The sign above the door read SMURL REALTY – “Homes with Character” in chipped gold leaf. Frank Smurl, third-generation broker, believed it. He’d sold houses with crooked floors, houses with bats, even a house where the previous owner had walled up his coin collection. But the house on Vicker’s Lane was different. It didn’t just have character. It had a cast .

“Charming fixer-upper,” Frank told the young couple, the Barlows, as they stood on the porch. The doorbell, a tarnished brass cherub, suddenly played a perfect, mournful chord of “Auld Lang Syne” by itself. “See? Original details.”

“Deal,” Frank said. He handed the Barlows a small, polished stone. “That’s the Smurl Stone. If the house starts acting up again—different kind of weird, not the fun kind—just rub it. I’ll come back with more pickled eggs.”