloween.
Rumors will circulate about odd sounds coming from the property late at night - shot gun blasts, screams as if someone is being tortured, rattling chains. There’s even a story going around about a mass grave somewhere on the property and apparently there’s some black gooey foul smelling stuff leaking up out of the ground. The visage of a pale hunched over bald old man with glasses, mumbling obscenities and complaining about his heart is said to roam the property when there’s a full moon.
The Old Cheney Place will certainly become this little community’s That House.