Everett sat with his back to the door to his basement, bawling and shivering.
He'd closed on the house only fifteen minutes earlier, when he'd taken the keys and began to walk around the house and mutter to himself "my kitchen, my sink, my mouse turd. Wait, mouse turd?"
He'd tried to go to the basement to check for signs of a mouse invasion. When he'd opened the door to his basement, however, he was greeted by the sight of a screaming, whirling maelstrom of malevolent spirits in the gloom. Howling axe-murders dismembered their ethereal victims, feeding their entrails to screeching harpies who supplemented their grisly diet with eyeballs plucked from the sockets of Spanish Inquisitors who cavorted in ecstasies of masochistic pain.
"They sold me a goddamn haunted house!" Everett said. He called his realtor. A few minutes later, Nick Swanson, Realtor, came into the house.
"You say that you have ghosts?" Nick said.
"Yes, I do! Check the basement!" Everett said.
Nick Swanson, Realtor opened the door to the basement.
"Hunh," he said, staring at the chaos. He closed the door and turned to Everett.
"Well, there's precisely fuck-all that I can do. Or rather, that I choose to do. You see, I've already cashed my fee and was on my way to enjoying some hookers and blow when you called to interrupt me, so fuck you very much."
"I'll sue you!" Everett yelled out of his front door as Nick Swanson, Realtor tromped across Everett's lawn. "For selling me a house with known paranormal phenomena!"
"Good luck! That won't stand up in court. Flames, flood, natural disasters, sure. Ghosts? Not fucking likely. I'll see you in the courtroom, or hell, whichever comes first!" Nick Swanson, Realtor yelled back.
Everett called his real estate lawyer and listened to a recording from his real estate lawyer's attorney, stating that Everett's lawyer was missing and presumed dead.
That night Everett sat up with a Bible and a cross and all of the lights turned on. He refused to go stay in a hotel rather than his house.
Then the power went out. Within moments the blue and gray ghosts floated out of the basement, no longer howling or plucking or murdering. One of the axe-murder's victims, with a split-open skull and dripping ethereal blood pooling on the very real carpet, noticed Everett sitting on the couch.
"Hey, mate, was the house sold?"
"Y-y-yes," Everett said.
"What? The house was sold?" one of the harpies asked. Her mouth was oversize and her teeth were inch-long needles covered with impaled eyeballs.
"Th-th-this morning," Everett replied.
The axe murderer lifted up his hocket mask to reveal a disfigured, mutilated face.
"That means that you're our new master," the axe murderer said.
"Your new master?"
"Aye, the previous owner was a nutjob who kept us here."
"Oh! Well, you're all free to go! Go free! Begone!"
"Actually," said the harpie, plucking a few eyeballs out of her mouth and handing them back to the eyeless Spanish Inquisitors that stood nearby, "this may sound a bit strange but I consider this to be my home now. I've been here for fifty years. That's a lot of history."
"Si," said one of the Spanish Inquisitors, popping his eyes back into their sockets and rolling them around. "Esta es mi casa."
"But we would love to be able to come out of the basement once in a while," said the axe murderer. "I understand that there's a patio?"
"Yes, there is, and quite a nice yard," Everett replied.
"So can we stay?"
Everett looked into their eyes and thought he saw sadness, except for the Spanish Inquisitors which continued to roll around like marbles on a greased pan carried by a man with one leg a foot shorter than the other. After all, they only seemed to harm each other.
"Sure," Everett said.
"Hooray!" the ghosts yelled.
The Moral: It's what is on the inside that counts, unless the insides are on the outsides.