The Perfect Property Dream

“So erm… this one then?”
We were at a house viewing, and this one was just perfect. I’d never been in a more beautiful house: pristine white walls and ceiling, a plush white fluffy carpet beneath us; a gorgeous wrought iron spiral staircase with intricately carved dragons winding up its bars; a traditional piano besides the stairs, and a ridiculously tall sofa upon which we were sat. Like seriously, my feet were a metre off the ground…
The lighting was fantastic too – grand chandeliers tinkling droplets of light down the sides of the open plan room. There were lights shaped like Calla lilies facing down from the heavens. It was perfect.
But it was a seven bedroom house. We counted a list in our heads and we didn’t have five other people who wanted to live with us. But we didn’t want to lose this house.
“Ooo, does it have a pool?” I said aloud. I jumped off of the sofa, and could see through the big glass doors that there clearly was. This too, was beautiful. Clear, pale blue water in a large decked pool. I stepped out onto the decking to get a closer look.
Something stirred. I turned to see a figure beneath a duvet on a sun lounger. I heard the words, “1.1 million.” The woman sat up and stared at us. I started backing up towards the house. The house that was supposed to be empty for our viewing. Then I saw the gardener looking at us too. He looked odd. Not a normal kind of odd, but a pale, ill, about to keel over kind of odd.
I went back inside. “Let’s look upstairs, shall we?” I said. We climbed the spiral staircase until we came to what felt like an entirely different house.
A diary entry came into my mind: “Before I’d even ascended I could smell the sweet scent of apples.”
And I could. I could also remember the fate of the famous hand that wrote the diary entry.
The upstairs of the house was like the barn conversion before the conversion. It just looked like the upstairs of a barn. Except instead of bundles of hay, there were crates upon crates of Golden Delicious apples.
Two women in 1950s style uniforms were painting the apples. In a mixture of paint and apple juice, they were painting the green apples greener. It made them look more like the fake fruit you find in furniture shops.
The estate agent clambered up the stairs to see how we were getting on. The women offered him an apple, smiling cruelly.
He thanked them and took a big bite out of it. We held our breath.
But nothing happened. He said it was delicious, that it tasted more like an apple than any apple he’d ever eaten. We facepalmed.


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