"You sure about this, Mick?" asked Baz doubtfully.

I clapped him on the back.  "As sure as I am about anything."

He whistled low between his teeth.  "Damn, we’re in trouble, then."

Before us stretched a large field overgrown with weeds.  It was in the middle of nowhere, but I loved the location.

We walked toward the center and soon came to a series of sunken stone walls: the basement of the old Emerson house.

"You think there’re any bodies down there?"  Baz whispered, wide-eyed and staring into the basement shadows like a frightened child.

I shook my head.  "Emerson only used the main house.  You know that."

He swallowed.  "Doesn’t make it any righter to build on top of this tomb."

"The price was right," I said.  "Besides, now you don’t have to hire foundation workers."

"You using the old footprint, then?"

I nodded.  "Yeah, but my design’s contemporary colonial."

He laughed as only he could.  "A barn with all the modern amenities, eh?"

"Only the best for my family," I smiled.

***

Over the next few weeks, Baz rounded up the usual crew to begin work. We poured over my blueprints, making adjustments here and there.

"What was there before?"  My wife Lisa asked me one night.

I shrugged.  "Just some old Victorian mansion.  Torn down decades ago."

"Why hasn’t anyone built there?"

"Oh, it’s out of the way," I said.  "Plus the owners of the property were asking too much.  I talked them down pretty low."

I didn’t like lying to her, but I knew she’d never go along with the plan if she heard the site’s history.

Jackson Emerson was a serial killer.  Over untold years he took in strangers, giving them shelter and food.  Then he’d slit their throats, embalm them, and plaster their bodies into the walls of his house.

Eventually someone escaped.

Police searched for days, slowly exhuming bodies from every wall in the house.  They found a total of one hundred and sixty-two before the house was demolished.

All that was left was the basement.  It turned out that Emerson greatly feared it and had never ventured into its depths.  He claimed to feel some demonic presence radiating evil from deep beneath the house.

It was this presence, he insisted, that drove him to kill.

He said the same thing about the condo he grew up in.  Go figure.

***

The next day I visited the site.  The crew was at work reinforcing the basement walls.  I found Baz sitting and eating, as usual.

"What’s the story, Baz?"

"Well, the fixes set us back a few days," he mumbled around a mouthful of olive loaf.  "But we’ll be framing by next week."

I watched one of the workers spading fresh mortar between stones. "Actually the delay turned out to be a good thing," I said, handing Baz a roll of paper.

"Here we go," he said, rolling his eyes.  "The first of endless crap-loads of changes."

I waved him off.  "Ah, these are minor.  A new window here, a knee wall there.  Nothing your crack team can’t handle."

***

A couple of weeks later I was back on site looking over my blueprints when Baz walked up.  He glanced down at the plans and looked puzzled, but seemed to shrug it off.

"Mick," he began, "you’re the architect and I’m sure you know what you’re doing, but . . ."

I waited.  "But?"

He scratched his balding head.  "You do realize that having my men tear down what they’ve done and start over eats into the budget, right?"

I nodded, looking down at the plans. "Yeah, sorry about that.  Made some little changes.  Besides, it was just one wall."

He grunted.  "Well, the guys are getting ticked with all your ‘little changes.’ I’ve had two walk offsite and not come back."

"’Builders who can’t take change shouldn’t be builders,’" I said, quoting Baz himself.

He nodded slowly.  "Yeah, I guess you’re right."

***

More weeks passed.  I kept making changes to suit my needs, and workers kept leaving.  Baz couldn’t find anyone to replace them.  I passed it off to superstition over the site.

***

Weeks stretched into months, and still the crew dwindled.  I found myself doing a lot of the labor alongside Baz.  He no longer questioned my tweaks, but he had a constant air of concern about him.  Concern for me, I supposed.

Soon we were alone, but it was no big deal.  We were down to the final touches and I was getting my family ready to move in.  I hated dry-walling, but the main hallway was coming along nicely.

And then Baz just stopped showing up one day.  I didn’t bother calling him. He was probably just tired and thought I could handle what little was left.

The house wasn’t finished, but I deemed it livable.  One of the perks of building in the middle of nowhere is no need for building codes or permits.  If I decided it was safe, it was safe.

I never let Lisa and the kids visit the site.  I wanted everything to be a surprise for them.

When we pulled up the day we moved in, Lisa was speechless.

I grinned. "Beautiful, isn’t it?"

She just stared with a look of utter astonishment.

"Well?"  I urged.  "This is our dream house.  Aren’t you going to say anything?"

She slowly shook her head.  "What is this, Mick?"

"What do you mean?"

She glanced at me.  "This looks nothing like the plans you made."

"Sure it does.  This is what you always wanted, right?"  I held out my hand, motioning to our new home in a grand gesture.  "Our very own Victorian mansion."

Her silence pleased me.  I knew the look on her face just meant she didn’t know how to express her happiness.

"Hey kids," I cried, "your rooms are on the second floor.  Go decide who gets which one!"

They ran to the door.

"Be careful!"  I called after them.  "The walls aren’t finished, yet."