Why Utah has received this high honor of being ranked in the top three remains somewhat of a proverbial, if not literal, mystery. It could be due to the Utah culture which places intense, high-stress expectations on religious holidays through family, church, and community pressures, whereas Halloween thrives as a welcome, anti-stress alternative. Or perhaps it is Utah’s traditional autumn weather which naturally triggers a spooky mood, offering the ideal crisp climate and vibrant landscape for celebrating Halloween. Either way, we are serious consumers of all things creepy.

For most of us in Utah, the first of November signals a definitive end to all things spooky, which we immediately replace with cornucopias and turkeys. However, according to local lore at least, the end does not come for some. In fact, some have been occupying Utah properties for considerably longer. Without paying rent, contributing to utilities, or respecting the concept of vacant possession. Utah has no shortage of homes with history. Apparently, some come with former occupants who have misunderstood the move-out instructions.

Take St. Ann’s Retreat in Logan Canyon, for instance. Often called “the Nunnery,” it had a glamorous beginning, but no longer boasts such a reputation for the fancy. The complex started with a family cabin in 1915 and grew into a retreat for wealthy owners before being donated to the Catholic Diocese of Salt Lake City in 1950. It later served as a retreat for nuns and a youth camp.

Years of deterioration helped turn the property into a destination for teenage adventures and ghost stories. Local legends include a sinister head nun and ghostly Dobermans with glowing red eyes.

These are folklore, mind you. Glowing-eyed dogs have not been established as an actual property feature. But where some people saw a horror movie, one developer could see craftsmanship and potential. The Salt Lake Tribune reported in March that there was a plan to restore the buildings as a resort with a coffee shop, Pilates studio, and spa. From haunted retreat to wellness retreat. Apparently, even the undead could use some core strength.

Then there is Salt Lake City’s McCune Mansion. Completed in 1901, the home reportedly cost $1 million to build. That was a million dollars before a kitchen island and upgraded cabinet pulls could make a meaningful contribution to the total. Built for Alfred and Elizabeth McCune, the mansion was donated to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in 1920 and became a music school. Its ghost stories include an organ playing without anyone at the keyboard. I appreciate a home with entertainment included. I would prefer to control when it starts.

Nearby, the Devereaux Mansion has its own rumored residents. One is a little girl in clothing from the 1850s, reportedly seen near upstairs windows and said to play tricks on staff. Another is a woman, sometimes described as a former housekeeper, who supposedly objects to anyone misusing the mansion. A protective housekeeper who throws things when people mistreat the property? I have met sellers with similar feelings. They were alive, but the concern for the hardwood floors was comparable.

These stories are part of Utah’s folklore, rather than verified accounts of supernatural activity. Still, a house’s reputation can have consequences that are very real.

In real estate, this is often called a psychological stigma. The roof may be new, the furnace may work, and the foundation may be fine, yet tell a buyer that someone occasionally appears at the foot of the bed, and the discussion flips rather quickly.

Utah law provides that owners and their agents are not liable for failing to disclose a property’s statutory stigma. That definition includes a property being the site or suspected site of a homicide, another felony, or suicide. Interestingly, the statute does not specifically list ghosts.

That protection, however, should not be confused with permission to make false statements. Buyers with concerns can ask specific questions, and agents should distinguish what they actually know from what the neighborhood has been repeating for forty years. A leaking roof is a physical condition, but a rumored woman wandering the hallway is not.

A famous New York case illustrates just how complicated that conversation can become. In Stambovsky v. Ackley, decided in 1991, a seller had published stories that her home was haunted, but her out-of-town buyer did not know about its reputation. The appellate court reinstated his claim seeking to undo the sale. Its memorable statement that, “as a matter of law, the house is haunted,” reflected the seller’s own publicity — not a judicial investigation of ghosts. Be careful who you tell.

What does all this do to the price? There is no standard deduction for an uninvited spirit. One Experian article reports that some properties with dark histories may be available for 10% to 25% below typical market value. That is a possible range for some stigmatized properties, not an automatic discount for every house with a creaky staircase. A recent survey, however, found that 67% of prospective buyers could be convinced to purchase a haunted house if the price was right. I am absolutely one of those.

Meantime, I’ll enjoy the skeletons, the changing leaves, and a good Utah ghost story. But if a house comes with someone who refuses to leave, I have one question. Can they at least make the mortgage payment?

Jen Fischer is an associate broker and Realtor. She can be reached at 801-645-2134 or jen@jen-fischer.com.