The Listing, by Jac Jemc

"What people wanted to be able to see, when they moved into a house, was their own future playing out, a happy ending."

SO excited to get to feature a new story from Jac Jemc today! Jac is one of my favorite writers — The Grip of It, especially, is one of my favorite novels of recent memory — and I couldn’t have been more excited for her with the recent announcement that she was named a 2023 Guggenheim Fellow.

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“What we expected never came to pass /
What we did not expect the gods brought to bear.”
– Euripides’ Medea

When Madeline arrived to show the house on Palmilla, the air felt suddenly quieter, flatter than it had just a few steps beyond the gate. An escape from the busy city—from everything—around it. She’d just dropped off her boys at their dad’s for the next few days. She would bury herself in work until they returned. She needed to.

It wasn’t like she didn’t feel conflicted about bringing clients there. She knew there were real estate agents who would avoid the listing. Maybe because they were scared of the house themselves or because they didn’t want to deal with the true crime junkies who hoped to gather some new insight from a showing or the ghost hunters looking for some evidence of the lives cut short.

The story of the house was familiar: A husband threatened to leave his wife for a younger woman. The wife took the girlfriend’s life before murdering her two sons and herself. Of course the husband couldn’t bear to stay in the house after all of that.

Madeline heard the house had been properly cleaned, the children’s bedrooms refinished to eliminate all traces of the tragedy. The father had moved to the marina, far from the hills where his family had been lost.  Madeline was surprised he’d survived at all.

Madeline schemed who on her client list might be a good fit.

Madeline knew a producer who had just broken box office records with a slasher film. She was certain she could convince him that the purchase would be a terrific PR move: a pledge of allegiance to the genre, but he had a wife who Madeline understood would be a harder sell. They planned to start a family and anyone but David would see the history of the house as a bad omen for that. He’d told her he wanted something with a good story, but one he could make his own. “A story…that is also a house. Got it,” she’d said and he’d laughed like she was joking.

Madeline also had a young actress in mind. This client had been living out of the Chateau for close to a year. Everyone worried about her: when would enough be too much? Madeline was of several minds: One, in the event the young woman wanted to get herself together, dry out, the house was protected enough that the cameras couldn’t get to her; Two, if things went the other way, the house was perfect for parties: a huge pool deck, a big open kitchen, entire walls of windows that opened up to blur the lines between inside and outside. If there were ever a way to leave a haunting legacy, this house was it; a beloved star, fallen under the spell of a home with a dark past to match her own. Her camp legacy would cement itself.

Madeline would never say these things out loud, but she needed a sale, a big one like this, and what did it matter to her who bought it if their money was good? She saw in Eleni, the young actress, an exaggeration of her own missteps, and she pitied her. Madeline had definitely partied too hard for too long, beyond her youth, fronting a punk band that never gained traction, but playing enough shows to allow her to convince herself that what she was doing was real. Eventually, even her bandmates had given up on her; her parents had stopped answering her calls. When she started studying for her real estate license, everyone rolled their eyes. So many others had attempted that pivot and failed. But she’d made it happen. She’d sobered up, used her frontwoman charisma to work her way up to bigger and bigger listings, until most of the people she hung around with didn’t even remember her past life.

Madeline’s job with this house was only to show it to her clients and then follow their lead on fleshing out the daydream of what they hoped the house might become. Maybe she could help Eleni find a way out of her bottom. A sobriety-through-real-estate sponsor. The two women had spent the past six months playing phone tag, the actress backing out of showings because of “exhaustion,” the occasional tour of a house or two with a pit stop to pick up something from “a friend.” This was the place Madeline thought might finally do  the trick.

*

Madeline called the producer and the actress on the same day. She sent them the links from the seller just before calling. They were both interested, but of course they’d need to see the place. As Madeline printed out the listing sheets, though, she got an idea: she could doctor the packet, tailor it to each client.

For the actress, she could add in some clusters of party guests, help her really see the potential of how intimate the space could feel even for a large crowd of people.

For the producer, though, she dreamed a little bigger. She could shade shadows that looked like a couple of children playing in an empty room, or a faint face in a mirror. She knew it was dishonest, but she also knew the power of a good narrative to make a sale. Most people were familiar with the idea of staging a house, but Madeline recognized that few connected that term to theater, to storytelling. What people wanted to be able to see, when they moved into a house, was their own future playing out, a happy ending.

She fit the key from the lockbox into the door and entered the house to give it a onceover before the producer would arrive. The stagers had done a good job; the place felt both homey and clean, modern with only the most architectural vintage accents to add some warmth and history: adobe cut-outs framed the entryway. Dark wood paneling remained on just one wall of the living room, between floor to ceiling windows. They’d painted the flagstone fireplace white. Sleek-armed lamps perched beside linen furniture. They’d made it look like what it was: an absolute steal—if you could look past the property’s past.

Madeline heard a car pull up in front. She checked her immaculate blond bob and straightened her blazer in the mirror before walking outside.  “David! It’s been too long.” She held out her hand and he pulled her in for a hug.

“Madeline, I like the way you think. I’m very intrigued by this place, but seems  little too good to be true, right?”

Madeline smirked. “I just took a peek inside and it’s gorgeous. Come on.” She handed him the folder, but he didn’t open it, eager to see the place with his own eyes.

“Wow,” he said at the sunken living room. “Wow,” when they saw the lush foliage that surrounded the pool. “You’ve got to be kidding,” when they walked into the master.

In the next bedroom, Madeline felt a wave of heat. “This was one of the boys’ rooms,” she said, knowing David would understand.

“Is there no AC in here? What the hell? I’m burning up.” They looked around for the vent and held their hands in front of the ice cold air blowing through. “Come on. What’s the trick?” he asked.

Madeline felt nauseous, but she maintained her composure. She told David she’d ask the seller about it.

In the second boy’s room, the complex odor of beef and cinnamon overwhelmed them. “That air freshener isn’t doing anything for the stench in here,” David said.

Madeline should have wanted to play up what might have been residue of the murder, but a stench was different from a legacy. A stench made everyday living unpleasant. “I’d think they would have taken care of that in the reno,” Madeline replied.

They wandered through a flawless guest room, and into the family room and kitchen.  Everything was state of the art, move-in ready for a buyer with the highest standards. “Here’s my question,” David asked. “Assuming the heating issue and that smell can be taken care of, if I buy this now, and want to sell it again in five years, is that gonna be possible? Or will people still be afraid of it? Am I gonna be stuck with this thing forever? You know me. I can’t make a buck, I don’t do it.”

“David, when people hear you lived here, they’ll be chomping at the bit. They’ll want this place because you’ll give it clout. But more importantly, I know neither of us believes in ghosts, and we both know this place is a knockout. You live here a few years, explain to future sellers that the place is clean as a whistle, confirm that you didn’t have any little ghosts visiting you in the night, and this property will be cleared of its reputation.”

“You better be right about this,” he said. “I’ll talk to Lauren about it, but I have to say, I’m tempted. More soon.”

She let him hug her and thought about asking for the folder back. She thought the doctored images might do more harm than good now, but she couldn’t think of a way of getting it back without causing suspicion, so she watched him throw the folder on the passenger seat beside him and hoped he never opened it again.

She locked up the property and headed home to try to shake the unease that had mounted under her skin over the time of the showing.

Madeline picked up her phone that night.

“What’s with these printouts?” David asked before even saying hello.

Madeline’s stomach turned. “What do you mean?”

“Are these old pictures?” he asked. “I thought you’d have updated ones. These are from before the renovation?”

“They’re current,” she said, confused.

“You had better not be messing with me, Madeline.”

Madeline’s phone dinged with a series of images. When she opened them, she ran cold. The pages of the packet, fanned out so she could see several at once, were definitely pre-renovation. The house was empty, but nothing had been updated, and it was littered with debris. “David, I’ve never seen these.”

“Is your secretary playing a trick? Maybe she thinks it’s wrong I wanna buy the house, capitalize on these people’s pain?”

Madeline thought about letting her assistant take the blame; instead she spoke the truth. “I printed that packet myself.”

“I know I’m supposed to have nerves of steel, but this is giving me the creeps, Madeline. Can you send me the updated pics?”

“Yes, of course. The link at the site is still up, but I’ll forward the packet, too.”

“You know, this isn’t helping me convince Lauren it’s where we want to raise our family.”

“I must have printed the wrong file. I’m sincerely sorry.”

David hung up, skipping the goodbye in the same way he’d skipped the hello.

Madeline eyed the locked liquor cabinet. She knew where the key was, but it was one little extra step she’d devised to stop herself. James had left many bottles behind and she kept them around for guests. She’d been sober for over a decade. It wasn’t a problem.

She ran a bath and tried to tell herself everything would be fine. It was true she needed the money. Her husband had taken her for all she was worth in the divorce, and somehow also won fifty percent custody of their kids despite never having cared to spend time with them when they’d all lived together. With the additional mortgage, what had once been a comfortable life was now a stretch, always threatening to fall short.

It had felt like having a little bit of her old life back to marry an artist. She loved her job by then and had no issue supporting the both of them while they were happy, but then the happiness had faded. His career hadn’t gone the way he had planned. He felt he was consistently passed over for shows and reviews. Slowly, he lost the will to even go to his studio. He stopped talking to friends who had gained even a little more success than he had.

Still the court had blamed her for the separation. It was Madeline who had had the affair. Madeline wanted to argue that there were ways of cheating on a marriage without touching another person, but her lawyer told her that wouldn’t hold up in court.

Madeline gave up on the bath after only five minutes. She didn’t understand how people could linger for an hour. Either the water went cold right away or she overheated and had to free herself in a panic, sure she was about to faint. Today it was the latter and she worried her children would find her naked body drowned in the roomy tub when James dropped them off on Sunday. They might not miss her, she thought with a heap of self-pity, but she didn’t want to chance scarring them all the same.

*

The next day, the young actress almost begged off after the clunker Madeline showed her first. “I should have known you wouldn’t love that place, Eleni, but it would be a mistake if you missed out on this next one. If you don’t like it, you can fire me.” Madeline had miscalculated Eleni’s attention span. She’d hoped showing her something less than ideal first would make the murder house seem all the more impressive.

Eleni slumped into Madeline’s car. She asked to hook up her own iPhone to the stereo and what emerged was some sort of electronic lullabye. “Wow, what is this?” Madeline asked. This was her response to any music a client chose, even if she didn’t like it, even if she was already familiar. Flattering the client, letting them have the authority, built rapport. Having been a musician, she had distinct tastes of her own, but she had to hide that part of herself. Only every once in a while could she use her honest opinions about bands to connect with a client. This was not one of those times.

“It’s my boyfriend, Theo. He’s a genius. Most of his stuff is dance music, but he’s working on this new album of ballads. So sexy.”

Madeline thought a ballad had to have words, but who even cared? When she punched in the code at the gate, Eleni was already gasping. Madeline’s throat pinched when she noticed the filled scratches on the door, but Eleni didn’t flinch, and Madeline knew better than to call out the negatives in a property. If the client mentioned something, it was okay to agree, but you never knew what was going to appeal to them and you didn’t want to taint their vision of a place.

Madeline was relieved to find that the inside of the place was just as pristine as it had been when she’d visited with David. The folder Madeline had shared with Eleni was full of undoctored images and the couple party shots she’d pulled together. Madeline had double-checked the pictures were right this time. Eleni focused on the state-of-the-art kitchen (though Madeline was certain the young woman had little interest in cooking) and the closet space. The pool deck felt serene in the afternoon light, but Madeline could see Eleni’s mind whirring as it imagined the atmosphere in the evening with loud music playing and the pool filled with people.  

“I love it. It’s so California, it’s so quaint.”

Madeline nodded, even though inside she guffawed at the idea of a 5,000 square foot house in the Hollywood Hills being called quaint.  

Eleni continued, “My therapists say I can’t make any major decisions without waiting at least 24 hours. I’ll go home and talk to my parents and my accountant and see what they think.”

Madeline wondered what Eleni meant by “home,” but would never ask. When she dropped her back at the Chateau, Eleni almost forgot the listing folder, and Madeline called out to her and held them through the passenger window. “Take your time! You wanna be sure it’s perfect.”

Eleni gave Madeline a weird look, like she was kidding or something. Had Madeline misinterpreted? Was Eleni totally uninterested?

Madeline brushed it off and drove home. She made dinner and realized she was nervous; she needed good news.

When Eleni’s number showed up on her phone, it came as a relief. “You’re not supposed to make a decision for 24 hours!” Madeline scolded her with a smile.

“Madeline, is this a sick joke? I felt like I could look past the house’s history because of all the amazing updates, but these pictures are fucked up!”

“What are you talking about?” Madeline asked. She’d double-checked every page.  

“The crime scene photos? Maybe some of your clients like to see this stuff, but I can’t live in that house after seeing these poor kids.”

Madeline stopped breathing. “You googled the evidence photos?”

“No! The ones you put in the folder! My mom saw them, too. We’re going to have nightmares, I know it.” Eleni took a deep breath. “I guess I’m grateful you shared them with me. If I’d known it was this gruesome, I’d never have agreed to look at the place.”

Madeline defended herself. She blamed the assistant she’d fired weeks ago to cut costs. She begged Eleni not to tell people about the mistake.  She vowed to find her another house without the baggage of this one, but by the end of the call, Eleni said what Madeline knew was coming: Eleni was moving on to another agent.

Madeline called her sons on the older one’s cell phone. She’d heard stories about parents blocking calls when it was their time with the kids, but her husband had agreed it made sense to let the kids have access to both of them at all times.

When Charlie picked up, Madeline realized she’d been afraid that all that had been unfolding with the murder house might have somehow brought harm to her kids. She’d talked herself into believing that what happened in the house had been a fluke. Stuff like that didn’t happen very often, even if all the true crime documentaries made it seem like it did. But the way the photos had changed in their folders, the way her finances had gone from secure to desperate in a matter of months, the way the house felt to Madeline—one of those things or all of them together had started to stress her out. She felt a lack of control.  

“What, Mom?” Charlie was impatient, maybe forced to put down his game controller for once.

“I just wanted to ask what you’d like me to have ready for dinner on Sunday night. Any requests?” Madeline didn’t want to call attention to the true reason for her call.

“I don’t care.”

“Spaghetti Bolognese? Baked chicken? Falafel?”

“Whatever.”

“Charlie, can you ask your brother? I’m going to the store.” Madeline heard Charlie scream at Eli.

“He doesn’t care either.”

“I know you don’t care now, but you’ll have an opinion on Sunday, so could you just try to use your psychic powers to figure out what your preference will be?”

“Ribs.”

“Is Eli okay with that?”

Charlie shouted to his brother again. “Yeah.”

“OK, I love you. You’re ok? You’re having fun?” Madeline heard a voice in the background. “Who’s there with you?”

“Gabrielle.”

“Gabrielle?”

“Dad’s girlfriend.”

“Oh.” Madeline stopped herself from asking more. “Call if you need anything. Can’t wait to see you Sunday!”

“OK.” He hung up without saying goodbye.

Madeline laid back on her bed. How had James found a girlfriend? But she knew how: he was soulful, charming. He was good with the kids when he needed to be. Madeline had set him up in a really nice condo so the boys wouldn’t have to sleep in a shithole when they stayed with him. She’d kept the house they’d shared, thinking she’d be at an advantage in the place that felt like home to Eli and Charlie, but it felt empty even when the kids were there. She felt only the way the three of them failed to fill the shape of what used to be four of them.

She knew that women were attracted to men like James, who had just a little sadness to them, a little damage they could heal with their loving touch. She wondered how long he’d been seeing Gabrielle that he was already introducing her to the boys. James probably didn’t even think about the delicate balance of such things, just assumed it would be fine, that kids were resilient, that if she wasn’t especially wicked they would barely notice her.

Madeline wished there was a way she could make herself immediately feel better. Booze and pills had done that once upon a time. But she knew a glass of wine, or a Xanax, or ten, wouldn’t help. What she needed was some sort of assurance about the future: a guarantee that her kids would be hers for all time, that they’d love her more than Gabrielle and more than James, too. And that they’d grow up happy and healthy. Barring that, a large deposit in her bank account would help. But she’d have to wait to see if the producer could convince his wife that the murder house would be a happy place to live.  She’d have to hold steady until then, remain faithful in the coming security.

Madeline managed to wait 24 hours before she called David to check in.

“I meant to call you, Madeline. We’re passing on the place. Lauren is freaked. She’s got a weaker constitution than I do for this stuff. She could barely sit through my movie, and then when those photos got mixed up and you could still see the stains on the carpets—I tried to convince her with the new photos, but we’re a lost cause.”

“I’d be happy to take her to the house so she could see it in person.”

“She doesn’t want to set foot on the property. The style and size of that place was perfect though. I know it’ll be tough to find something like that at that price point again, but you know where to find me if you do. Something we can grow into, you know?”

Something he could grow into. Good luck, she thought. Everyone imagined their lives getting bigger over time. They never thought about the way they would eventually shrink down, getting lonelier, their circle getting smaller. Then their flesh wincing inside their skin, giving the appearance of a bagginess that was utterly false. Then the drying up, like an unoiled hide around a set of bones. The claustrophobia. People didn’t plan for that. People wanted to manifest abundance. To imagine things going wrong might provoke them into being. They anticipated an ideal future. Their downfall was usually right there in their vision, just on the periphery, but they were too busy looking straight ahead.

She didn’t say that to David though. She said, “Of course. Give Lauren my best.”

*

Back to square one. Madeline opened her spreadsheet of clients, reminding herself of who was looking and then switched over to the active listings, hoping some pairing might make sense. There were more than enough fancy houses, more than enough people with money, but Madeline still felt every sale was a miracle of timing and circumstance.

She clicked back into the listing. The house was such a steal. All of this bad luck with the pictures—maybe it was all a sign. Maybe it was her turn to manifest abundance. Maybe she was the one destined to buy it cheap and sell it high. She could just barely afford it. She’d have no safety net left.

She clicked through the photos, dreaming. The lush green that had overgrown since the incident had been trimmed to such perfection. She imagined the boys splashing in the pool while she sipped a glass of cold Pinot Grigio in a lounge chair. She pictured James and Gabrielle coming to a party, wandering around with no one to talk to, and she imagined the saccharine way she’d greet them, saying yes, she guessed the condo probably was feeling crowded now that the boys were getting older. She’d even hang one of James’s pieces on the wall. “I never thought I liked this painting,” she’d say. “I guess it just needed a little room to breathe.”

The street view looked unsuspecting and modest, but the way the house was positioned on the canyon meant that it was much bigger than one would assume. Maybe she just needed to think about this in a different way. She had been playing the short game of selling this house now, but if she thought on a longer timeline, the payoff would be huge.

Madeline didn’t remember the drone shot at the end of the slideshow. She squinted at the pool. There was something in it—or someone. She zoomed in. A billowing dress with a loud red floral pattern floated around a person face down. Blond hair fanned from the neck. She slammed the laptop shut.

Her hands grabbed a bottle and performed the familiar motion of twisting the corkscrew. She drained the first glass in a gulp and poured another.

She steeled herself and reopened the browser. This time she saw nothing in the picture of the pool. Was it possible she’d imagined it? Was she in that bad a state?

No, Madeline reassured herself. She’d just been trying to psych herself out. She was moving in the right direction. Madeline could see it all unfold in her mind. A reversal of fortune. She waited for her skin to pucker, for her stomach to turn, but everything felt right.

Madeline checked her accounts and submitted her documents for a preapproval. She remembered what it felt like to be in the house, the way all sound faded away. Like in the old days, when she’d show up to a venue in the afternoon for a sound check. How quiet and wrong the place had felt without all those people in it. How the void had chilled her.

But that’s not how the house was. It was peaceful. It was a blank slate to start a new life without all the baggage of life before the divorce. She could imagine it, and that meant it was possible.

She went to her closet and slid the hangers over to reveal the dress with the large poppy print. It would be perfect.

STORY:
Jac Jemc is the author of, most recently, Empty Theatre from MCD x FSG Books, as well as four other books of fiction, and she was named a 2023 Guggenheim Fellow. Jemc teaches creative writing at the University of California San Diego and serves as Faculty Director of the Clarion Writers' Workshop.

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ART:
Meghan Phillips started making collages because she has a toddler and a baby and no brain power to write. You can find her writing at meghan-phillips.com, and her collages on Instagram @mcarphil.  

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On Friday, we’ll feature Jac’s “5 favorite murder houses”!

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