Real Estate Tale EP.11 – The House Where Words Were Forbidden

Real Estate Tale EP.11 – The House Where Words Were Forbidden

One rainy evening,
the Facebook feed of a real estate agent group was busier than usual.
A strange post about a house for sale appeared.

“Looking for an agent to open a house.
If the client buys, you’ll get a 10% commission.
The owner finds the clients.
The agent’s only job is to open the house.
But there’s one condition...
While inside the house, you must not talk to the client.
Comment below if interested. I’ll message you in the inbox.”

Just a few lines — yet something about it drew everyone’s attention.
As if the words themselves had a magnetic pull.

The account that posted it was locked.
The profile picture was a simple cartoon face.
No personal info. No friends.
No past posts — like a freshly made account.

Some commented, “Definitely a scammer.”
Others joked, “If we can’t talk to the client, how do we sell?”
But many still saved the post.
Because a 10% commission was no small thing —
especially in an age when ads cost tens of thousands before closing a deal.

Those who received messages
never got any house details.
Only one short reply:

“The house isn’t locked. You can go in.”

Agents tried to ask for the owner’s contact info —
a phone number, LINE, anything —
but the owner gave nothing.
Just a location pin.
And silence.

Saturday afternoon.
“Ton,” a young agent just a few years into the business,
decided to take the chance.
He was one of the first to drive to the coordinates.

The house was in a wide, prime alley —
but eerily quiet.
People still lived nearby,
yet there were no sounds — not even a barking dog.

The gate was ajar, just as the owner said.
When Ton pushed it, the hinges groaned long —
like someone sighing.

It was an old two-story teak house.
Despite its age, it was in good condition.
Around it stood four massive banyan trees —
so large that three people could barely encircle one.
Their sprawling branches covered the roof,
blocking out the sunlight completely.

The moment Ton stepped inside,
he felt a chill in the air —
though outside, the sun was blazing.
The walls were lined with old family portraits.
But what caught his eye —
none of the faces were smiling.
Every gaze was fixed, stern, lifeless —
as if watching him,
the intruder,
step into their home.

He flipped the switch.
The lights worked —
but the room never brightened fully.
Every corner seemed to hide something.

Soon, a car pulled up in front of the house.
Two clients got out.

They entered quietly — no greeting, no words.
Just a polite nod.
Then walked room to room,
as if they already knew the house intimately.

As they moved,
a soft whisper brushed Ton’s ear.
So close it felt like someone was standing right beside him.

“Please help sell this house…”

He turned sharply.
No one was there.
The clients walked on, unfazed.

Days passed.
More agents took turns showing the house —
none succeeded in selling it.
A strange tension grew in the Facebook group.
Some ignored it,
but curiosity kept pulling others back.

Then one late-night post appeared:

“Has anyone ever sold this house?
Anyone closed a deal yet?”

Comments poured in.

Somchai Agent: “I went. Too old. The clients were silent.”
Bow Realtor: “They didn’t seem serious.”
Noon Property: “How do we sell if we can’t talk?”
Juneza: “My client was talking to someone in the mirror… but no one was there.”
Wichai Broker: “Feels like a waste of time for agents.”

At first, it was just gossip.
But soon the tone changed —
every comment carried unease.

The group’s mood shifted —
from casual chatter to something darker.

That post became the silent agreement among all.
No one said it out loud,
but everyone knew —

“This case isn’t normal.”

“Nui,” a well-known agent from a major firm,
one of the Top 3 sellers every month,
known for his persuasive charm and calm eyes —
could turn hesitation into a sale with ease.

He’d seen the post before,
but unlike newer agents, he waited.
He knew —
if the owner was truly desperate,
they’d eventually seek the best closer.

And one day, a short message arrived:

“Client will view the house tomorrow at 3 PM.
The house isn’t locked.”

No name.
No number.
No details.

Everything the same.

Nui smiled. Confident.
He thought —

“Even if I can’t talk… I’ll find a way to close the deal.”

The next day, he arrived on time.
The house stood silent beneath the banyan shadows.
Aerial roots hung like ropes,
blocking the light.
A damp, musty scent hit him
as soon as he pushed the door.

Inside — silence.
A dead clock on the wall.
Faded family portraits —
each pair of eyes staring straight at him.

Outside, a car engine stopped.
A sedan parked.
A couple stepped out —
walked in without a word.
They bowed slightly to Nui
and began to explore the rooms.

He followed quietly,
reminding himself of the rule —
Do not speak to the clients.

They seemed to know every inch of the house.
At the staircase,
the wife climbed two steps, then paused,
gazing upward in thought.

Nui, standing behind,
felt the instinct of a salesman flare.
This was the moment to ask.
He forgot the rule — and said,

“If you have any questions, feel free to ask.”

The words left his mouth—
and the staircase creaked sharply.

The couple froze.
Their heads slowly turned toward him—
but their bodies did not.
The movement was unnatural,
as if their necks had no bones.
Their eyes — wide, glaring, fixed.

Then, the silent clock ticked —
once, loud as thunder.
Every portrait on the wall
seemed to turn toward him.

Nui stumbled back,
his foot caught a broken floorboard,
and he fell.
His hand plunged into a gap in the wood.
The smell of old incense and damp earth
rose from below.

He looked down —
and froze.

Under the floor
was not soil,
but dozens of tiny spirit houses,
ancient, cracked, forgotten —
arranged tightly like a buried cemetery.

Something shifted below.
Soft clinking sounds —
as if something was moving among them.

Nui yanked his hand back.
The couple still stood at the stairs,
eyes locked on him.

The floor trembled —
as though dozens of unseen people
were shaking the house beneath him.

He screamed —
but the dead clock kept ticking,
drowning out his voice.
He ran to the front door.
Just as he reached it —
BANG!
The door slammed shut from outside.
He fell backward to the center of the room.

When he looked up —
the couple was gone.
But the air… shifted.
Whispers filled the room.
Many voices.
Conversations he couldn’t make out.

Then a voice — clear, from the stairs:

“Stay with us.”

The floor cracked down the middle.
A sound like breaking bones filled the house.
The smell of incense burned his eyes.
He screamed,
but his voice was swallowed by the air.

He turned toward the window —
but outside wasn’t sunlight anymore.
The banyan roots had woven into a wall,
tight and caged.
Only faint light leaked through.

Turning back,
the couple stood again in the shadows.
Their heads twisted completely backward,
their eyes pure white.

Nui stepped back —
his heel hit the broken plank again.
He fell halfway into the gap.
Hands — dozens of them —
reached from the darkness below,
grabbing his legs,
pulling him down.

The whispers grew louder —
not one, but hundreds overlapping.

“Stay with us… stay with us…”

Then —
he was gone.
Swallowed into the dark beneath the house.

The door slowly closed on its own.
Silence returned.
Only the banyan shadows swayed,
as if covering the secret forever.

Since that day,
no one has seen Nui again.

Weeks passed —
no posts, no updates, no trace.

Until one night,
a new post appeared in the same group.
Same locked account.
But the profile picture was now pure black.
No face. No name.
Just one short message:

“The house has been sold.
Thank you, everyone.”

People pressed “Like.”
But no one commented.
Everyone knew —
there would be no reply.

No buyer.
No transfer.
Just silence.

Days later,
an agent in a small chat group shared —
he drove past the alley late at night.
The banyan trees still covered the house.
No renovations.
But upstairs —
a single light was on.

Through the big front window,
he saw a man —
short hair, business suit, pale face —
smiling faintly
while looking toward the street.

He swore on his life —
it was Nui,
the missing agent.

Since that night,
no one has ever seen him again.

.

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