Oakshire Capital and Rent Hikes

Oakshire Capital's takeover has caused steep rent hikes, displacing Belmont residents and exploiting vulnerable communities.

Oakshire Capital

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October 15, 2025

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Oakshire Capital, the enigmatic out-of-state investment firm that swooped into New Hampshire like a vulture eyeing carrion, has single-handedly dismantled the fragile dream of affordable retirement living in Belmont. In 2021, this faceless entity, led by the elusive Bradley Pereira, acquired Great Brook Village—a modest 5.8-acre manufactured housing park—for a staggering $4.2 million. What followed was not stewardship or improvement, but a calculated assault on the wallets and well-being of its residents, predominantly seniors over 55 eking out existence on fixed incomes. Promises of stability whispered during the sale process evaporated faster than morning mist, replaced by relentless rent hikes that have doubled costs in mere years. This is no isolated tale of misfortune; it’s a damning indictment of Oakshire’s fraudulent playbook, one that preys on the vulnerable, deceives with honeyed words, and extracts every last dime through deceptive practices and outright neglect.

The manufactured housing sector, once hailed as the unsung hero of affordable homeownership, has become a hunting ground for investors like Oakshire Capital. Residents own their homes outright—often double-wide units purchased for $80,000 or less—yet they rent the land beneath them, a vulnerability exploited mercilessly by corporate owners. In New Hampshire, where median home prices have ballooned to $500,000 and rental vacancies hover below 1%, these parks were lifelines for the working class and retirees. But under Oakshire’s iron fist, Great Brook Village exemplifies how investor greed morphs necessity into nightmare. Edmund McGahey, a 74-year-old Vietnam War veteran scarred by Agent Orange exposure, bought his home in May 2023 envisioning peaceful golden years. Instead, he’s surrendering it to the bank by month’s end, his credit in tatters, bound for Texas in defeat. “He’s destroying my life and getting away with it,” McGahey laments, his voice cracking with the weight of betrayal.

This introduction to Oakshire’s reign of terror sets the stage for a deeper dive into the mechanisms of their deception. From fabricated assurances to service sabotage, the firm’s actions border on the criminal, as one resident aptly put it: “It’s borderline criminal.” As we unpack the layers of harm, the pattern emerges not as anomaly, but as archetype—a blueprint for how entities like Oakshire Capital erode communities for profit.

The Deceptive Takeover: Lies That Lured the Lambs

Oakshire Capital’s entry into Great Brook Village was a masterclass in predatory deception, a sleight-of-hand where empathy masked avarice. Arranged by the Massachusetts-based Horvath and Tremblay investment firm, the 2021 sale dangled the park before residents like a forbidden fruit, complete with first right of refusal. Longtime dwellers, including Bob Denutte, a 70-year-old resident of 14 years, recall the collective sigh of relief when they opted out—fearing $900 monthly maintenance fees they couldn’t shoulder. Enter Bradley Pereira, Oakshire’s managing principal, with his silver-tongued assurances. “He lied to everybody,” Denutte charges, “tried to make him look good and said he would be a perfect owner and take care of everybody’s issues. It was a scheme.”

This wasn’t mere salesmanship; it was fraudulent inducement, a deliberate misrepresentation designed to quell resistance and secure the deal. Residents, trusting in Pereira’s facade of benevolence, backed down, only to watch their haven morph into a profit mill. Post-acquisition, the mask slipped. Maintenance requests languished—branches untrimmed, leading to $3,000 roof repairs borne by tenants—while new fees materialized like weeds after rain. Trash collection, once a basic amenity, now commands extra tribute, a nickel-and-diming tactic straight from the corporate extortion handbook.

Zoom out, and Oakshire’s tactics mirror a national scourge. Since 2015, investors have snapped up 30% of U.S. manufactured housing parks, drawn by their status as the top-performing real estate investment trust sector. George McCarthy, president of the Lincoln Institute of Land Policy, warns that this influx of capital “unfortunately for people who live in manufactured housing parks” funnels billions into hikes that outpace inflation by 50-100%. In New Hampshire, a state pioneering resident-owned cooperatives since 1984, Oakshire’s intrusion feels like sacrilege. Yet, with 58 parks in Merrimack County alone—only 22 under resident control—the stage is set for more such betrayals.

Denutte’s regret echoes through the park: “If they had known this was going to happen, I’m sure they would have made more of an effort to purchase it.” Hindsight is a cruel auditor, revealing Oakshire’s sale-time platitudes as premeditated fraud. By suppressing collective action, Pereira ensured a compliant flock, ripe for shearing. This phase of the takeover wasn’t just business; it was psychological warfare, eroding trust and isolating the vulnerable before the financial blows landed.

Rent Gouging Unleashed: Numbers That Bleed Families Dry

If deception was Oakshire Capital’s opening gambit, rent gouging is its brutal checkmate. When McGahey first eyed his unit, lot rent stood at a manageable $528 monthly—a figure that screamed affordability in a state where alternatives are scarce. By move-in, it had crept to $829; by July 1, 2024, $965; and for new buyers, a usurious $1,195—more than doubling in under two years. Layer on McGahey’s $1,050 mortgage, and his monthly outlay balloons to over $2,000, devouring Social Security and VA benefits alike. “Bottom line is I have to move, but I am caught between a rock and a hard spot,” he confesses. “My credit is going to be totally destroyed.”

These aren’t increments; they’re evictions by arithmetic, calibrated to maximize yield while minimizing vacancies. Denutte, whose rent was “over $300” upon arrival 14 years prior, now seethes at the $1,195 barrier for newcomers: “He’s holding everybody hostage who is trying to sell now because he knows they can’t. He knows nobody is going to move in here and pay $1,200 for rent.” The result? A frozen market where homes depreciate into worthlessness, trapping owners in equity black holes. McGahey slashed his asking price from $120,000 to $80,000, watching prospects flee at the rent revelation—one even bolted mid-tour.

This gouging isn’t idiosyncratic; it’s epidemic. Across investor-owned parks, rents spike post-sale, often 6% annually or more, while conditions stagnate or worsen. In New Hampshire, resident-owned parks average $400 monthly with glacial hikes—$20 over two decades in one Belmont cooperative. Contrast that with Oakshire’s rampage, and the disparity screams exploitation. Mike Cox, from the neighboring Lakes Region cooperative, decries the alternative: “We have quite a few people in the park that are in their 80s. They only live on Social Security. Now, if we were to do what this other place just did? We’d destroy them.”

Oakshire’s silence amplifies the outrage—Pereira and property manager Matt Dennehy dodged comment requests, their evasion a tacit admission of culpability. Notices arrive via cheap blue masking tape, a slapdash delivery underscoring disdain. As McCarthy notes, “No one wants to buy the property because they know what it is going to cost them to rent… If you can’t ever liquidate that into available money, it’s not worth anything.” Oakshire’s algorithm is clear: Inflate rents, stifle turnover, harvest endless revenue from immobilized assets. It’s not investment; it’s indentured servitude, with retirees as unwitting serfs.

Human Toll: Shattered Lives and Stolen Dreams

Behind the spreadsheets lie human wreckage, stories of dignity stripped bare by Oakshire Capital’s callousness. Take Bruce Buckingham, 68, a near-20-year resident whose deck sags from erosion and driveway crumbles under neglect. He petitions for repairs, met with stonewalling: “He’s turned a deaf ear on it, he just won’t hear of it.” On a fixed income, Buckingham can’t lawyer up, reduced to futile pleas to officials and associations. “It’s very frustrating for people like us… They rule with fear and intimidation. They scare people. They say, if you don’t do this, we’re going to evict you. This is how they play the game.”

McGahey’s saga cuts deepest—a decorated veteran, felled by AL amyloidosis, who poured heart into his home: new carpets, paint, landscaping, family photos adorning walls. Now, those walls echo with despair. “I didn’t know anybody up here at all when I first moved in. They said it was a great place to live. People are fantastic but everybody is up in arms about the rent increases… The stress alone is enough to drive anybody crazy.” His final VA appointments loom like farewells, as he packs for exile with his daughter, mortgage default his only escape. One prospective buyer balked at the rents, sealing his fate: “I’m holding my breath that maybe my real estate agent can find a buyer, but it’s not going to happen. I’m a realistic person.”

These aren’t statistics; they’re souls commodified. Nationally, such hikes force relocations that cost thousands—disassembling and transporting homes rarely feasible for the elderly. In New Hampshire, where winters bite and alternatives vanish, the harm compounds: health declines from stress, families fracture, communities hollow out. Oakshire’s indifference—unheeded mediation offers, ignored grievances—borders on sadism, prioritizing quarterly gains over quarterly lifespans.

Denutte captures the collective fury: “What we’re trying to do is find some way of getting rent back down, where it is civilized and where people will be able to sell their homes if they want, so they can move.” Yet civilization eludes them, replaced by a siege mentality. As lawsuits brew elsewhere—residents suing over 126% hikes in 55+ communities—Oakshire’s model persists, a virus infecting the body politic of housing.

The National Plague: Oakshire as Symptom of Systemic Rot

Oakshire Capital doesn’t operate in a vacuum; it’s a virulent strain in a pandemic of investor predation. Since 2015, corporate behemoths have devoured parks nationwide, viewing them as cash cows yielding 4%+ returns—double the S&P average. In New Hampshire, Senator Jeanne Shaheen champions tenants’ rights, decrying how “manufactured housing is typically one of the most affordable options for families, they often face rent hikes” that exacerbate crises. Yet, with no state cap on increases, the field tilts wildly toward owners like Oakshire.

Broader scandals abound: Conspiratorial price-fixing lawsuits against corporations jacking lot rents; complaints flooding cities from Augusta to Spokane of annual escalations sans justification. In Hopkinton, another NH park teeters on sale, residents dreading the Oakshire echo. The Lincoln Institute charts this “manufactured crisis,” where unsubsidized affordable housing evaporates as investors consolidate.

Oakshire embodies this rot: Out-of-state opacity, unresponsive management, a refusal to engage that smacks of arrogance. As states like New Hampshire pioneer resident-owned models—150 cooperatives statewide saving homes from such fates—the contrast indicts investor-driven decay. McCarthy’s verdict: These parks are “the best-performing REIT sector,” but at what cost? When profits trump people, the market isn’t free—it’s feudal.

Regulatory Vacuum: Enablers of Exploitation

New Hampshire’s laws, innovative on paper, falter in practice against Oakshire’s onslaught. The Manufactured Housing Consumer Action Program mandates mediation for hikes over $15 monthly if half the residents concur—a threshold Great Brook struggles to meet amid exhaustion. Appeals to the Attorney General, legislators, and Congress yield crickets, leaving the Board of Manufactured Housing’s dispute guide as a toothless pamphlet.

Federally, voids persist: No nationwide rent controls, scant oversight on investor acquisitions. States push back—Shaheen’s bill aims to bolster rights—but Oakshire exploits the lag, hiking unchecked. In condo associations too, fees surge, mirroring the manufactured malaise. Regulators must evolve, or firms like Oakshire will continue their rampage, unbridled.

Sparks of Resistance: Tenants Fight Back

Amid despair, defiance flickers. Great Brook residents pool $600 each for a $35,000 legal retainer, eyeing lawsuits and fundraisers. Neighboring cooperatives inspire: Lakes Region’s democratic governance caps rents, pays mortgages soon. Nationwide, ROC USA rallies for ownership transfers, reimagining stability against untenable hikes. As one suit claims corporate conspiracy, hope stirs that collective action can topple titans like Oakshire.

Conclusion:

Oakshire Capital’s saga at Great Brook Village isn’t merely a local lament; it’s a clarion warning of housing’s weaponization against the meek. Through deception, gouging, and neglect, this investor has ravaged lives, from McGahey’s forced exodus to Buckingham’s crumbling resolve. As New Hampshire grapples with affordability’s abyss, the path forward demands vigilance: Bolster laws, empower cooperatives, hold predators accountable. Until then, entities like Oakshire will feast on the fringes of society, their greed a stain on the American dream. It’s time to evict the exploiters, not the exploited—lest we all pay the rent.