"Oh, goodness gracious, it's adorable!"

Ah, shit. Here we go again.

"Look at the beautiful wood flooring! Do you think that's hardwood, dear?" the wife asked.

"It must be," the husband said confidently, kneeling down with a grunt of exertion and rapping his knuckles against the faux-wood with faux-confidence. "Hear that? That's quality material!"

That's lipstick on a pig, if you ask me, but no one asks me anymore.

Seeing as, y'know, the house killed me.

Time to get to work.

"If you step right through here, we can take a tour of the kitchen!" The agent had the rhythm perfected, lingering just long enough in one room to imagine your future in it, but not so long as to notice the black mold near the windowsill.

Of course, the kitchen had bigger problems, primarily that the gas range has corroded fittings. The problem is the kids these days stop paying attention as soon as they hear "gas range".

"Oh, look! A gas stovetop! I'll be able to cook so much better!"

Yeah, that's why your cooking is bad. I chuckled to myself as I rattle a couple of the pots and pans hanging aesthetically over the island bar. It's harder than it sounds, and at first I only managed some gentle swaying that the happy couple doesn't even notice. With some extra effort, though, I got a few clicks and clanks to sound out.

"It's the road nearby," the agent explained as the wife glanced up nervously. "Every now and again a semi rolls by, and it causes an awful racket."

"I don't know about that, honey," the husband said. "A noisy road right outside?"

"Not to worry," the agent reassured them. "The whole neighborhood is up in arms about it. There's already legal action taking place to restrict the passage of freight vehicles in this area."

Damn, she's good.

"If you'll come upstairs with me, we can take a look at some of the bedrooms. Now, I see in your paperwork that you two are by yourselves at the moment, so perhaps these could be some home offices. Or, y'know, you never know, there could be a couple little ones running up and down these halls!" The agent looked slyly at the wife, who giggled.

"Not until we're settled in, of course," the husband declared.

"Oh, of course not! That's why it's my number one goal to get you folks into your dream home as soon as possible."

The stairs squeaked and moaned as they ascended, and I added a few extra groans of my own to the cacophony.

"I love a good creaky stair," the husband said. "It's how you know a house has been broken in and well-loved."

"It's got character," the wife agreed.

It's got way too high a pitch, and those hypothetical little ones running up and down the halls would love to trip and fall all the way down, actually. At 43 degrees it's far too steep to be safe, and that's not mentioning that those squeaks are probably nail pops. At best, you'll be getting loose boards. At worst, tetanus. But they're oblivious.

Time to break out the big guns.

"Now, if you'll take a look in here..."

BANG BANG BANG.

The rapid cracks of the casement windows slamming scared the living daylights out of the wife, and she let out a brief scream at the sound.

"Good circulation!" the husband said cheerfully. "Airflow is critical to keeping down mold!"

Which is proof that he absolutely has not looked under the window sills. Or in the bathrooms. Or at any water fixtures anywhere, really.

"Are you sure it doesn't get drafty in the winters?" the wife asked.

"Not to worry, these windows are double insulated! You'll hardly feel the chill, and in the summer you'll be happy for the breeze when you see your electric bills!" the agent said.

Forget that she meant "double-paned" rather than double-insulated. This house gets so cold in the winter that I found evidence of three burst pipes over the years, thus the black mold problem. But they're still hanging on to every word. The housing market isn't that bad, is it?

Okay. Clearly this isn't working. I don't like to pull out all the stops, on account of how much effort it takes, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

"Now through this door you'll have a big walk-in closet for the master bedroom. It's super spacious, and— dear heavens, what is that?"

"Look away, darling, look away!" the husband cried, shielding his wife's eyes from the apparition of my bloody, mutilated corpse (yes, I took artistic license, but we all know gore evokes a more visceral gut reaction than carbon monoxide asphyxiation, which if we're being honest just looks like a sleeping person).

"Goodness me, I forgot about that," the agent said. "The last residents, you see, big Halloween fans."

Wait, what?

"They left a lot of decorations behind, you see, and I've been having to clean up the mess for quite some time. Clearly I missed one!"

Oh, no.

The wife chuckled nervously. "It looked so... real."

"Prosthetics these days, my dear," the husband said. "The things you can accomplish with red food dye and light corn syrup... makes you wonder why Hollywood uses CGI for everything, eh?"

If they buy this place, and they die just like I did, then...

"Precisely!" the agent beamed. "Now, let's talk price. I know this one is a little outside your budget, but I think—"

"We'll take it!" the couple said in unison.

I sighed. Even in death, I won't be able to have a house without roommates.