We go to work fixing the floorboards and make sure there are no loose beams. Then we replace rusty nails, tighten leaky faucets, wash the comforter on the bed, fluff the pillows, and even manage to lure two chipmunks out of the hole in the cupboard (with excessive amounts of cheese and whatever else we can find in Mr. Hampton’s mostly empty fridge). By sunrise, the house is practically brand new, and if not that, at least it’s tidier. Cleaner.

Still, I’m convinced Mr. Hampton isn’t going to buy any of this. After all, we pretty much winged it, and none of us can really see ghosts. I keep practicing my poker face like Jackson taught me, expecting the worst, but when Mr. Hampton appears a little after dawn he takes in the house with fresh eyes.

“Did it work?” he says. “Is she resting? Our home…it looks different.”

Jackson nods. “Of course. A successful ‘cleansing’ if I do say so myself. Here’s the footage. We can watch it if you want. If you’d like to say goodbye.”

If Mr. Hampton had any sense, he’d report us. I hold my breath as he reviews the images, thinking that there’s no way in hell he’ll fall for our low-rent scam. After the footage ends though, Mr. Hampton stares at the screen. It’s a shoddy production. I know this, and Mr. Hampton should know this too, but when he doesn’t say anything, Jackson smiles. “Why don’t you rest up tonight? See if Millie comes back,” he says.

Mr. Hampton nods absent-mindedly, and we show ourselves out.

Elliot shakes his head as we walk to the car. “That was weird,” he says.

“It’s like he forgot why we came,” Beth replies.

“That’s what we get when our clientele’s pushing seventy,” I say.

Jackson turns, surveying the house. “He’ll come around.”

The next morning though, Mr. Hampton doesn’t come around, or call. He doesn’t contact us that afternoon either. Jackson’s sullen and quiet all day, waiting for the phone to ring. I can’t help but be secretly glad, but I don’t say anything. It’s only later that night when I’m at the kitchen table watching Jackson cooking ramen noodles that I finally blurt out what I’m really thinking. “We gave it our best shot,” I say. “Maybe we weren’t meant to follow in Mom’s footsteps.”

Jackson eyes me over the steaming water. “Oh, ye of little faith,” he says.

“I’m serious, Jackson. I mean, hey, it’s probably for the best. That old man had no idea what we were doing. If anyone watched that footage they’d know we were liars.”

“We’ll get better,” Jackson replies. “We’ll adapt.”

“Mr. Hampton’s probably reporting us right now.”