Welcome to the Ghost House
“Burn it.”
That was the most common suggestion we got when asking friends and family what to do with the abandoned house on our property.
We did look into it. People can sometimes “donate” old, unlivable homes to local firefighters for not-so-simulated training exercises. But the Ghost House was too close to a lovely stand of cedars — and only 20 or 30 feet set back from our own home.
We took an initial assessment. Too close. Asbestos exterior tiling. Deeply sagging floors above a permanently flooded basement. Lath and plaster walls. Beautiful, fat pine beams. Coyote poop everywhere. Like EVERYWHERE. Gorgeous flakes of peeling paint on the doors could only mean lead. An almost immaculate dress hung in the kitchen window and closets filled with the dregs of someone’s old home.
And what were we supposed to do with someone’s past life left to creep and slowly fall in on itself?
Step One: To unbury the bones of a ghost house.
Because of the asbestos and lead, knocking the place down was an expensive option. And Drew pulled a Cramer, deciding it would be a fun project to renovate instead.
Nerding out with construction buddies, they wiggled into godforsaken holes that only raccoons were willing to traverse (and die in — judging by the skull Drew once found). But as ghastly as the home looked, the Ghost House had solid, straight bones in the walls, second-story floors, and roof. Besides the poop, mold, stuff, and ancient wallpaper to clear out, there were three main problems: a roof as old as our parents, soggy basement, and collapsed bathroom and mudroom additions.
Drew was undeterred as he unearthed and opened the Ghost House’s coffins and coffers.
Step Two: Clear sh*t out
All white on the outside and with a roof that made shingles and toes curl just looking at the eaves, the Ghost House came with all its midcentury kitchen appliances, stashes of Finnish hymn and math books, a pantry full of tea cups and pans, an evolution of bikes dating back to at least 1965, a busted and locked up Singer sewing machine, and two dozen working copper solar lights. Most of the stuff was moldy. All of it was covered in droppings.
Drew and a few brave friends donned respirators and hefted crowbars, removing all the crud, wall plaster, wiring, mouse-palace furniture, wheelbarrow loads of coyote poop, and as much of the layers and layers of wallpaper as humanly possible. It filled a dumpster. And then some. We accrued a $500 overage fee but didn’t lose any friends.
Step Three: Dry out the wet basement
This part sucked.
For reference: When Drew and I checked out the house when thinking of buying it, we snuck into the Ghost House. Our realtor, bless him, helped us slam open the snow-covered and slightly unhinged door to get in. We tiptoed across the 10x2 plank spanning the kitchen floor chasm where the freon-full fridge tipped at a 25-degree angle. We crunched across … things. Maybe bones, definitely furry poop. Then Drew opened the basement door. Fortunately, our realtor offered a flashlight before Drew took a step because there was a four-foot drop to a solid skating rink of ice.
When we moved in the following June, the rink was a pond. Every time it rained a pool. By November, it froze again. The next year, Drew removed all the flooring along with another friend deserving of sainthood.
By this time, we were thinking of what the Ghost House was going to be. Drew’s initial dream of turning it into the Dream Home had gone out the window with all the stuff in Step Two (thank God, Vesta, Brigid, and every other deity protecting the hearth and home). But we had sunk enough time and money to fill the six-foot hole where the old water heater now lay on its side.
So, we decided to fill it. Nothing a mini-excavator, two crazy people, and mountains of fill sand and driveway gravel couldn’t handle.
Step Four: Get Goats
Yup. We now keep a small herd of Alpines and Nubians in the parlor and dining room. The upstairs bedrooms are their hayloft.