Could The House That Broke the Realtor be in Charlotte
It started with a ringtone that sounded suspiciously like a horror movie violin screech. Fitting.
“Mike, you got a minute?” the voice on the other end said, already wheezing like he’d just sprinted across a football field. It was Gary, a well-meaning but high-strung realtor I’d worked with on and off for a few years.
“What’s up, Gary?”
“I’ve got a house—no, a situation. I’m standing in it right now. It’s... it’s bad, man. Like a horror film, bad. Have you ever seen ‘The Haunting of Hill House’? Multiply that by termites and a '70s wallpaper fever dream.”
I chuckled. “So, a standard fixer-upper?”
“No, Mike. I’m telling you—this is beyond fixing. This is, like... one of those ‘call the bulldozer and burn sage’ kind of homes.”
“You thinking tear-down?”
“That’s what I told the buyers! But they asked if they could use one of those FHA 203k things you’re always talking about.”
I paused. I already saw where this was going.
“And you told them what exactly?”
“That it’s not eligible. It’s too far gone. I mean, it’s missing half a kitchen. The basement smells like Bigfoot’s armpit. There’s a toilet in the living room, Mike.”
I stifled a laugh. “Gary, you just described a textbook 203k opportunity.”
“But... it’s missing a roof!”
“And that’s why we have 203k loans.”
Gary went silent for a beat. I imagined him looking around the house, haunted by the ghosts of his own bad advice.
“You mean... this thing can be financed?”
I leaned back in my chair and smiled. “Let me tell you a story, Gary. About a house we called The Slanty Shack.”
A few years ago, I got a call from another realtor, also convinced he had just found the worst house in America. Built in the 40s, sat vacant for years, and had been the subject of at least two amateur paranormal investigations, the place was a disaster.
The front porch tilted so far forward you could’ve parked a skateboard on it and watched it roll into the street. The windows were nailed shut with what looked like chopsticks, and there was a literal raccoon squatters’ union living in the attic.
I met the buyers on-site: a young couple full of hope and Pinterest boards, armed with a dream and zero clue what they were walking into.
“I love it,” the wife said, stepping over a mummified squirrel.
The husband nodded. “It has... potential.”
The realtor, meanwhile, looked like he was having an existential crisis in the corner.
But here's the thing: they had vision. And they had me, a 203k consultant who knew the ropes, the codes, and how to translate “disaster” into “dream home.”
We wrote up a solid scope of work. We brought in licensed contractors. We made sure every repair, from structural to cosmetic, was accounted for. We submitted the HUD consultant package, the lender got on board, and guess what?
Four months later, that moldy raccoon hotel was transformed into a beautiful, modern, three-bedroom home with hardwood floors and energy-efficient everything. The raccoons even left a goodbye note (okay, maybe not, but I swear I saw one wave as it left).
Back to Gary. I could hear him breathing through the phone, slowly taking it all in.
“You’re serious?” he asked.
“As a heart attack. The primary purpose of the 203k loan is to repair homes that others may avoid. Missing roof? Covered. Funky layout? We’ll fix it. Kitchen in shambles? No problem. The only thing that disqualifies it is if it’s so bad it can’t be brought up to FHA minimum standards—after repairs are complete.”
“But... what about the toilet in the living room?”
“We move it.”
“And the black mold?”
“We remediate it.”
“And the squirrel skeletons?”
“We call an exterminator, and maybe an archaeologist if it’s ancient.”
He laughed nervously. “I told these people to walk away. I told them it was hopeless.”
“Well,” I said, “go call them back. Tell them you just talked to Mike Young, and he says this house was made for a 203k.”
Fast forward three months.
I walked into what used to be “the house so bad not even termites wanted it,” and was now a stunning Craftsman revival with subway tile, custom cabinets, and solar panels on the roof.
Gary greeted me with a firm handshake and a sheepish grin.
“You were right,” he admitted. “I had no idea you could do this kind of thing with an FHA loan.”
I gestured around the room. “Most people don’t. That’s why I do what I do.”
The buyers came in behind us, glowing with pride. The wife handed me a thank-you card. Inside was a hand-drawn cartoon of the house before and after, complete with a smiling toilet waving from its new home in the hallway bathroom.
“Thanks for seeing what we couldn’t,” it said.
Moral of the Story:
If someone tells you a house is too bad for a 203k loan... they probably don’t understand the loan. And that’s okay—because I do.
There are no haunted houses—only untapped potential.
And occasionally, raccoons.
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