“What is this fuckin’ House of Leaves shit? Where is my fuckin’ hammer? I left it RIGHT HERE not ten minutes ago! Is someone messing with me? I swear to God, someone must be messing with me. Carlos, is it you? I see that fuckin’ smirk on your face,” Travis bellowed at his crew. It was out of nowhere.

It wasn’t the first time he lost it and it wouldn’t be the last, either, not as long as they were working on that house. What should have been an easy in-and-out six week renovation had turned into a five month affair with no end in sight. It didn’t help that his clients, the Grahams, kept calling in or dropping in unannounced and shouting things like “THIS NEVER HAPPENS ON HGTV” or “JONATHAN AND DREW WOULD NEVER STAND FOR THIS” like they knew the Property Brothers personally, or “REHAB ADDICT GETS IT DONE AND SHE IS A TINY LITTLE LADY!” ever two or three days or two or three hours, depending on how full their day’s schedule was.

As usual, his crew disregarded his outburst, and as usual, he felt a deep shame both for that and for again pointing the finger at Carlos, his crew’s lone Hispanic employee. He wondered if that meant he was racist. He wondered why he kept jumping on poor Carlos, the friendly and giving family man, when his aggressions would be better placed if they were directed toward Bo, the whitest white trash he had ever met in his life. He didn’t even want to hire the guy, given his record of petty theft and tardiness, but his wife and office manager, Charlotte, wouldn’t stand for it. She was all about second chances, even if those second chances were actually thirds, fourths, or fifths, God bless her.

“Take five, guys,” he said, “I’m goin’ for a smoke.”

It was all he could offer by the way of an apology. He wasn’t a feelings guy. He didn’t like having them and he didn’t like feeling them. He sure as hell didn’t like talking about them. Besides, his guys knew where his heart was these days. No hard feelings.

He opened the newly placed front door—all glass panes Frank Lloyd Wright style—and stepped out onto the recently reconstructed front porch smacking a pack of Marlboro Lights in his hand. He sat down slowly—bones cracking, joints creaking, back screaming—on the top step of the stoop and looked out at the neighborhood.

“Jesus, I’m getting too old for this,” he thought, lighting up. But it’s not like he could retire. Retirement wasn’t in the cards for guys like him and he thought that was just fine. His family had taken a hit—hard, like they’d fallen smack down on their backs and felt dizzy if they tried to get up too fast—during the Great Recession. Times had been hard on them for a good ten years. Their financial hardships bled slowly into his psyche, threatening to overturn the love and absolute joy he felt when he looked at his girls. Sometimes it won. Sometimes he turned mean. But he tried to keep the poison spreading in his heart at bay.

But even in those times of darkness, there was some sunshine. It came in bursts from his wife’s touches, her sidelong adoring glances, his girls’ good grades, their unconditional love for him. And gradually those bursts grew and he no longer felt like he was wandering in the dark without a light. No, it was full day, high noon, in his soul.

He began working with his hands again. He restored their depleted 1930’s home to its former glory. Family friends enlisted him to work on their own homes. His client base grew and soon he found himself to be a small business owner, with his own workshop, his own crew, and his own name hanging from the door—and a reputable one at that.

Schlosser’s and Company wasn’t the only construction game in town, but it definitely was the only business that really focused on restoration, renovation, and design. He loved that Charlotte chose to leave her secretarial job to join his budding business, and he was over the moon when his oldest, Bernadette, signed on to be the lead designer fresh out of art school with the world at her disposal. He felt like he finally found his place in the world, like he finally made a name for himself, and he didn’t care that it took him sixty years to find his calling. He told his girls that it didn’t matter in the long run how long it took to get where you’re going, and he lived by that.

That is, until the Grahams walked into his office. There was something about them he just didn’t like from the get-go, but because he couldn’t put a finger on his feelings, he went against his gut and decided to move forward with the job. It could’ve been the way Mrs. Graham smacked her gums when she spoke, or it could’ve been the way Mr. Graham waltzed around with an air of superiority even though Travis knew his father well and remembered what a little shit he was growing up. It could’ve been any number of things, but he chose to overlook their superficialities and signed on to work for them.

Upon first inspection, the house seemed to be in good condition despite its 90 year age. No water damage, no electrical issues. It was a go. Bernadette was having problems with the Graham’s design style with they called “eclectic yet modern and colorful yet simple and country yet elegant and chic yet homey and refreshing yet old world,” but he knew she’d hit the nail on the head eventually. She had an eye for these things and a way of talking people into styles more like her own that would be true to the original design of the homes.

The design wasn’t the problem. The house was. On the first day of demo, the basement was filled with six feet of water even though they’d been having a dry summer. The foundation was cracked and once the basement was drained, they needed to raise the house and pour a new one.

Then the formerly perfect wiring in the master bedroom sparked and caught fire, leaving behind nasty black splotches on the walls, ceiling, and floor.

Then the sewage pipes burst.

Then all the lights shattered. Three times.

Then the floors became uneven.

Then the non-load bearing walls they removed proved to have been load bearing and the ceiling sunk down dangerously.

Then the mirrors cracked.

Then the doors started opening and closing on their own.

Then they heard footsteps in the empty bedrooms.

Then they heard whispering and sometimes screaming between the walls.

Then things started going missing.

He didn’t know if he was crazy or not. The house had him feeling manic and violent. He couldn’t think straight for long enough to get any work done.

He kept yelling at Carlos.

He kept taking cigarette breaks just for the chance to go outside and feel normal again.

But cigarettes never last as long as they should. Soon, he was getting back on his feet, feeling older than ever, to try to go back to work.