fredbassett (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
fredbassett) wrote2011-04-27 05:09 pm
fredbassett) wrote2011-04-27 05:09 pm
Entry tags:
Fic, Vacant Possession, Otherworld Investigations Series
Title : Vacant Possession
Author : fredbassett
Original Fic : Otherworld Investigations Series
Rating : 12
Characters : Briana Wakelin, Dennis Smith, Martin Haughton
Copyright Notice : These characters are mine, all mine.
Spoilers : None
Summary : Written for the original fic challenge, Grave Matter
A/N : I am aiming to write a series of drabbles or ficlets set in my original fic ‘verse for weekly prompts.
“Take the next right,” I told Dennis. “The house is about a mile down the road, in the middle of some trees.”
We were in the middle of the Mendip Hills on our way to meet Martin Haughton of Haughton and Clayton, Estate Agents. He had a House Check he wanted us to carry out.
The property was, as described, set a little way back from the road on a low rise, surrounded by a group of dark pine trees that cast long shadows in the afternoon light. It wasn’t the most cheerful of places. The fields that fronted the house were covered with grass, long and unkempt, but it was useless for grazing. The house was built on the site of an old Roman leadworks and the mineral levels in the soil were still too toxic for grazing even after nearly 2,000 years. I was familiar with the area because both Dennis and I had done some caving around there.
Martin’s Range Rover was parked outside the house and one of his For Sale boards was already in place at the end of the drive.
“Bri, Dennis, nice to see you both and thanks for coming out. I won’t get in your way, I’m going to try to get some better pictures for the website so I’ll leave you to it, shall I? The house is empty.”
I’d worked for Martin before and he knew we preferred to be allowed to get on with the job by ourselves. We opted for our usual routine, with me checking the house first and Dennis taking the garden. We’d then swap over and compare notes. The front door was open but even so, I pulled a piece of chalk out of my pouch and quickly drew a line around the stonework, starting with the lintel on the right and working my way down tone side, across the step and back up the other side until the line reached my starting point. The house wasn’t Warded, but a simple ritual like that made entry easier.
I wandered from empty room to empty room. The carpet looked as shabby as the ones in empty houses always did, with depressions to show where the furniture had stood and the inevitable collection of stains that never seemed to matter when a house was occupied but which always stood out line a sore thumb when one was empty. It’s no wonder agents find empty houses as hard to sell as ones overflowing with clutter. The whole place just had a depressing feeling, but there was absolutely nothing I could pin down to anything specific.
Dennis and I changed over outside the front door and as usual, his poker face was firmly in place. I wandered out into the sunlight, or what I could see of it through the dark canopy of the trees. I normally loathed the idea of cutting down trees but if I lived there, I’d be sorely tempted to take a chainsaw to the lot of them.
I got the first prickle in my fingers when I was about 20 metres away from the trees. I could see Martin Haughton watching me from the front lawn. He’d stopped taking photographs and was watching me. I made my way closer to the trees, walking in a straight line now, just following my instincts. I found the answer to my prickling fingers in the middle of the copse.
A marble headstone stood, black and stark, with a few wilting flowers in an old vase. The inscription, picked out in gold lettering said:
ELLEN CARSON
BELOVED WIFE OF DAVID CARSON
14 June 1955 – 19 August 2004
That explained the prickling feeling. It was the one I usually got in the presence of a dead body. Death sense was a useful attribute when working for the police, but it did make attending a funeral an uncomfortable experience.
After I’d spent a few minutes at the grave, I completed my tour of the gardens and went out to join both Martin and Dennis down by the front gate. The pair of us took a moment to jot our impressions down in our notebooks. This sort of comparison was something we did on every job.
A quick glance at Dennis’ scrawl told me we’d reached the same conclusions.
“She’s not still around,” I told Martin. “You can sell with vacant possession without a problem.”
“I’ve been in the job 15 years,” he said with a relieved but slightly rueful grin. “And it’s the first time I’ve come across anything like this. I didn’t even realise it was legal until the solicitors checked it out.”
“It makes a change from hamsters,” Dennis commented.
We’d discovered over the past few months that he was a dab hand at locating buried pets, but fortunately for him, he’d learned to keep that particular death sense switched off most of the time.
We’d done the easy bit. Now Martin had to find a buyer for the place. I suspected his job was going to prove to be somewhat harder than ours on this occasion.
Author : fredbassett
Original Fic : Otherworld Investigations Series
Rating : 12
Characters : Briana Wakelin, Dennis Smith, Martin Haughton
Copyright Notice : These characters are mine, all mine.
Spoilers : None
Summary : Written for the original fic challenge, Grave Matter
A/N : I am aiming to write a series of drabbles or ficlets set in my original fic ‘verse for weekly prompts.
“Take the next right,” I told Dennis. “The house is about a mile down the road, in the middle of some trees.”
We were in the middle of the Mendip Hills on our way to meet Martin Haughton of Haughton and Clayton, Estate Agents. He had a House Check he wanted us to carry out.
The property was, as described, set a little way back from the road on a low rise, surrounded by a group of dark pine trees that cast long shadows in the afternoon light. It wasn’t the most cheerful of places. The fields that fronted the house were covered with grass, long and unkempt, but it was useless for grazing. The house was built on the site of an old Roman leadworks and the mineral levels in the soil were still too toxic for grazing even after nearly 2,000 years. I was familiar with the area because both Dennis and I had done some caving around there.
Martin’s Range Rover was parked outside the house and one of his For Sale boards was already in place at the end of the drive.
“Bri, Dennis, nice to see you both and thanks for coming out. I won’t get in your way, I’m going to try to get some better pictures for the website so I’ll leave you to it, shall I? The house is empty.”
I’d worked for Martin before and he knew we preferred to be allowed to get on with the job by ourselves. We opted for our usual routine, with me checking the house first and Dennis taking the garden. We’d then swap over and compare notes. The front door was open but even so, I pulled a piece of chalk out of my pouch and quickly drew a line around the stonework, starting with the lintel on the right and working my way down tone side, across the step and back up the other side until the line reached my starting point. The house wasn’t Warded, but a simple ritual like that made entry easier.
I wandered from empty room to empty room. The carpet looked as shabby as the ones in empty houses always did, with depressions to show where the furniture had stood and the inevitable collection of stains that never seemed to matter when a house was occupied but which always stood out line a sore thumb when one was empty. It’s no wonder agents find empty houses as hard to sell as ones overflowing with clutter. The whole place just had a depressing feeling, but there was absolutely nothing I could pin down to anything specific.
Dennis and I changed over outside the front door and as usual, his poker face was firmly in place. I wandered out into the sunlight, or what I could see of it through the dark canopy of the trees. I normally loathed the idea of cutting down trees but if I lived there, I’d be sorely tempted to take a chainsaw to the lot of them.
I got the first prickle in my fingers when I was about 20 metres away from the trees. I could see Martin Haughton watching me from the front lawn. He’d stopped taking photographs and was watching me. I made my way closer to the trees, walking in a straight line now, just following my instincts. I found the answer to my prickling fingers in the middle of the copse.
A marble headstone stood, black and stark, with a few wilting flowers in an old vase. The inscription, picked out in gold lettering said:
ELLEN CARSON
BELOVED WIFE OF DAVID CARSON
14 June 1955 – 19 August 2004
That explained the prickling feeling. It was the one I usually got in the presence of a dead body. Death sense was a useful attribute when working for the police, but it did make attending a funeral an uncomfortable experience.
After I’d spent a few minutes at the grave, I completed my tour of the gardens and went out to join both Martin and Dennis down by the front gate. The pair of us took a moment to jot our impressions down in our notebooks. This sort of comparison was something we did on every job.
A quick glance at Dennis’ scrawl told me we’d reached the same conclusions.
“She’s not still around,” I told Martin. “You can sell with vacant possession without a problem.”
“I’ve been in the job 15 years,” he said with a relieved but slightly rueful grin. “And it’s the first time I’ve come across anything like this. I didn’t even realise it was legal until the solicitors checked it out.”
“It makes a change from hamsters,” Dennis commented.
We’d discovered over the past few months that he was a dab hand at locating buried pets, but fortunately for him, he’d learned to keep that particular death sense switched off most of the time.
We’d done the easy bit. Now Martin had to find a buyer for the place. I suspected his job was going to prove to be somewhat harder than ours on this occasion.
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My friend wondered what the hell he was talking about until she saw the garden!
I used to have a lot of fun with burial grounds when I was a lawyer. Queries about them always used to get referred to me.
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Yes, poor Briana would have difficulty at funerals...
////I normally loathed the idea of cutting down trees but if I lived there, I’d be sorely tempted to take a chainsaw to the lot of them.////
Nice character touch. And I'm glad that this one was really vacant possession!
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Glad to find she was gone, then...
Hamsters, LOL.
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I used to bury my budgies in coffee jars.
Edited to add: they were already dead!
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They are probably still there! RIP budgies.
Our gerbils were interred in fragrant Bronnley Soap boxes, so will most definitely have decomposed, bless 'em. :)
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