How to Sell a Haunted House

by Grady Hendrix

Something had happened right before her mom and dad had left their house for the last time. Something bad.

Whenever Louise got anxious, her dad always said, You know, Louise, statistically, and there’s a lot of variance in these numbers, but in general, from a strictly scientific point of view, everything turns out okay an improbable number of times.

They began to talk about flowers and obituaries and who needed to be called and Louise felt small and safe, sipping her wine, surrounded by these loud women doing everything for her.

“You don’t get space from family,” Constance said. “He’s your brother.”

her dad practically defined the word normal. He didn’t buy presents for people but instead gave cash because, as an economist, he believed the recipient would purchase the most optimal gift for themselves. Was there a more dadcore thing to do?

Her dad was dead. Her mom had picked her brother. Her brother hated her. There was nothing left here for Louise anymore.

“Sweetheart,” she said, “I once battled a warlock in Summerville. There is nothing you can say that will shock me.”

After that, we’ll call my girls and see about blasting the Devil out of your parents’ house and sending that little haunted puppet straight back to Hell.”