The Half-Haunted House

After months of scrolling through online listings, traipsing through open houses with lingering animal-pee stench, and listening to every well-intentioned friend offer opinions on school districts, Ellen Kipper finally found a house that made her pause. Not just "pause" and squint at the screen, but actually halt her doomscroll, blink twice, and lean forward as if the pixels might reveal more if she got close enough. The listing called it a "classic colonial charmer." To Ellen, the photo looked like every other boxy two-story on the market, right down to the obligatory American flag and the faded "Welcome!" sign on the stoop. Maybe it was the price that caught her eye (suspiciously low), or the promise of "untapped potential" (always code for "bring a sledgehammer and hope"), or maybe she just liked the red door, the sort of cheerful red that telegraphed "someone made a bold choice here." At any rate, she booked a showing for Saturday morning, not really expecting much. But when she pulled up the tree-lined drive that weekend, she nearly laughed out loud. The house was hilarious, but in a way that made her want to go right up and knock, not turn around and flee. For one thing, it appeared that two entirely different teams of renovators had started at opposite ends and given up at halftime, right where the center gable jutted out like a nose. The right side glowed with fresh paint, buttery white; brand new windows sparkled, their grids crisp and symmetrical, and the flower beds below were lined with hydrangea bushes cut as perfectly as a row of blue-frosted cupcakes. The left side, by contrast, was a disaster: Warped shutters. Shingles clinging by a prayer. Vines so thick they looked like green tentacles,