The Horrible Un-Haunting of Elliot House

Part 1

"Through here," you say, leading the Gundersons through an arched door. "You'll find the most adorable sunroom."

The Gundersons both gasp, appropriately awed by the tall walls of windows. Each panel is topped with stained glass, casting colorful patterns across the checkered floor. Technically, the sunroom isn't part of the original house – it was added in 1975 during a brief period the address was owned by a cult – but you rarely disclose this fact during tours. Most people don't care which parts of the house are original, so long as they can say they bought a 19th century Tudor.

Not that you blame them. Most people (or at least, sane people) appreciate the romanticism of an old structure without actually wanting to live in one. Modern amenities are the top benefit of progress, after all. The government couldn't pay you to live without modern heating, plumbing, or refrigeration.

"Margaret, did you see?" Arthur Gunderson, a slightly rotund lawyer, and husband of said Margaret, gestures emphatically. "I'll be damned if this stained glass isn't Tiffany! See there, see that stamp in the corner?"

"Good eye, sir!" you chirp, barely glancing up from your clipboard.

Truthfully, you aren't sure whether the glass is authentic. The cult that installed could hardly be called profitable (they sold the house at a loss after less than ten years, although this likely had more to do with crimes committed on said property than their income, but you digress), so you'd be hard-pressed to believe they could afford real Tiffany.

If this is what convinces the Gundersons to buy though, you're hardly a realtor to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Ticking a box in the upper right corner – sunroom – you look up. "Right, well. That's most of the lower level." Pivoting on your heel, you head towards the corridor. "If you two will follow me upstairs, we can –"

"What's that?"

Steps slowing, you stare at the plaster wall. A moment passes, then two before you convince yourself to turn around. When you see where Arthur Gunderson points, a relieved breath leaves your lips.

"Oh, that?" Floorboards squeak as you cross the room, sounding almost like laughter. "That's the cellar. I'd offer you a look but unfortunately, the staircase isn't quite up to code. You'll need someone to look at that ASAP if you buy."

Hovering at the wooden door, you grasp its bronze knob and pull. Tugging the cord for the light, you briefly scan the stairs but spot nothing unusual. Mostly convinced, you dutifully step aside.

"Feel free to look," you say brightly.

The Gundersons crowd the landing you vacated.

"Careful, honey," Arthur warns, holding Margaret's elbow. "These stairs are steep."

Standing on tiptoe, Margaret peers beyond him into the basement gloom. It could be your imagination, but she almost seems disappointed. A few cobwebs and shadows line the staircase, but nothing more sinister.

Hiding a smile, you check the next box. Cellar. Sometimes, people request to see this house not because they're interested in buying it, but for the thrill. Entering the haunted Elliot house and surviving will make a great tale to tell their friends over cocktails.

Lowering your clipboard, you glance upward. So far, everything has gone to plan, which is partly the problem. You must've shown this house thirty times and always, something has gone wrong by now. Before being assigned its realtor, you believed in the paranormal, but only in a theoretical way. Not because you'd witnessed anything spectral.

Your opinions since then have changed.

Turning sharply, you plaster a smile on your face. "Shall we?"