666 Belaware Road, Unit 13 (I kid you not)

"I really think the third house looks so promising." My mom was looking at the booklet Rita had printed featuring all three houses we were visiting tonight. She had drawn a big red line through the Italian nightmare house.

"I hope so," I said, hopping out of the car after my dad pulled up in front of house number two. "But I don't want that house to impact your ability to see the benefits of this house."

"Of which I hope there are many," Justin joked, though of course he was quite serious. We were getting married in six months and were no closer to finding our dream home than when we started. In fact, the houses were so bad I'd say we were two steps back.

"Even if we do like this house," Justin whispered as we ascended the driveway, "the address is kind of hard to swallow. I mean, who owns this place—the devil?"

I felt fear creep into my gut like a slow poison. "I think thirteen is good luck in Italian," I murmured, trying not to buy into the superstition. "Or at least, I hope so."

Rita unlocked the door and welcomed us into the decent-sized entryway. "Anyone home?" With her grey hair and white dress, she almost blended in with the plain walls.

Justin flinched. "Maybe there's a way we can be more sure this time," he muttered.

The front hall closet was a decent size, and I was thrilled to see that the bathroom was located near the front door and away from the living space at the end of the hall.

Dad closed the door behind us. "Well, this place looks normal."

I nodded, feeling hopeful. "Yeah, it does."

I was starting to get the hang of things. I stepped into the kitchen, ready to assess. At first I was pleased with the decent size and ample cupboard space, but then I put my mom lens on. The kitchen was dated, the appliances were old, the laminate floor in the dining space ahead looked homemade...

"Michelle, honey, come here."

I followed my father's voice into the joint dining room-living room just beyond the kitchen. A lovely table had been set up with six chairs around it and a bright light overhead.

My dad gestured. "Look. A table. An actual table. And you don't have to sacrifice the hallway to get it."

I grinned. "Finally! So far this place is pretty good."

My dad strolled with me into the half of the room that was being used as a living space. Black leather couches looked rather nice next to a tall green plant facing a large television.

"Well, there is one problem." My dad came to a stop in front of the back doors. "Imagine saying  '666 Belaware Road, unit 13' when your friends ask for the address."

I cringed. Maybe we could legally change the address.

"I'm going to check out the upstairs. Justin?"

He peeked out from the kitchen. "Coming."

I passed by my mom, who was staring at the living room floor with wide eyes. She shook her head and scribbled, "Living room floor looks DIY. Bad idea IMO."

"Carpeted stairs," Justin murmured, gesturing for me to go ahead of him. "If the entire upstairs is like that, we're looking at 10k right there."

"Let's hope they switched to hardwood up top." I led the way, our footsteps making almost no sound on the spongy grey carpet.

When I reached the top, I found myself in a small parquet hallway with four closed doors. "There's no natural light up here. Where are the windows?"

"Yeah, that's weird." Justin turned a squeaky knob and the door swung in, revealing a very dark room. "Ooh, romantic lighting," he joked, but he gave me a sweet smile as he gently took my hand, guiding me into the room.

I laughed and stared back into his eyes, or at least where I thought they might be—Justin was slowly getting swallowed up in the darkness. "You are very romantic, but this room is not. Where's the light switch?"

Justin fumbled along the wall and finally found the switch, illuminating something I wished I could unsee.

A rack of underwear.

I gasped, somewhat aware of the queen-sized bed and dresser, but unable to take my eyes off the hopefully clean laundry. "OK." I cleared my throat. "Maybe the lights were a bad omen."

Justin flicked the lights off. "Uh, yeah. Maybe the address was a bad omen."

We practically trampled each other as we made our way down the stairs.

"Mom, Dad?"

My dad looked over his shoulder at me. "Honey, I don't want to worry you, but these floors look like they were put together by a two year old." He paused. "Actually, that would be an insult to two year olds."

Justin leaned against the basement door. "I think this family is really into housework. The floor, their dirty underwear..."

"What?" My mom wrinkled her nose. "You found underwear upstairs?"

Rita sighed. "Another dud. Do you even want to see the basement?"

Justin and I looked at each other and shrugged. "Might as well," he suggested.

Rita led the way into the basement. It smelled faintly of metal and possibly rust as I followed my dad down the stairs, turning the corner to face...

An unfinished basement.

"OK." I did a quick tour of the large, completely empty room. A hint of sunlight snuck in through the two small windows next to what looked like a very weed-filled backyard. "This kind of reminds me of..."

"A prison?" My dad was staring, deeply puzzled, at a barred window that likely overlooked the cantina.

"Uh, guys?"

Justin was leaning forward, his hands on his thighs as he squinted at something tucked into a corner of the supposed prison. "I...I don't even want to know what's in there."

I put my hand on Justin's back and peeked around him. "What is it?"

I spotted a really old-looking box with more wrinkles than the underwear still burned into my eyelids. On the side someone had scribbled in red marker: "fresh poultry."

"Wait, what?" I leaned in closer, as if expecting the letters to rearrange themselves into something more reasonable, like "upholstery fr."

My mom sounded worried. "What does it say?"

"Fresh poultry." Justin looked at me. "Please tell me that doesn't mean what I think it means." Because Justin was a francophone, there were times when he wasn't quite up to date on infrequently used English phrases.

Now was not one of them.

"I feel sick." I took a step back, Justin moving with me. "And not just because I'm a vegetarian."

I leaned against my mom, feeling a chunk of hope break off and shatter into a million pieces as is it hit the cold cement floor.

"Basement prison," my mom was writing. "Fresh poultry??"

I watched my mom cross out the picture of 666 Belaware Road, unit 13. I stared at the address. "I guess we should have known this house would be cursed."