My husband made an offer on the house with a short escrow, which was quickly accepted, while he and I struck a personal deal: I would stay in Nevada with our dog while Keith spent a few months fixing up the gloomy place. We returned home, packed up everything except the bare essentials I would need, and he returned to put our possessions on the lower level, so he could work on the main floor. All went well until he found a little store nearby that was for sale.
The Tinkerville Store on the road of the same name in Lyman had existed in one form or another for over a hundred years. It had been razed and rebuilt eight or nine years prior to our discovering it, though it had been vacant for a year, and fallen into disrepair. My husband wanted a little business, and the store offered the bonus of having an apartment above it. We bought it for a semi-song, but it no longer made financial sense for me to stay out West. We had a yard sale, loaded what was left into a small trailer, and moved into the apartment, which, as most of our things were stacked nearby in the House on Haunted Hill, became furnished in a style I dubbed, “Early Monk.”
Any extra capital went into renovating the store, not the house; in essence, the latter became a pricey storage facility. But the shop was coming along nicely, getting stocked with bait and beer and bullets and beef, and the locals (and local wildlife) were delighted when we opened.Soon we encouraged Keith’s sister and brother-in-law in North Carolina to sell their home and move up to New Hampshire. They did. Their home sold in only three weeks and then they were in the apartment and we moved into the log cabin.
When the weather turned warm, our little Maltese started acting strangely. Whereas he used to easily socialize in the living room, now he rarely wanted to come out from hiding under a boudoir chair. Not even bacon strips could induce him to venture forth.
Then one night the problem became clear. I was sitting at the dining room table in the living room working on my computer when I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye, quickly followed by a second. I wondered if perhaps I had developed a floater, given the swooping nature of the motion I perceived. The third time I got it, and let out a scream heard ’round the state. We had tenants we hadn’t counted on: a colony of bats.
Tomorrow: the Conclusion of “I Never Would Have Purchased This House . . . “