“So, that’s the grand tour,” the realtor said, flashing her pearly whites at Hank. “What do you think?”

“Needs a lot of work,” he said, ticking off items on his fingers. “Every door and window squeaks, not to mention the stairs. I’d have to lubricate all of—”

“That’s minor,” the realtor interjected.

“Hmmph,” Hank said. “Then there’s the insulation. This place is so drafty, I bet doors slam shut on their own a lot, and there are cold spots in some rooms.”

“Nothing a little ductwork won’t fix!”

Hank ran a hand along one of the walls. “You may have noticed stains on the wallpaper and carpeting, even the ceiling. Some of it looks like water, which is bad enough because that means mold, but some is… reddish brown.”

The realtor coughed. “Let’s not be brash. We’d be happy to negotiate a credit for repairs—”

“But you’re already asking almost nothing on account of the rumors.”

“Yes, but the rumors are—”

“Probably true. Regardless, you’d need the patience of a saint to live in this death trap. I’ll pass.”