In Connecticut during the late 90s and early 2000s, a mother says she is unbothered to be in the home office in which her husband shot himself – except when the door is closed. His things are still there: frozen spaghetti sauce in the freezer, a tome on the history of the oil business, and a trash bag of files. The mother refuses to shred the files at a shredding company. She worries someone might look at it. Connecticut has a “Psychological impact” law that allows a potential buyer to inquire whether a former occupant of a house had AIDS or was suspected of a homicide, felony, or a suicide.

A man buys the father’s boat not knowing the previous owner, the father, had killed himself.

The mother speaks to the father’s picture, asking him if it was her fault. “Did I make you feel like you were worthless?” The picture doesn’t answer her. “See how he never answers me?” she says to her daughter. The mother, a real estate agent, complains that he killed himself on purpose. She had told him about “psychological impact” affecting property sales before he had died. This must have been to spite her.

Over time, all the neighbors move away or die. The mother thinks she can finally sell the house – there is no one to pass on the story of his suicide. The buyers put in a bid with no questions. But a few weeks letter, a question comes: what happened to the father? They retract their bid.

Finally, another bid comes in. Cleaning out the house, the daughter realizes: the house wasn’t haunted; it was us.