When you’re a real estate agent from the East Coast, especially one who’s wandered through the winding streets of Scituate and other historic corners of Massachusetts, you get used to old homes—really old homes. I’m talking about houses built in the 1700s… and yes, even one from the 1600s.
These antique beauties come with all the classic features: wide-plank wood floors, charmingly short ceilings, and steep, narrow staircases that feel more like vertical ladders than steps. You’ll find fireplaces in nearly every room, wallpaper as far as the eye can see, and plaster walls that have seen more history than your local museum. They often carry a musty aroma, and let’s just say the kitchens? They’re not for the faint of heart (or the hungry—they almost always need a full gut job).
But every now and then, you stumble on a house that really sticks with you. One that feels like it’s watching you back.
Let me take you to Scituate, where I once lived. Known as a sleepy little fishing village today, it was once a destination for those battling tuberculosis. People would escape the smoky cities of Boston and New York to take in Scituate’s ocean breezes—thought to be healing. Many homes featured wide, open porches, where the sick would recline in lounge chairs or daybeds, soaking in the salty air and clinging to hope.
One such house still stands.
It had once been a recovery home, complete with an ocean-facing porch—later enclosed to make more living space. At the top of the house stood a turret, formerly a widow’s walk, now transformed into a sewing room.
I brought a client to see this house. She was a medical medium—intensely intuitive, sensitive to energy most of us can’t perceive. She was also a dog lover, with two massive Bernese Mountain Dogs in tow. We were looking for space… but got more than we bargained for.
At first, the house didn’t want us inside. Literally. The front door seemed to push back against us. Just as we were about to give up, it creaked open—on its own. That was red flag number one, but of course, we went in anyway. (Because that’s what you do when you’re a Realtor and you’ve driven 45 minutes with two dogs in the car.)
The entryway featured a burbling fountain—plastic grapes and ivy spilling down like something from a 1980s wedding centerpiece. The living room was dim and dusty, anchored by a baby grand piano draped in green velvet. All around, Catholic missals were stacked neatly beside giant magnifying glasses, as if someone was still trying to read them all.
The religious theme didn’t stop there. Saints—tiny doll-like figures of them—lined every surface. Statues of Jesus and Mary watched us from corners and shelves. Paintings, pictures, prayer cards. You name it. It was like the Vatican gift shop exploded inside.
Dark wallpaper covered every wall, and the kitchen… oh, the kitchen. Fruit wallpaper (yes, fruit), white porcelain appliances, and a vibe that screamed THE GODFATHER. I could practically see a beefy uncle stirring Sunday gravy in a giant pot, red sauce bubbling, towel thrown over his shoulder.
And the bathrooms? Duct-taped fixtures. Enough said.
We moved upstairs, where things got even weirder. Crucifixes above every pillow. Life-size cutouts of Jesus. More saint figurines. Bible verses taped to walls. The sewing room at the top of the turret had news clippings—local politics, obits, Sox scores—pinned up like a shrine to the South Shore.
But the real kicker was the attic. It was modern, almost… normal. Holiday decorations stored in tidy bins. A breath of fresh air—until my client heard it.
Whispered voices.
“Get out.”
She turned to me, pale as a ghost.
I didn’t hear anything.
She heard everything.
Needless to say, we did not write an offer.