The Old House

Eli Williams was a house flipper by trade, but he liked to think of himself as a restorer of forgotten treasures. He had an eye for older homes, particularly those that had been vacant for some time but still possessed the character and craftsmanship that modern construction often lacked. He enjoyed taking a weathered property, giving it a little tender, loving care, and transforming it into something a new owner could appreciate. Of course, with making a fair amount of profit in mind.

So far, the year had been exceptionally good for him. His keen eye for potential, combined with a willingness to tackle projects other investors considered too troublesome, had earned him a respectable sum approaching the three hundred thousand dollar mark. It was enough to make him confident in his abilities, but Eli wasn't one to rest on his accomplishments. He was always looking for the next opportunity, the next challenge, and, perhaps if he was lucky, the one property that would set his business apart from all the others. He believed he might have found it in an 1889 Maine farmhouse he had recently purchased.

From the moment he first stepped onto the property, Eli had sensed there was something special about the old place. Years of standing empty had dulled its charm, and time had left its mark on the seasoned exterior; beneath the worn surfaces lay a quality of construction rarely seen in houses built today. To say the farmhouse had good bones would have been an understatement. It had the kind of solid, old-fashioned craftsmanship that made a renovation worthwhile, even if it demanded considerably more work than he had anticipated. All four corner posts were fashioned from solid six-by-six-inch oak timbers, massive supports that spoke of a time when builders took pride in constructing homes meant to endure for generations. The roof was covered in gray slate shingles, their weathered surfaces lending the house a dignified appearance despite the exposure to wind and rain. Inside, four fireplaces stood as reminders of the days when a home's warmth depended on a crackling fire and a steady supply of split wood. Each had been constructed from handmade bricks, laid with the sort of care and precision that suggested the original builders had taken their work seriously.

Eli could already picture what the farmhouse might become. With the right combination of restoration and modernization, he could preserve its historic character while bringing it comfortably into the twenty-first century. The original woodwork could be revived, the fireplaces restored to their former glory, and the tired rooms transformed into inviting living spaces without sacrificing the qualities that made the house unique. This wasn't going to be another quick renovation followed by a sale and a tidy profit. Eli intended to make this property the piece de resistance of his house-flipping career—a masterpiece that would demonstrate just what he could accomplish when given the right house. For the first time in a long while, he found himself genuinely excited about a project. The farmhouse had history, character, and craftsmanship in abundance. All it needed was someone who could recognize its potential and give it the attention it deserved.

Eli Williams was convinced he was that man.

 …

Eli decided to begin with the three upstairs bedrooms and the main bathroom. The master bedroom would eventually be converted into a spacious suite, while the two smaller bedrooms flanked the bathroom in the center. By starting on the upper floor, he could have his crew remove the accumulated trash and rubble without interfering with the renovation work planned for the lower levels. Once he had settled on a plan, Eli gathered his crew and explained how he wanted the work to proceed.

“Okay, guys, here’s how we’re going to tackle this,” he began. “First, I want you to carefully remove all the wood trim and number each piece so we can put everything back where it belongs. We’re going to restore the trim and refinish it to its original condition, so be careful not to damage it.” He paused, surveying the battered walls before continuing.

“Next, we need to tear out all this awful horsehair plaster and the wooden lath behind it. I know it’s going to be a dirty, miserable job, but it has to go. Once we’ve stripped everything down to the studs, we’ll replace it all with new drywall.”

In no time at all, the bedroom door and casing were removed and sent to the shop for restoration. The ceiling and window trim were removed and numbered as Eli instructed and sent to the shop as well.

Wearing a face mask and goggles to keep the dust out, Eli examined the bricks in the fireplace to make sure none were broken. There was another small room off the master behind the wall that he opened up to transform it into a private bath and closet. A worker, Ben, who had been working on tearing down the separation walked over to Eli, covered in white horsehair plaster dust. Eli chuckled, “You haunt here often?” Ben started pounding his work overalls hard, which raised great clouds of dust, making matters worse. Eli started shouting. “Stop! Stop! What did you want to tell me?”

Ben pulled down his mask and pointed into the darkness. “That’s an outside wall over there, right?”

Eli frowned at him. “Yeah. So?”

Ben hitched his thumb in that direction, his eyes narrowing. “Well, then, why is that door  there?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Just look!”

Eli turned toward the wall and squinted into the semidarkness. At first, he couldn’t make out what Ben was pointing at. Then he saw it—a small door, barely four feet tall, set into the wall as though it had always belonged there.

His mouth fell open.

“What the hell?”

He walked toward it slowly, as if approaching something that might suddenly move. The closer he got, the stranger it seemed. He stopped in front of it and scratched his chin, his eyebrows drawing together in a deep frown. The door was about four feet tall and perhaps three feet wide. It was painted white, and the finish looked so fresh that it might have been applied only moments earlier. There were no scuff marks, no scratches, and no signs of age. The hinges were mounted on the opposite side, meaning the door would have to open outward. A small keyhole sat where a lock should be, but there was no doorknob. Eli stared at it, trying to make sense of what he was seeing.

It was an outside wall. He knew that. There was nothing on the other side but the exterior of the house. He had seen it himself.So how could there be a door here?He leaned closer, examining the edges. The frame appeared perfectly normal. There were no obvious gaps, no strange seams, and nothing to suggest that the door had been cut into the wall. It looked as though the house had been built around it. But that was impossible.

Slowly, Eli straightened and turned his head toward Ben. His expression had changed from curiosity to genuine bewilderment. “What the hell?” he repeated. Ben shook his head. “Don't ask me. I just noticed it.”

“But this is an outside wall!” Eli exclaimed, gesturing helplessly at the door. “There shouldn't be anything behind it!”

“That's what I thought.”

Eli looked back at the door, then at the surrounding wall, as though one of them might suddenly reveal the answer. He took a step backward, glanced toward the stairs, and then hurried down them.

“What are you doing?” Ben called after him.

“Checking something!”

Eli scurried down the stairs and out the front door. He raced around the side of the house, nearly stumbling as he hurried toward the back. When he reached the rear wall, he stopped abruptly and looked up. There it was, the very spot where the little door should have been. Except there was no door. No frame. No hinges. No keyhole. Nothing but unbroken siding stretching across the back of the house.

Eli stood motionless, staring at the wall. He moved closer, running his eyes along the siding, searching for some indication that a door might have been concealed beneath it.   The siding was solid. The wall was ordinary. There was absolutely no sign of an opening. He slowly backed away, his mind struggling to reconcile what he had just seen upstairs with the unbroken wall in front of him. It made no sense.

Eli swallowed hard. A cold, uneasy feeling crept up his spine. He had spent enough time around old houses to know that buildings could hold surprises, but this was something else entirely. Doors didn't appear in solid walls without a reason. And they certainly didn't disappear from the outside. He stared at the siding for several more seconds, then whispered to himself, “What the hell?”

Eli returned to Ben. “I’m going to get in touch with the real estate agent and see if he has any paperwork showing the original design or plans for the house. I’m wondering if there might have been an addition that was later torn down, with the outside wall refinished to hide the evidence.”

The real estate agent informed Eli that he had no paperwork on the farmhouse beyond the submission slip used to list it for sale. He then suggested that Eli try the records department at the town hall. Eli wasn’t particularly encouraged, but it was the only lead he had. At the town hall, he gave the clerk the farmhouse’s address and asked if there were any records identifying the original builder or showing the house’s design. The clerk placed several thick books on the counter and began flipping through the pages, searching by address. After several minutes, he stopped and tapped a line with his finger.

“Ah! Here we are. The old Benoit farmhouse, built in 1888 and completed in 1889. Says it consists of a house and barn situated on forty acres of land.”

Eli knitted his eyebrows together. “Hmm. Was Benoit the builder?” The clerk shook his head and closed the book. “No. James Benoit was the buyer. It doesn’t say who built it, and the only structures mentioned are the house and barn. Sorry, no other details.”

Eli stared at him for a moment, hoping the man might have overlooked something. “Nothing at all? No blueprints, no building permits, no record of any additions?” The clerk shook his head again. “Afraid not. That’s all we have.” Eli suppressed a sigh. He had hoped to find something useful but instead, he seemed to be running into one dead end after another. He thanked the clerk for his time and left, feeling increasingly frustrated by the lack of answers.

When Eli returned to the work site, the rest of the crew had already packed up and gone home for the night. He sat drumming his fingers against the steering wheel, staring at the farmhouse through the windshield. There had to be an explanation. Houses didn’t simply acquire unexplained features, and records didn’t just disappear without a reason. Yet every avenue he pursued seemed to lead nowhere. He let out an exasperated breath and rubbed a hand across his face. “Damn it, there has to be something somewhere.”

For a long moment, he sat in silence, his gaze fixed on the darkened windows. There was something about the house that bothered him, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. The more he tried to make sense of it, the more determined he became to uncover the truth. The farmhouse seemed to stare back at him, its dark windows almost daring him to keep digging. Eli shook his head in disbelief and muttered, “What the hell?”

Eli got out of his truck and grabbed the toolbox in the back.Turning on his flashlight, he hurried up the steep steps to the room with the door. Using the drop light hanging from the rafters, Eli studied the little door once more. Eli was amazed at how tightly the door fit the frame. It made him wonder if it could open at all. Realizing the prybar wouldn’t do any good, he looked around and saw a sledgehammer standing in the corner. “Might as well just punch it into the backyard.”  He aimed at the keyhole and swung with all his might, hoping to break the lock. The hammer just bounced off. “Impossible!”Eli got down on his hands and knees and peered through the keyhole. Beyond the door lay a vast meadow of wind-blown hay rippling like waves on the ocean.There were willow trees and rolling hills, and in the far-off distance stood a castle. Eli fell back on his haunches and rubbed his eyes with his knuckles.He looked again, but the scene was the same- same fields, trees, castle. Eli tried different angles, but the keyhole was too small. Just as he was retreating, something moved past the keyhole, something big. Eli gasped and pulled away. Jumping to his feet, he raced down to his truck and returned with a jigsaw, which he stuck into the keyhole and turned it on. It screeched and squawked with sparks flying everywhere. He applied pressure until the blade broke. And when he looked, there was not even a chip in the paint.“What the hell?” Eli panted.   In anger, Eli threw himself down to take another look, only to be met by a bloodshot eye looking back at him. Eli screamed and threw his back against the door. His face was ashen; his eyes bulged in his head. His heart wasn’t just pounding, it was fluttering in his chest.He feared he was having a heart attack. When the door flew open-- Eli was pulled through.

Eli’s wife was concerned when he didn’t return home that night. The concern turned to panic when his truck was discovered at the site, but Eli was nowhere to be found. It was Ben who pointed out the door, and the only difference now was that the hinges were on this side of the door. There was an investigation, but no clues were ever found. After a while, Eli's wife sold the business, and the house was once again abandoned

So if you're ever driving down a back road in Maine and come across a nice old farmhouse, keep on driving. But if you are curious to look inside, don’t go upstairs.However, if you do go upstairs and see a small white door on the outside wall in the middle of some restoration, don’t go near it. If you find yourself drawn to approach it and hear someone banging and weeping on the other side—RUN!