WHERE HAVE I BEEN?! Escaping a Haunted House in Mexico: My Boldest Move Yet

From Stagnation to Sanctuary – A Memoir of Movement, Memory & Manifestation

Reader’s Note:

I’ve been quiet the past few weeks – not absent, just in the middle of a complete energetic, physical, and emotional relocation. This marks my sixth move in less than four years here in Mérida, Mexico. But unlike the others, this one wasn’t just a change of address. It was an exodus.

This move wasn’t easy. It required me to step out without a safety net, to let go of the false comfort of depending on others, and to lean into my own discernment, language skills, and ancestral instincts. I kicked fear squarely in the ass and asked the right questions the kind that open doors. The kind that liberates.

I left behind more than bad plumbing and broken cabinets. I left behind a house soaked in rot, saturated with sadness, and yes - haunted by things that don’t walk on two legs. There was a puddle of water in the middle of the living room floor not from a leak, not from the roof, not from the kitchen or bathroom. It sat there, still and soulless, like the house was weeping. “We moved from the ghetto.” And I mean spiritually, emotionally, environmentally. The energy there was stale and cruel. I now understand how deeply a home can affect your mind, mood, and motivation. I didn’t realize how depressed I had become until I breathed the air in this new place.

Now? I’m standing in sunlight.

This new home is bright, open, quiet. There’s peace here. I feel it in the way the wind moves. In the way my spirit wakes up without dread. In the way my work feels inspired again. These walls hold peace, not pain. I’ve learned that:

Wood absorbs.
Stone remembers.
Water carries.

And that last house carried a sorrow I didn’t deserve to live with.

This piece documents not just a move, but a metamorphosis. A dismantling of fear, a rejection of gatekeepers, and a celebration of what happens when you choose yourself. What you’ll read ahead is how I moved without a realtor, negotiated in Spanish, found my dream home in my dream neighborhood, and kept thousands of pesos in my pocket. But deeper than that this is a chronicle of what it takes to move from filth to favor and how sometimes, to be free, you must risk it all.

You ready? Because I am. Let’s begin.

I. The House That Broke Me: Waking Up Inside a Haunting

You know when a place stops being shelter and starts becoming a prison?

Not one with bars but with baggage. That house in Vista Alegre was more than just a bad match. It was a spiritual warning in drywall and dust.

Every creak, every crack, every scent told a story and none of them were kind. There was mold I couldn’t see but could feel in my chest. Cabinets that crumbled at the touch. Doors that didn’t close right, floors that held a thousand footsteps of pain. The roof leaked, the appliances failed, and the rot behind the walls felt almost…intentional. Like it wasn’t just a maintenance issue it was energy manifesting into matter.

Then there was the puddle.
Middle of the living room floor. No leaks, no explanation. Just water still, silent, unnatural. That puddle was a message. Not metaphorical. Not poetic. Literal. Something was wrong. Something was there.

I didn’t fully grasp it until the packing started. As each item left space, the smell became stronger. The air heavier. The silence louder. My dreams had grown darker in that house. My motivation had thinned. I stopped eating. I stopped laughing. I stopped sleeping. I stopped being.

That house was breaking me slowly, not with a hammer, but with erosion.
And I realized: It’s not just important where you live. It’s crucial where you allow your energy to sleep.

I’d ignored the signs. I stayed too long. I told myself, “At least it’s affordable.” “It’s only temporary.” “Just make it work.” But why do we keep making broken things work?

It was time to go. But not just to move to reclaim. And this time, I wasn’t asking permission.

II. Kicking Fear in the Ass: Ditching the Middleman and Trusting My Damn Self

For years, I thought I needed her.

Manuela. The “go-to” realtor. The middle-woman with all the keys, all the connections, and supposedly all the answers. She helped me rent four out of the six homes I’ve lived in here in Mérida and every time, I paid more than I should have. Not just in pesos, but in peace.

Let me tell you what I finally learned: She wasn’t showing me the best houses. She was showing me the most profitable ones for her.

Because in Mérida, realtors don’t work like they do in the States. Back home, their commission comes from the seller. Here? You pay. The owner pays. And if you don’t know better, she pockets an extra deposit like she did with me. Every time.

This last move? I didn’t use her.
And guess what? I saved 11,500 pesos up front just from not paying a bullshit “extra” deposit she used to eat for breakfast. Multiply that by four years and six moves? Sis, she’s walked away with $5,000 to $6,000 USD of my money. Gone.

And the kicker? The houses she showed me were below average; filthy, falling apart, and far from what I needed. But I thought I needed her, I kept handing over my power. Until I didn’t.

One night a loud little voice inside said: Drop her!!

And when I did the universe flung the doors wide open.

I started searching on my own. Used my Spanish. Negotiated. Walked neighborhoods. I talked to owners directly. Realized that most agents won’t even show you certain houses if the owner won’t give them a cut. So entire beautiful properties stay invisible unless you go look for yourself.

Now I see it clearly: She wasn’t my “connector.” She was my limit.

This time, I did it without her. I found exactly what I wanted. In the neighborhood I wanted. In my budget. On my terms. And the energy? Chef’s kiss. I don’t owe anyone a damn thing not a thank you, not a tip, not a peso.

Just like I tell people now: You don’t need a facilitator. You need information and an attorney (to review the lease). You need to know your rights, know how leasing works, and be willing to ask uncomfortable questions.

Big risks pay off when you make them smart. And this was the smartest move I’ve ever made in more ways than one.

III. Patterns, Predators, and Peso Pockets: Seeing the Game for What It Is

It didn’t start out looking like a betrayal.

It looked like help. Like guidance. Like someone showing me the way in a foreign land, where the language is different and the rules feel hazy. Manuela had the keys. She had the listings. She had the confidence. I thought she had my back.

But pattern recognition is my superpower. And once I saw it, I couldn’t unsee it.

Every house she showed me was just barely acceptable. Dingy kitchens. Musty smells. Leaky faucets. Not a single one felt like “home.” But I kept saying yes, thinking this was just how things worked in Mexico. That I needed to “lower my standards.” That I should be grateful she was helping me navigate this new world.

Lies.

What I was navigating was her pipeline to profit and I was the pipeline. Every extra deposit? Absorbed. Every rental? Commissioned. Every time I trusted her to find me something clean, affordable, and peaceful she served me stress with a smile.

Because her priority wasn’t my comfort. It was her cut.

That’s when the pattern hit me like a slap:
It didn’t matter whether I was renting for myself or placing tenants in my own property her choices always reflected what benefited her, not what served me.

When I stepped back and crunched the numbers, the truth made my stomach turn: Over four years? She made thousands off my back.

But here’s the real plot twist: I let it happen.
Because fear is a funny thing. It tells you to play safe. To not rock the boat. To believe the person with the keys must know better than you.

Until one day, I heard that little voice again: Drop her. Now!!

And when I did, the fog lifted.

I realized that being loyal to someone who isn’t loyal to your vision is a slow form of self-betrayal. I had outgrown her years ago. What I thought was support was really a leash.

So, I cut it. And I’ll never go back.

This time, I walked toward ownership of my own process. No more middleman, no more hidden fees, no more limits based on somebody else’s paycheck. Now I move with clarity, with conviction, and with cash that stays in my pocket.

I am no longer prey to anyone’s game. I am the game now.

IV. Ditching the Crutch: How I Kicked Fear in the Ass and Leveled Up

There’s a moment in every journey where you must ask yourself:
“Am I still holding on because it’s working or because I’m scared to do it alone?”

I had reached that moment.

For years, I’d leaned on someone else’s access. Someone else’s listings. Someone else’s broken system. Even when it didn’t feel right, I clung to it, afraid of stepping outside the so-called “safe” zone. But safety wasn’t safe, it was limiting. It was controlling. It was costly.

This last move forced me to face what fear had disguised as wisdom.
Because fear knows how to dress itself up in logic:

• “You need help, you’re not fluent enough.”

• “You’re better off letting her handle it.”

• “At least you know what to expect.”

But what I should’ve been asking was: “What am I sacrificing by playing small?”

When I finally dropped the crutch when I kicked fear square in the ass and said, “Move, I got this” I found out that I wasn’t behind. I wasn’t helpless. I was ready. This wasn’t luck. This wasn’t some fluke miracle.

I used:

• My Spanish skills to ask direct questions,

• My discernment to identify red flags,

• My experience of negotiating my terms,

• My intuition to sniff out the B.S.,

• And my boldness to knock on doors and say, “I want that one.”

And guess what? I didn’t just find a house. I found the house.

The one that checked every single box:
✨ The price I wanted
✨ The neighborhood I preferred
✨ The amenities I needed
✨ And the peace I had never known in this process

All because I finally trusted me.

Letting go of that middleman mentality was more than a financial decision, it was a spiritual reclaiming. A declaration that I am no longer a woman hoping someone else will hand her the key.

I am the key. And I know what doors I’m opening from now on.

V. The Fruit of the Leap: What I Gained by Going Solo

Let’s talk about it.

Not the fluff, not the “love and light” stuff.
I’m talking about real, tangible, measurable results.

After five prior moves in Mérida most of which left me either underwhelmed, overcharged, or straight-up disappointed (years later I found out one house was in foreclosure), this sixth time was different. Not because the universe suddenly got generous. But because I moved with new eyes, and a new strategy.

And baby, the shift was immediate.

I didn’t just avoid a bad deal I made the best one yet. Here’s what changed:

• 🏡 The House: Light-filled, modern, spacious, and peaceful. No mold. No rot. No leaks. No energy that makes you question your sanity. I walked in and breathed.

• 🌳 The Neighborhood: New. Rural. Safe. Quiet. Accessible. No chaos, no loud-ass traffic or people, no dog kennel energy. Just ease.

• 🛏️ The Comfort: I sleep better here. I move freer here. I’m not fighting my environment anymore I’m aligned with it.

• 💸 The Finances: No extra deposit, no shady fees, no middle-woman skimming off the top. I saved 11,500 pesos just by advocating for myself. Multiply that by all the past years? Let’s just say my wallet sighed in relief.

• 🧘🏾‍♀️ The Energy: That old place? Haunted, heavy, and oppressive. This house? Vibrant, balanced, and sacred. You can feel the difference. And that’s not poetic that’s science, spirit, and spatial awareness all lining up.

But the biggest win? My confidence.

There’s something divine about proving to yourself that you can do what you were once afraid to even try. Something permanent happens inside. You don’t just change your address you change your identity.

I’m no longer just the woman who helps others relocate.
I’m the woman who mastered her own freedom map and lives by it daily.

VI. Haunted Walls, Heavy Air: The Energetics of a Sick House

Some places don’t just feel bad, they are bad.

There’s a difference between a home that’s rundown and one that’s energetically rotten. I didn’t know how deep that difference ran until I moved out of that cursed cave, they called a rental.

Let’s recount the signs, not for drama, but for clarity:

• Apparitions & Unexplained Phenomena: One day, a puddle of water just sitting there in the middle of the living room. No source. No leak. No trail. Just a silent pool, like something had cried or bled through the dimensions. That wasn’t water. That was a message.

• Decay in Plain Sight: Cabinets literally rotting off the hinges. Cracked walls covered with tape and lies. Wood that smelled like sorrow. And behind every fixture? More neglect, more darkness. No matter how much we cleaned, something stayed off.

• The Smell: Not just mildew. Not just staleness. This was the scent of trapped energy. Of lives lived poorly, of secrets held in drywall. Every time I came back, it hit like a wall and not one we wanted to climb.

• Spiritual Weight: I was exhausted for no reason. Irritable. Sad. Confused. My intuition was muffled, like something was constantly whispering low-frequency noise into my psyche. I wasn’t just physically uncomfortable. I was spiritually drained.

So, what did I learn?

Wood absorbs.
Stone holds.
Water carries.

That house was made of trauma. It had absorbed every argument, every broken promise, every negligent moment of its past and it held onto it with claws. The water carried it across time, across tenants, across space. And when we moved in, we unknowingly agreed to carry it too.

But baby, not anymore.

We left it where it was. Closed the door with prayer and Palo Santo. And when I walked into this new house? I could breathe. The air didn’t just smell better, it felt better.

VII. A Crash Course in Courage: How I Did What I Didn’t Think I Could

Let’s be real this wasn’t just a move. This was an act of liberation.

After five failed moves, broken promises, busted pipes, rotgut rentals, and Realtor roulette, I finally did what I didn’t think I could: I found a dream house in Mérida, Mexico... by myself.

Here’s how it went down: I kicked fear in the teeth.

There’s this lie we tell ourselves when living abroad: “You have to use a realtor. You need a facilitator. You can’t do it on your own.” And that lie? It’s designed to keep us scared, codependent, and easy to exploit.

But that one night I heard a little voice say: “Drop Manuela .”

Not “fight her.”
Not “argue your case.”
Just… drop her.
And with that drop came clarity.

I opened my own doors.

I went to public platforms like Facebook Marketplace, local WhatsApp groups, and digital classified ads. I wasn’t locked into someone else’s narrow lens anymore I could see everything.

I started asking better questions. Looking at houses she wouldn’t show me.
Negotiating directly with owners. Finding homes in the neighborhoods I wanted, not where someone thought I “should” be.

And it worked.

I trusted my voice in English and Spanish.

Listen: my Spanish isn’t perfect, but it’s powerful.
Powerful enough to negotiate a lease, ask for specific repairs, clarify terms, and stand in my worth without fear of being misunderstood or manipulated.

I didn’t wait for a translator or a hero. I became my own. I summoned the Tia Niki that helped so many who could not achieve what I learned to do. I saved thousands literally.

Remember that extra deposit I used to pay every single time? Gone.

The “mystery fees”? Vanished.

This move saved me thousands of pesos and more in peace of mind.

Let me say that again louder for the people in the back: I SAVED MORE MONEY WITHOUT THE REALTOR. And got exactly what I wanted.

I chose myself.

Every step of this process asked me to have the courage to be brave.
Not loud. Not aggressive. Not reckless. Just… brave.

To believe that I could find what I needed.
To trust that my instincts were enough.
To know that I wasn’t crazy, or picky, or asking for too much.
I was asking NOT for what I deserved but what I required!

And this house? This bright, sunny, peaceful house?
It’s proof that the universe honors courage.

VIII. Ditch the Facilitator, Find Your Freedom

“No middleman, no mishaps just you and your power.”

Let’s go ahead and say what needs to be said: Most facilitators/realtors here are gatekeepers. Not guides. Not guardians. Not givers. Gate. Keepers.

Manuela wasn’t a fluke, she was the formula.
A system in human form designed to benefit off your ignorance, your foreignness, your kindness, your trust. And she used all of it.

But let’s be very clear, the voice said: “She can only do what you let her do.”
And I let it happen too long.

The pattern was never about service it was about self-interest.

She showed me four out of six homes. All poorly kept, poorly located, poorly managed.
She didn’t care about clean living or quality. She cared about commission.

Her allegiance? To her wallet.
Her game? Recycling the same busted, moldy, energy-draining properties and hoping you’re too tired or too scared to say no.

She wasn’t showing me what was best, she was showing me what would pay. But baby, the game changed when I played by my own rules.

No extra deposits.
No greedy middlemen.
No backdoor deals.

I learned how the actual system works. And it bears repeating:

• Many realtors won’t even show you houses they can’t get commission on.

• They skip over gems if the owner doesn’t “play the game.”

• That means your dream house might be sitting empty because no one gets a cut for showing it.

So, when I stepped out of their funnel and into my own flow, I found homes I never would’ve seen. Better prices. Better energy. Better neighborhoods. And I got exactly what I wanted.

Facebook became my friend. Knowledge became my realtor. Courage became my co-signer.

I wasn’t playing “dumb American” anymore.
I’d been through this rodeo too many times for myself and for my clients.

I knew what to ask.
What to watch for.
What documents I needed.
What the red flags were.
And I knew that if I wanted freedom, I had to stop outsourcing it.

Manuela got thousands off me $5K to $6K USD easy over four years.

And that was just from showing me sub-par housing and filth (when I learned the difference). Not even including what she absorbed from deals tied to my clients and my own rental property. (Which we’ll leave there for now, but you already know.)

I was paying a price not just in pesos… But in peace. In quality. In trust.

But I’m not bitter. I’m better. And I’m a living receipt.

Because karma’s real. And what you do to people comes back.
I’m not here to ruin reputations I’m here to reclaim mine.
I’m not the desperate expat she first met.
I’m not the woman who needed her to “save” me. I’m the woman who saved herself. And she gon’ feel that.

Last Word: The House Was Haunted… But So Was I

Before I wrap this up, I want to say something important: That house yes, that one served a purpose.

It caught me in a time of chaos, after I had to escape another Manuela -picked property where a full-blown construction site next door rained concrete dust into my lungs every day for eight months straight.
That wasn’t a metaphor. That was literal powdered cement in the air, in the curtains, in our throats.
From 8:00 a.m. to 5:00 p.m., it was a symphony of jackhammers and hacking coughs.
We were getting sick.
I couldn’t work.
I couldn’t film.
I couldn’t breathe.

So, I moved. Again. Thinking maybe this next one would bring the rest I deserved.

Instead, I walked into a deeper kind of rot.

Mold on the Ceiling, Toilet of Terror

There were months of no sleep. I mean none. This is the kind of exhaustion that gets into your bones. Because when your nervous system doesn’t feel safe, your body won’t let you rest.

Every day, I mopped mold off the ceiling.
Let me say that again: I. Mopped. Mold. Off. The. Ceiling.

It was the result of two unresolved leaks from the upstairs bathroom.
They didn’t fix it the first time.
They patched it.
They ignored it.
So it came back.
Twice.

And that toilet? Let’s just say it wasn’t fit for human use not for a grown woman trying to live with dignity. It was child-sized, unclean, and unspeakably unsanitary.

I Couldn’t Work. I Couldn’t Create.

When I say the energy was bad, I mean it was dark. Heavy. Oppressive.
It dulled my light. It took my joy. It hijacked my clarity.

And on top of the spiritual warfare, the logistics were trash: Delayed repairs (30+ days).
Total neglect of the exterior aesthetics (no yard work for 8 months. Grass grew past the windows). No peace.

But Then… I Remembered Who the Hell I Was

I remembered that I had done this for others over and over again. I had helped countless women escape the very same cycle I was in.
Consulted.
Advocated.
Translated.
Fought for them.

And this time? I fought for me.

I found the new place. I made the calls.
I negotiated the deal. I reclaimed my peace.

So, here’s what I know for sure: Sometimes the haunting is real.
But more often, it’s a reflection of what we’ve tolerated for too long.
And once we choose ourselves? The entities must go.
The mold dries up.
The noise fades.
The light returns.

This time, I saved me. And thank you Manuela for being my road to FREEDOM! And the way this new house shines, you’d swear it knew I was coming.

This is testimony to resilience and conviction. If you are in a similar situation, maybe you should LISTEN to that voice the inspires, uplifts and directs you. Be your OWN advocate and protect your peace, profit and property both internal and ex.

Be Well.

~NikitheOracle