Had a similar experience as a buyer.
All sorts of weirdness.
I was looking for another "fixer upper" and this house fit the bill.
The seller insisted the house was Buckingham Palace.
There was only one point in this entire process that filled him with glee. I was using the "right" bank and mortgage company.
The seller had a fit when I refused to use his "inspector".
He insisted that the inspector couldn't go into the attic.
It had to be inspected on a particular date, at night.
All the appliances and lights came with the house, but I was not allowed to test them because the electricity and water were off.
Of course, we ignored everything he demanded. The real estate agent was a friend from my old neighborhood when I was a kid. The owner had given the house to IBM to sell when he was transferred out of state, so the real estate broker actually worked for IBM, which means she worked for me.
I brought my own water wrench, turned on the water, (neighborhood well, perfectly legal) and had an electrical meter put in so we could do really thorough inspection.
As I suspected, there was a bunch of stuff wrong with the house.
Most of the appliances were crap. There had been a bunch of illegal work done on the house which had to be fixed (I had the town come in and they revoked the certificate of occupancy for the house).
After all that was settled (the house has now been sitting empty for almost 3 years, and I'm 6 months into my part of the process) the owner announced he was taking the lighting fixtures out.
I told them "Keep the house".
Panic ensues. "You're going to walk away for a couple of hundred dollars in lighting fixtures?"
"No, I'm walking away on principle."
Next day: light fixtures stay (BTW: I took most of them out and trashed them during the reno.)
But here is where things REALLY got weird.
The mortgage company was refusing to tell me what my rate was going to be. This was 1986, at the height of the mortgage boom. Rates were soaring, hourly.
I'm being told they won't tell me my rate until I'm at the closing.
The broker calls me. "I have some interesting news. The Owners wife is the head of the mortgage department."
Screw this.
I tell Kathy, the broker, postpone the closing for one week.
I call my lawyer and tell him what I plan to do. "OK, you need to ask them for these three pieces of paper. All you need to do is sign them, I don't even need to be there."
I sold a bunch of stock. I withdrew the cost of the house, in cash. I put it in a briefcase and went to the closing.
When I walked in the room at 9:00 A.M it was FULL of people. Lawyers, brokers, brokers lawyers, Title people, mortgage people and their lawyers. Recording secretaries and their lawyers. A bus load of tourists.
"Um, where is your lawyer?"
"Don't need one."
There is a ripple through the horde. A fish (me) is about to be gutted.
I ask for the 3 documents specified, they collectively blink, then hand them to me. I sign them.
I put the briefcase on the table and ask for the keys to the house.
Wait! We need to do money stuff they say. You need to "hire" all these people and pay them.
I open the briefcase and dump the money on the table.
Kathy, the broker, hands me the keys.
"You can keep the briefcase." And I walked out.
All those people were in there, expecting me to sign checks to pay them. I don't need to pay anyone. No. body. got. paid.
About 6:00 P.M. the phone at my new house rings. It's Kathy, and it sounds like there is a riot going on in the background. "Would I please come back and get the cash? They want to give me a mortgage at a really, really great rate, and no points, everyone is sorry," etc, etc.
"Nope"
Do you know what happens in America when you show up at a bank with a few hundred thousand dollars in a briefcase?
Most banks won't touch it.
Then the FBI gets involved.
Your name goes on a list. Lots of government agencies become your close personal friends.
A couple days later, there is a knock on the door.
"Come in agents. I've been expecting you."
I show them all my documentation. They are satisfied, but not very happy. No sense of humor, I guess.
I'm still living in that house, and I love telling this story. So does Kathy, the broker. IBM pays her commission.