Now, learning to be a ghost hunter is like learning karate: They make you vow to never use it irresponsibly, even though that's secretly the whole point of learning it in the first place. The class drones on about how no one can force ghosts to do anything, we can only try to persuade them through supportive intent and loving energy to stop throwing objects around basements or moaning in attics. Fortunately, there's a section buried at the back of the course reading for when that inevitably fails. It includes advice like dominating the ghost by yelling at it, which, frankly, is more my speed. It's the karate equivalent of roundhousing those ghosts in the face with healing.
The house I intended to cleanse was so impossibly perfect for a haunting that it sounds fake. I assure you, it's not. In 1959, Dr. Harold Perelson killed his wife by beating her with a ball-peen hammer. When the screams woke his 11- and 13-year-old children, he told them it was a bad dream and that they should go back to their rooms. Then he tried to kill his 18-year-old daughter with the same hammer, and she barely escaped to a neighbor's with severe skull fractures. The neighbor called the police, and by the time they arrived, Perelson already drank a glass of acid and killed himself. It was two and a half weeks before Christmas.
Not a creature was stirring. Sorry, was that inappropriate? I can never tell.