How to sell a house . . . that won’t sell

By Natasha J. Rosewood


Is your house not selling?

Why not, you may ask?

You may think that attracting the right buyer for your home is a case of good karma or choosing the right realtor. Having worked as an intuitive for a lo-o-o-ng time, I know differently.  There may be more occupants in your home, than you think. They could be the ones controlling who buys and who doesn’t.  True story . . ..

“My house has been on the market for two years,” my business-like client, Sarah bemoaned.   “People walk in, turn around and walk straight out.  Someone or something is in my living room. Can you help, Natasha?

“I can try.” Like drunken guests, spirits don’t always depart when urged to leave.

“My husband doesn’t believe in this stuff,” she says.

I smile. As a sensitive who sees things and people that other people can’t see, or won’t, I am used to some cloak and dagger shenanigans. “I’ll come at noon.”

The inside of the house when I arrive is very white, perhaps too white. As I do a walkabout of the three-bedroom property and tune into any spirits who might be lingering, the words “too clean,” come to mind, as if someone had scrubbed and scrubbed to erase some unconscious guilt.  There is a fine balance, I think, between showing a clean, staged house and a warm, lived-in home.

In one of the three bedrooms, I hear giggling and “see” two young native girls playing. These spirits are just imprints, echoes of a former time. They seem happy so I leave them be.

It is in the spacious living room that I see the spirit of a tall, slim man is sitting in the leather chair in front of the fireplace.  I know he’s the issue. He is mid-fifties, with thinning brown hair, his energy benign. “I see him,” I tell Sarah.  “Why are you here?”  I ask him.

“I couldn’t save the girls from drowning,” he moans, telepathically, referring to the bedroom spirits. “I’m responsible.  They drowned when their boat sank.”

Ah, there’s the guilt I was feeling. My heart breaks for the poor man. “They are not your responsibility, and they are happy here,” I transmit. “Wouldn’t you like to release the guilt and be with loved ones?”

“Yes,” he tells me without hesitation.

Sarah and I sit across from each other and hold hands. “I’m asking his guides and angels to take him home now,” I explain.

We close our eyes.

The energy in the room shifts. “George is ready.”

Above my head, the fabric of this reality peels back and through a space in the veil, an unearthly beautiful golden light is visible.  On the edge of the golden gap, an older lady appears and peers down. She is George’s mother.

“The mother is reaching down and giving him a hand up . . . he’s going up now.”  I explain, through tears of joy. “They are hugging.”

The energy changes in the living room, as if something that was holding on tight has finally let go, relaxed. The room breathes again.  I wait until the gap closes and release Sarah’s hands.

But something is not finished. Like Mary Poppins, the mother swoops down and stands in front of me.  “Thank you for giving me back my son,” she transmits.

As I stand on Sarah’s front doorstep, I suggest, “Put some live plants inside the house, and get some red chrysanthemums for the stairs.  Now George has released you as his surrogate mother, the house should sell.”

Three months later, my phone rings.  It’s Sarah. “Natasha, can you help with another home?”

“What happened with the first house?”  I enquire.

“Oh that,” she says dismissively, “It sold three days after your visit.  The purchaser drove by, saw the For Sale sign and went into the village to make an offer. He even wanted the chrysanthemums!”

“What did your husband say?”

“Oh, he thinks it sold because we changed our realtor.”

But we knew differently.