If I had a dime for every time I said, “Now I’ve seen it all,” I could have bought an island. I did, in fact, just purchase an island. It was only a kitchen island though, since my existing island was destroyed in the rubble that had resulted from the replacement of our flooring. Either way, I did see something this week that I haven’t seen before. This business is anything but boring.

First, let’s head back a few decades to one Halloween day in the year of our Lord, 1931. A baby boy entered the world that day. We will call him Henry (not his real name, but a good sturdy name all the same), born to a couple residing in Regina, Saskatchewan, Canada. A witness to the Great Depression, as well as World War II, he likely watched as his family and surrounding families in his community, saved, scrimped, at times agonized, to simply survive. Yet he endured. He joined the Army National Guard as a young adult and traveled the world.

After settling down to start a family of his own, he began cultivating his growing interests in building, mechanics, military warfare and aliens. The years passed, his family grew up and his children began having families of their own. This gave Henry more time to explore his hobbies. He started visualizing a large shelter, or a home, as it were, where his entire family could live together (the kids, grandkids, and great grandkids), when society collapsed. For Henry, a product of the Great Depression and a World War, he was likely sure that another war, inevitable if not imminent, would be the end of civilization. Only the prepared would survive.

Henry had become both a prepper and a survivalist. Planning, stockpiling resources and preparing for potential threats, he began building his vision. Having spent years honing skills in designing, building, carpentry, and machine operation, he purchased an acre of bare property and started to build a two-story home that would culminate in 25 rooms, including 10 bathrooms, eight bedrooms (with a possibility of at least two more of each in an unfinished top floor), a 1536 square foot Quonset and plans for a bunker.

Henry worked on this home for over 20 years before he became ill and passed away in July, in the year of our Lord, 2024. He was 92 years old.

The home is difficult to describe. There is no formal pathway leading to the front door, it is just surrounding gravel and dirt. Although the lot is located in the middle of a quaint and neatly developed neighborhood in a growing Utah community, it is surrounded by an acre of forested land. Deer and squirrels find refuge among the trees and wild grasses. An old rusty tractor with dead tree branches blanketing the seat and engine hides among an overgrowth of bush and weeds.

As I enter the front door, I walk into an oversized family room. Behind it is a wall with a wide entryway. If I turn left, I can enter a generous-sized kitchen. Modern, yet sensible, in both design and style. However, if I turn right, I glance down a hallway the likes of the Stanley Hotel, featured in the 1980 psychological horror film “The Shining.” In fact, I almost expected a set of creepy identical twin girls to come out of the wall and speak to me in monotone unison (refer to the aforementioned movie). There were sets of closed doors on both sides all the way to the end of the long hallway. Behind each door were identical rooms, each with full-size bathrooms attached as well as walk-in closets. The entire basement was an exact replica of the main floor.

Although there was no staircase to access the second floor from the inside of the house, there was a staircase from the main floor on the outside to the outer door leading to the second floor. This entire floor was unfinished but framed and plumbed for additional bedrooms and bathrooms. Feathers, guano and dead birds covered the plywood throughout.

As I retreated out to the forested area, my initial thought for a potential buyer for this unique home was perhaps a family with either many children or many wives. Stay tuned.

Jen Fischer is an associate broker and Realtor. She can be reached at 801-645-2134 or jen@jen-fischer.com.

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