White walls, white carpet, white ceilings, white tile, white cupboards…everything in this “state-of-the-art” house is a putrid, sterile white. My parents smile, their white socks shuffling across the carpet as they point at the crystal chandelier. They like this new house, and talk quietly to each other about the good and bad points of the rooms.

“This space is nice and large…Ooh, lots of closet space! You can walk right in! Hmm…shoddy finishing touches. The ceiling lamps are quite boring… What a nice countertop! Lots of space to put things there…”

I bite my tongue and glare moodily at them, my gaze unfocused as I try not to concentrate on any of the whiteness surrounding me.

These were the type of places my parents visited all the time when we decided to move from our home in Minneapolis. We looked at many different houses, trying to decide where to live next. I have very few real memories of that time. Snatches come to me now and then, like a blurry photograph that’s been crumpled and pawed too many times to ever be seen clearly.

I do remember a dark brown house in the middle of a bunch of homes exactly like one another. The lawn was nonexistent; why should the developers bother with something as trivial as aesthetics? I saw the house, and suddenly was frightened – I had absolutely no desire to go inside and view its technological marvels. Still, I wasn’t silly enough to tell my parents. Instead, I concentrated on not getting my shoes wet as we climbed up the muddy, wooden slats. I grimaced to myself, noting the absence of a concrete walkway, something any good house should have had.

We took off our filthy shoes at the door and walked inside. One thing immediately struck me, which left me pale and fearful, although I couldn’t pinpoint why.

Everything was white. There wasn’t any furniture, nor were there the tell-tale imprints in the carpet to indicate furniture might have rested there at one time. No dirty fingerprints marred the pureness of the walls, and no stains had been carefully covered up. The cutting-board was pristine, and nothing mucked up the finish on the countertops. I shivered, wondering why I was so cold.

My parents were delighted over the house, but especially with the price. They put a bid on it, and after a little more gushing and laughing, we left. I held a little tighter to my mother’s hand, and glanced back at the house we’d just exited…

“Kid? You alright?” Dad asks, pulling me from the memory of that oddly frightening house, back from being eight years old to eighteen years old.

“Yeah.”

He doesn’t look reassured, but I wasn’t trying to reassure him, either. They knew I hated looking at houses, and thought that hate stemmed from the eventual move to Minnetonka. That’s partially true, although I’m happy to note my parents proved they had some taste. They never got that scary, brown house with the white walls, and instead bought a 50’s rambler with green carpets, pink bathroom walls, brown tiled floors, green mica countertops, and a killer view of the backyard.

No, the deep-rooted hate of new houses comes from a sense I get whenever I walk through their rooms. New houses have never lived, have never breathed, have never been given a story. They have no color, no personality, no weird quirks, and no inexplicable, bad odors. New houses are corpses, and just as unpleasant to look at.

The tour ends, and I follow my parents as they walk back into the bright sunlight. We pull on our shoes with some difficulty, and wander away from the white corpse of a new house.