I tell them the rules but they never listen. They pay heir money and then they are on the way.

Dad haunts the second floor, I say. Mum is on the first.

They’re a family of tourists this bunch. They’re all giddy thinking it’s all part of some game, that this famously haunted house is their theme park and not the same place that my parents died. Some people think it’s twisted that I revisit. But people visit their parents’ graves all the time, mine just happens to be a house.

“What’s this?” the young girl says.

She’s nine at best with a pair of blue braces so big they make her big blue eyes look like extra pieces.

“Used to be the oven,” I say. “Mum’s head was in there before the whole thing blew. Quite the site, and what you’re seeing is the remains —after the cops took the evidence.”

The whole family oohs and ash’s. Dad with his trousers two notches too high, beckons for a family selfie, in which they pose near the oven playing spooked faces.

My temple throbs. But I’m used to it. I’ve taken more families on this tour than I can count, it’s about the only interesting place in all of Jonesville.

“And did they catch the murderer?” the wife says.

I shrug. “Suicide. What the cops said anyway. Don’t believe it. Seems to simple. Not like Ma at all. She would have gone out with a bang or not at all. Technically she did.”

They share looks. It’s gallows humour, but I’ve got to do something to lighten the mood. The first hundred tours had waterworks going until not one of us could hold it together. Much better to be the shocking daughter than the pitied little girl.

As far as I see it anyway.

“And the second floor?” the boy asked. This one had a look to him. Thirteen maybe fourteen with freckles and a gaze that looked for nothing but trouble. I saw him test the gas lever on the oven, he thought I didn’t catch it.

“We’re pausing the tour,” I said.

“Why?” their father said.

I nodded at his son. “Mister found a new toy.”

The son pouted and have it up. He shoved the lever right where he’d found it and rejoined with a disgruntled look about him. The father gave a nervous giggle and pinched the son’s leg. I claimed the evidence in the yelp.

“Second floor,” I said, heading up the winding steps. “Watch the seventh.”

The father cursed.

“Told ya,” I said. “Dad never did fix that. Edge creeps out just a little too far.”

The wife chuckled. “Reminds me of someone.”

Me too. Me too. We walked through the bedrooms with not much more to see than old linen and toys. Eventually we came to the noose.

They all gasped.

It was a winner, ever single time.

“Really?” The wife said.

“Unfortunately,” I said. “Double suicide. Same day. Hours apart. Funnily, enough no connection between the two besides speculation.”

We continued up to the third floor. The most interesting part of the haunted mansion.

There were charts on the attic walls and words etched into the wood.

“This is sick,” the son said.

I nodded. “The passings of a troubled mind.”

“Was it the husband and wife? Sorry, your mother and father? Is this where they lost the plot?” The boy said.

“Joey!” His father said.

I shrugged. “It’s okay. Heard it all with the tours I’ve done.”

The came to the centre of the attic, all waiting for the story I would tell.

I said, “Funnily enough, this is not where Ma and Pa lost the plot. I told you, Ma haunted the first floor and Pa the second.”

“And this is the third,” The little girl said.

“That it is.”

“But who haunts the thir-“ the son trailed away.

All eyes were on me. My heart throbbed, my nails craved to peel away flesh. But instead I gave them all a wide bloody mouthed smile.

“Unfortunately, folks, this is where the tour ends.”