Chapter 5: The Open House Inferno

Saturday morning arrived with the kind of crisp autumn air that real estate agents dreamed of—perfect weather for an open house. At 47 Maple Street, however, the dream was about to become a nightmare.

Chloe Sullivan crouched behind her bedroom curtains at 9:47 AM, watching as a sleek silver sedan pulled up to the curb. A woman in a power suit emerged, checking her phone with the efficient movements of someone who sold million-dollar properties for breakfast.

"She's here," Chloe whispered to Mark, who was pacing nervously behind her. "The real estate agent."

Margaret Chen—no relation to Tommy from the car club—was Richard Gable's handpicked specialist in "luxury property transitions." Her online reviews praised her ability to "present challenging properties in their best light" and "maximize value in difficult markets."

She was about to earn every penny of her commission.

Margaret's first hint that today might not go as planned came when she stepped out of her car and was immediately assaulted by a smell that made her eyes water. She paused, pulling out her phone to double-check the address. The house looked right—charming two-story colonial with good bones—but something was definitely wrong with the air quality.

A rumbling sound from down the street caught her attention. Margaret turned to see what appeared to be a motorcycle parade heading her way, led by a man the size of a refrigerator riding a Harley that sounded like controlled thunder.

Big Dave Morrison had kept his promise. Twenty-three members of the Blackwater Rugby Club roared down Maple Street in formation, their bikes gleaming in the morning sun, exhaust pipes modified for maximum auditory impact. They pulled into Mrs. Higgins' driveway across the street with the precision of a military operation.

"What in the world..." Margaret muttered, fumbling with her lockbox as the sound of engines revving filled the air.

The second wave arrived before she could process the first. Tommy Chen's Honda Civic—now sporting a exhaust system that belonged on a tractor—led a convoy of the most aggressively modified vehicles Margaret had ever seen. Rust-bucket sedans with spoilers bigger than airplane wings, pickup trucks belching black smoke, and at least three cars that appeared to be held together with duct tape and determination.

Tommy's cousin's food truck brought up the rear, generator coughing to life with a sound like a dying rhinoceros. The side of the truck proclaimed "MIGUEL'S MOBILE MUNCHIES" in letters bright enough to be seen from orbit.

Margaret's phone rang. Richard Gable's number flashed on the screen.

"Margaret, I'm seeing some concerning social media posts about Maple Street. Something about a charity event?"

Margaret looked around at the chaos unfolding before her. "Mr. Gable, there appears to be some kind of... community gathering. I'm sure it's just a coincidence."

"Handle it," Richard snapped. "I have investors interested in that property. This sale needs to go smoothly."

As Margaret hung up, Mrs. Higgins emerged from her house wearing an apron that read "BLESS THIS MESS" and carrying a folding table. Within minutes, her front yard had transformed into command central for what appeared to be a neighborhood block party on steroids.

The book club ladies arrived in a convoy of sensible sedans, their cars loaded with card tables, folding chairs, and enough baked goods to feed a small army. They set up their bake sale operation with military precision, effectively cordoning off half the street with strategic placement of brownies and banana bread.

"Excuse me," Margaret called out, approaching Mrs. Higgins with her best professional smile. "I'm Margaret Chen, the listing agent for the house across the street. Is there any way we could ask folks to keep the noise down? We have an open house scheduled."

Mrs. Higgins looked at her with the innocent expression of someone who'd never told a lie in her seventy-three years. "Oh my dear, this is a memorial charity event for Eleanor Gable. Surely her son wouldn't want us to cancel a tribute to his dear mother?"

Margaret felt trapped. How could she argue against a memorial for the previous owner?

The first potential buyers arrived at 10:15—a young couple in matching cardigan sweaters who looked like they'd stepped out of a home improvement catalog. They parked behind Miguel's food truck and approached the house with the cautious expressions of people walking through a minefield.

"Is this... normal for the neighborhood?" the woman asked, gesturing at the motorcycle brigade that was now firing up a barbecue grill the size of a small aircraft carrier.

"Every neighborhood has its... character," Margaret replied weakly, inserting her key into the front door lock.

The smell hit them like a physical wall the moment the door opened.

"Oh my God," the man gasped, immediately covering his nose with his sleeve. "What is that?"

Margaret's professional training kicked in. "Older homes can sometimes have drainage issues. Nothing that can't be addressed with modern plumbing solutions."

They made it exactly three steps into the living room before the visual assault completed what the olfactory attack had started. The woman stared in horror at the neon green tree-stump coffee table, the ceramic gnome collection, and what appeared to be a recliner that had been upholstered by someone with severe color blindness.

"The current owners have... eclectic taste," Margaret offered. "The important thing is the bone structure of the house."

A motorcycle backfired in the street, causing the man to jump and knock over a lamp shaped like a flamingo wearing a top hat.

"Maybe we should look at some other properties," the woman whispered, already backing toward the door.

They were gone before Margaret could launch into her prepared speech about investment potential and neighborhood growth projections.

The second couple lasted longer—nearly seven minutes. They were made of sterner stuff, urban professionals who'd clearly dealt with fixer-uppers before. They nodded politely at the décor disasters and seemed prepared to overlook the aggressive odor situation.

Their downfall came in the basement.

Margaret had hoped to skip the lower level entirely, but the husband was clearly handy with home repairs and insisted on checking the foundation. They descended the stairs into what had become an aromatic hell zone, where Mark's ammonia solution had achieved its full potential.

"Jesus Christ," the man gasped. "How many cats live down here?"

"The current owners are... pet enthusiasts," Margaret replied, trying not to breathe through her nose.

A sound from upstairs made them all freeze—the unmistakable wail of what sounded like a cat being murdered by a blender. Sergeant Whiskers had chosen that moment to voice his opinion about his temporary accommodations.

"That's... that's not normal cat behavior," the woman said, her eyes wide with alarm.

They left without seeing the upstairs.

By noon, Margaret had shown the house to six different sets of potential buyers. The longest visit had lasted twelve minutes. The shortest had ended before they made it past the front porch, when the husband took one whiff of the interior and announced he was "having Vietnam flashbacks to his college dorm."

Outside, the chaos had only intensified. The elementary school soccer team had arrived for their car wash fundraiser, complete with a dozen screaming children, garden hoses, and enough soap suds to create a slip-and-slide effect on the sidewalk.

Tommy's garage band had set up in Miguel's food truck and was providing what could generously be called "ambient music" but sounded more like construction equipment having an argument. The lead singer—a sixteen-year-old with the projection ability of an opera star and the musical taste of someone who'd never heard actual music—was currently performing what might have been a song about lost love or automotive repair. It was impossible to tell.

Margaret's phone wouldn't stop ringing. Richard Gable had called six times, each conversation more heated than the last. Her agency's office had fielded three noise complaints from other neighbors. And somehow, word had spread through the local real estate community that "something weird" was happening at the Maple Street listing.

The breaking point came at 1:30 PM, when Margaret was showing the house to what she privately thought of as her "last hope"—a retired couple with enough financial resources to overlook minor inconveniences like sensory assault and neighborhood chaos.

They were actually doing well, making it through the living room disaster zone and even commenting positively on the "potential" they saw in the space. Margaret was beginning to think she might salvage something from this nightmare when they encountered Alex's secret weapon.

One of Big Dave's rugby teammates—a man who went by "Tiny" despite being roughly the size of a small building—had been strategically positioned at the bake sale with instructions to engage any promising-looking buyers in conversation.

"You folks thinking about buying the house?" Tiny asked, approaching with a smile that would have been friendly if not for the intimidating bulk behind it.

"We're considering it," the husband replied cautiously.

"Oh, that's great! Welcome to the neighborhood!" Tiny's enthusiasm was infectious and terrifying in equal measure. "You'll love it here. We have community events like this every weekend. Sometimes twice a week during football season."

The wife's smile began to falter. "Every weekend?"

"Oh yeah. Big Dave there," Tiny gestured toward the rugby captain, who was currently using a motorcycle to tow a barbecue grill across the lawn, "he hosts poker nights every Tuesday. Gets pretty loud, but it's all in good fun. And Miguel's food truck comes by most afternoons—kids love it, though that generator can be a bit much if you're trying to nap."

"The generator runs... often?" the husband asked weakly.

"Daily! Sometimes twice on Sundays. But hey, at least you'll never go hungry, right?"

Margaret watched in horror as her last legitimate prospects made polite excuses and fled to their car, driving away with the speed of people escaping a natural disaster.

At 2:47 PM, with one hour left in the scheduled open house, Margaret sat in her car with the windows up, air conditioning on full blast, and seriously considered a career change. Her phone buzzed with yet another call from Richard Gable.

"How many offers do we have?" he demanded without preamble.

Margaret looked at her clipboard, where she'd been tracking visitor information. Seventeen groups had approached the house. Fourteen had left without completing a tour. Three had made it through the entire showing but hadn't returned her follow-up calls.

"Mr. Gable, I think we might want to consider rescheduling—"

"Are you telling me that no one wants to buy a perfectly good house in a desirable neighborhood?"

Through her windshield, Margaret watched as one of the soccer kids accidentally sprayed Tiny with a garden hose, causing the giant rugby player to chase the child around Mrs. Higgins' yard while both of them laughed hysterically. In the background, the garage band had moved on to what sounded like their interpretation of death metal performed on instruments that may or may not have been properly tuned.

"It's been... a challenging day," she said diplomatically.

At exactly 4:00 PM, as Margaret was packing up her materials and preparing to flee the scene, a final car pulled up to the curb. A single man emerged, looking around at the chaos with the expression of someone who'd seen worse things and lived to tell about it.

Margaret's heart leaped. One last chance.

The man made it through the entire house tour. He didn't flinch at the smell, didn't comment on the décor, and actually asked intelligent questions about square footage and property taxes. When they finished, he stood in the living room nodding thoughtfully.

"I'd like to make an offer," he said.

Margaret nearly wept with relief. "Wonderful! What did you have in mind?"

"Two hundred thousand. Cash."

It was exactly what the Sullivans had been prepared to offer—$80,000 below the asking price, but infinitely better than no offer at all.

As Margaret drove away from Maple Street, leaving behind the most surreal open house of her career, she had no idea that her final buyer was actually Dave Morrison's brother-in-law, operating under strict instructions to make an offer only if absolutely no one else showed genuine interest.

The trap had been sprung. The house was unsellable to anyone but the people who already called it home.

Now all that remained was to see if Richard Gable would take the bait.