How to Sell a Haunted House

Content Warning: The source material and this review include discussion of child death and graphic violence.

Haunted houses are a mainstay of the horror genre, and in How to Sell a Haunted House, Grady Hendrix reminds readers why the trope has continued to thrive across all forms of entertainment, from novels and short stories to films and television series. His unique and well-crafted characters encourage both sympathy and understanding from readers. As Hendrix’s characters struggle against strange entities, they respond in ways that are both expected and thrilling, and Hendrix’s twists and layered storytelling create a fresh take on moments that are often deemed cliché. In doing so, readers will be haunted by the tale long after they turn the last page. From deaths and dolls to possessions and stuffed squirrels, this story charmingly highlights both the best and the strangest of the genre. 

The story begins with a brief introduction to Louise, a 34-year-old mother-to-be and the novel’s protagonist. Unwed and reluctant to contact Ian, the father of her baby, Louise finally calls her parents—and the ensuing conversations highlight numerous tensions in her life. She is the polar opposite of Mark, her unsuccessful and often unemployed younger brother who depends too heavily on alcohol, and she struggles to connect with her parents, who frequently praise and dote on Mark despite his numerous flaws. Louise hopes that now, in sharing the news of her pregnancy, she may become closer to her mother because they will finally have something in common. Louise’s mother has an unusually profound love of dolls and puppets, and this quirk, in addition to her preferential treatment of Mark, has long been an obstacle in their relationship.

When both of Louise’s parents die in a car accident five years later, Louise flies back to clean out her childhood home in Charleston. The strained relationship between her and her brother is pushed to a breaking point when Pupkin, the ventriloquist doll their mother “loved more than she loved them” (61), begins showing up randomly throughout the house. Louise tries to convince herself that her brother is just trying to scare her, but then a stuffed squirrel nativity comes to life, and the squirrel version of baby Jesus begins to chase her throughout the house. Some supernatural events are typical of poltergeist tales—strange noises, burned-out lightbulbs, the television turning on by itself—but as the story escalates, these events become harder to anticipate.

The back and forth between the traditional creepy atmosphere of a typical haunted house story and the disturbing (but often hilarious) vibes consistent with Hendrix’s Horrorstör create a whiplash effect that allows the tension to break and build over and over again as the story progresses. 

As the characters develop and family secrets are revealed, readers may find themselves holding onto the book a little too tightly in some unexpectedly gory scenes. They may also find themselves chuckling, smirking, or downright laughing in others, in large part because of how Hendrix presents the characters’ inner dialogue. Their thoughts often interrupt action scenes in italicized lowercase letters, hinting at the individual’s stream-of-thought amid the chaos: “Pupkin brought the hammer down again, shattering the small of her back, and / oh god i am thinking of him as pupkin now / she dragged herself forward just as the hammer hit the back of her right thigh, feeling like it gouged a divot out of her skin” (277). In moments like these, Hendrix highlights the absurdity of the situation: The protagonist realizes that she is being attacked by a possessed puppet, which is ridiculous, but at the same time, she treats it as a serious threat as the object is developing as a character on its own.

Alongside the humor and horror are sad moments that, while brief, reflect a genuine sense of loss and a deep understanding of tragedy. Usually, these scenes tie directly to Louise’s grief. In Chapter 13, for example, she finds a half-eaten sandwich in the fridge, which her father had “put aside for later when he got hungry, but he died before he ever got hungry again” (139). While the statement is simple, her reaction is complex; she loses all the strength in her legs and reminisces on the floor about her loss. Memories detailed with visual, auditory, and olfactory imagery place the readers immediately in the scene, allowing them to grieve along with Louise. While these moments are fleeting, they encourage readers to empathize with the characters, giving them the opportunity not only to care about what they are going through but also someone to root for in the hopes of a happy ending. The pacing is steady, and the journey is worth the ride; from beginning to end, Louise’s strained relationships drive the story forward, so there are few scenes that feel like a slog.

Overall, the aftertaste left behind by How to Sell a Haunted House lingers. Compared to Hendrix’s earlier six novels, How to Sell a Haunted House feels like his best work. Horrorstör—a 2014 novel that parodies the famous Ikea catalog—plays with horror tropes in similarly intense and comical ways, but at only 248 pages, it feels far less developed; character relationships hover on the surface, and the plot, while entertaining, lacks complexity and depth. Thematically, his subsequent novels follow a similar line: My Best Friend’s Exorcism, We Sold Our Souls, The Southern Book Club’s Guide to Slaying Vampires, and The Final Girls Support Group all juxtapose the humorous and the horrific, the absurd and the morbid. Recently, Hendrix re-released a book he published a decade ago, Bad Asstronauts, which leans more on sci-fi than horror. Instead of slowing his momentum, this novella paved the way for How to Sell a Haunted House, his strongest and most engaging horror novel yet. Hollywood agrees with this assessment: The movie rights to the book were sold only a few months after the book’s release date, and according to numerous sources, a film adaptation is on the way.