I smell dead people.
Not dead in a gross way—I smell who they were. And so, when I walked into my new listing on Linden, I knew we had problems.
“How long have you been here?” I asked the seller.
Only a year, and this homeowner had turned jobless, depressed and pre-foreclosure.
In the kitchen, the spirit-smell was strong: cigar smoke and man-sweat and a foul mood—all hanging in the air like last night’s onions cooked in cheap grease.
“What do you think? Should I paint?”
“Actually, I’m going to suggest sage. And possibly, an exorcist.”