My name's Ethan Cole. Two years back, I got laid off from my desk job and crashed at my best friend's place for a week—until he tossed me a lifeline: a spot at his real estate brokerage.
Jake Marlow's been my ride-or-die since high school. Now he owned two branches of Marlow Properties, and I slid into the role of lead agent at his downtown storefront like a glove. Turns out, my silver tongue was tailor-made for this gig. First year, I cashed out enough to buy a brand-new pickup truck—thirty grand, straight up. Second year, I stashed away a fat chunk of change in my savings account. I was already daydreaming about ditching the 9-to-5 grind and retiring by forty.
Then the shit hit the fan.
It all started with a house I'd sold six months prior. The couple who bought it—Tom and Lisa Carter—stormed into my office screaming for a refund, yelling that I'd pawned off a haunted house on them.
Haunted house. The phrase alone makes any realtor's skin crawl. In our line of work, a "haunted house" isn't just some spooky legend—it's a property where someone died an unnatural death. Murder, suicide, accidental falls—any end that didn't come from old age or a terminal illness.
But here's the thing: buyers don't care about the technicalities. To them, any house where someone breathed their last is cursed goods. And the industry has a golden rule—you must disclose a death on the property, no exceptions. Hide it, and you're not just breaking the code; you're poisoning the whole damn business's reputation.
Sure, there are sleazebags out there who cut corners. But I'm not one of them. I play by the rules.
I looked Tom and Lisa dead in the eye and swore up and down that no one had ever died in that house. Hell, I even called the seller right there in front of them—an old guy named Mr. Henderson who'd inherited the place from his aunt—to confirm. Henderson swore up and down, too, that the house had been empty for years, no bodies, no drama.
But the Carters? They were convinced they'd been duped. They rambled about feeling eyes boring into their backs every time they stepped into the master bedroom, about nightmares so vivid they'd wake up screaming at 3 a.m. for six straight months. They camped out in our office lobby every single day, yelling at customers, slamming their fists on the counter, turning our cozy little brokerage into a circus. We had no choice but to call the cops.
So there we were—me, Jake, and the Carters—sitting in a cramped police station interrogation room, arguing like children. The officers just stared at us like we were all nuts. Because the Carters had zero proof. No police reports of deaths at the address, no 911 calls, nothing. Just their paranoia.
Jake was seething. He called them delusional, told them they needed to check themselves into a psych ward. That set off another screaming match.
To shut us all up, the cops did a little digging. They talked to the neighbors, pulled up every incident report for that block going back a decade. The verdict? Nada. No deaths, no crimes, no nothing. I was in the clear. The cops warned the Carters to stay away from our office, or they'd face trespassing charges.
We thought that was the end of it. Two days later, the Carters were back.
This time, they went full-on petty. They plopped down on our front steps and refused to leave until we gave them their money back—plus "emotional distress compensation."
"Are you kidding me?" Jake exploded, pacing the office with his fists clenched. He rounded up the whole team, voice cracking with frustration. "We need a plan. If these two keep this up, we're gonna be out of business by next month. We'll all be eating ramen for dinner!"
The rest of the team just shrugged. The cops couldn't help—what the hell were we supposed to do? If it weren't for the law, someone would've clocked the Carters right in the jaw by now.
I leaned against my desk, crossing my arms. "Simple," I said. "We move into the house. Stay two nights. If nothing weird happens, they can't say jack. It'll prove it's all in their heads."
The room erupted in cheers. "Hell yeah, Ethan! You're a genius!" "Let's show those whackjobs who's boss!"
Jake clapped me on the back, grinning. "Since you sold the house and cooked up the plan, you're the man for the job, chief."
I didn't even hesitate. Bring it on. Even if the place was haunted (which it wasn't), I wasn't scared of some ghostly BS.
Jake hauled the Carters inside and hammered out a deal. They agreed—if we survived two nights with no spooky incidents, they'd drop the refund demand. If anything weird went down, we'd bring Henderson back to the table and force a full refund. They were so cocky, like they knew we'd stumble onto something terrifying. It made my blood boil.
We weighed our options. Worst-case scenario? We lose the commission—my $1,000 cut included. But it was better than letting the Carters tank our business.
Still… I couldn't shake the weird vibe off them. Their confidence was off the charts. Like they were waiting for us to run out of that house screaming.
Whatever. Even if something did happen, I'd lie through my teeth. No way I was letting those two win. I didn't believe in ghosts, curses, or any of that hocus-pocus garbage.
That night, Jake rolled up to the office with a duffel bag stuffed with high-def cameras. If we were gonna prove the house was clean, we needed proof—footage that captured every inch of the place, sound and all.
"Good luck, buddy," he said, tossing me the bag with a smirk. "If you spot a ghost, call me. Preferably a hot female one—I'll be over in five minutes to hit on her."
Jake and I go way back—closer than he is to his girlfriend, honestly. That's why the team called me "chief" instead of just another agent. We were family, not coworkers.
"Relax," I said, slinging the bag over my shoulder. "It's just a two-day vacation. No clients, no paperwork, no drama."
The Carters had moved out two weeks prior, leaving the house empty. They'd handed over the keys that morning, their smirks still glued to their faces.
Thirty minutes later, I pulled into the parking lot of Maplewood Estates—a beat-up old complex built in the early 2000s. Back in the day, it was the nicest place in the neighborhood—spacious single-story flats, big yards, all the bells and whistles. A few years ago, the HOA had slapped on some new paint and installed those glass exterior elevators, so it didn't look totally run-down. But you could still smell the mildew in the air, feel the creak of the sidewalk under your shoes.
I parked my truck and headed for building 3, unit 502. That's when I saw her—a tiny old lady, hunched over a wooden cane, staring at me like I was a alien.
"You ain't from around here, are you, son?" she croaked, her voice like gravel.
I flashed her my best realtor smile—warm, friendly, unassuming. "Nope. I sold a house in this building a few months back. The buyers say it's haunted, so I'm spending a couple nights here to prove 'em wrong."
The old lady's eyes went wide. She took a step back, like I'd just sprouted horns. "Which unit?"
I pointed up at the fifth floor. "502. Third building, second door on the right."
Her face drained of color. "502… That place sold six months ago, didn't it?"
I nodded, leaning in. "You've lived here long? Know anything about that unit?"
She let out a dry chuckle, tapping her cane against the concrete. "Honey, I've been here since the day this place opened. Twenty years, give or take. Me and my late husband moved in when the paint was still wet."
A lifelong resident—perfect. She'd know every dirty little secret this complex had to offer.
"Did anything… ever happen there?" I asked, jerking my chin toward 502. "Deaths? Accidents? Anything weird?"
The old lady glanced up at the fifth floor, her gaze distant. "That house has only sold twice. Once six months ago—your sale. Once fifteen years back, to a young couple. After they bought it? That place sat empty. Fifteen years of dust and silence."
My blood ran cold. Fifteen years? Henderson never mentioned that. Not once.
Of course, sellers aren't required to disclose how many times a house has changed hands. But why would someone buy a perfectly good house and let it rot for fifteen years? That didn't make a lick of sense.
"Did they ever rent it out?" I pressed.
She shook her head, her lips pressed into a thin line. "Not once. Stayed empty as a tomb. You should leave, son. That house ain't worth the trouble."
With that, she turned and hobbled toward building 4, where one of those glass elevators hummed quietly in the corner. I watched her go—watched her step into the elevator, watched it glide up to the fifth floor, same as mine.
A chill crawled up my spine.
I turned away from the elevator and pushed open the door to building 3. The stairs creaked under my boots as I climbed to the fifth floor.
The hallway was dark, the air thick with the smell of old carpet and something else—something metallic, like rust. I pulled out the key, inserted it into the lock of unit 502, and twisted.
The door clicked open.
And that's when I heard it.
A soft, breathy whisper, floating on the stale air.
"Welcome home."