Frank Smurl passed the business to his daughter, who added a new clause to the Smurl Guarantee: We do not sell homes with malevolent ghosts. Only homes with strong opinions. The sign outside still reads SMURL REALTY , but if you look closely, the word “Hauntings” has been added in smaller letters underneath, written in a brass so new it hasn’t yet tarnished.
“Ah, the Smurl Hauntings,” Frank said, arriving with a leather briefcase and a weary smile. “Family tradition. Great-grandpa Horace Smurl invented the term in 1922. See, a haunting is ghosts, demons, ectoplasm—unpredictable, scary. A Smurl Haunting is different. It’s just… a weird house. A house that lies about how many closets it has. A house that changes the lock on the bathroom door when you’re inside. We sell ‘em, we warn ‘em, and we offer the Smurl Guarantee .” smurl hauntings
He opened the briefcase. Inside were not contracts, but a ball of red yarn, a harmonica, and a jar of pickled eggs. Frank Smurl passed the business to his daughter,
That night, the three of them sat in the kitchen. Frank played the harmonica—a tuneless, humming drone that made the light bulbs flicker. The Barlows watched as the pickled eggs slowly floated out of the jar and arranged themselves in a pentagram on the linoleum. Then, one egg rolled forward, spelling out words in brine: MORE. SHELF. SPACE. “Ah, the Smurl Hauntings,” Frank said, arriving with
“Charming fixer-upper,” Frank told the young couple, the Barlows, as they stood on the porch. The doorbell, a tarnished brass cherub, suddenly played a perfect, mournful chord of “Auld Lang Syne” by itself. “See? Original details.”