Tanner
I wipe my brow and look down at the scattered, broken power tools lying at my feet. This is the fourth time this has happened in the past month since we started framing. My guys sometimes keep their tools in one of the old outbuildings that survived the fire that destroyed the main house, but lately some strange stuff has been happening.
I look up at Jose, my framer, who’s standing with his arms crossed a few feet away. He gives me a shrug.
“You check the cameras?” I ask, motioning to the outbuilding–nothing more than a decaying shed that’s probably as old as my grandparents, who are well into their nineties.
“Nothing. Not even a raccoon. And the padlock was still on the door.”
I run my tongue along my lower teeth. Shit.
I nudge one of the drills with my foot. It’s melted, literally. Like someone threw it into a fire. The yellow plastic is now a charred black, and the rest of the tools aren’t in any better shape.
I had cameras installed around the property after the second time this happened, thinking it was a bunch of local kids being idiots. Nothing ever shows up on them to give us a clue as to what’s going on.
Beyond the vandalism, other weird stuff has been happening. Tools stop working. The radio the guys carry around will skip to obscure oldies stations with the volume cranked up to the max. Random storms will roll in and rain us out.
I look out over the tree line where the marsh begins. The sun glints off the cemetery back there, just within sight.
“Your tools working today?” I ask Jose, who shakes his head.
“I get a charge on my Dewalt batteries for like five minutes before I have to switch them out. I’ve been charging them all night at home.”
“I know,” I reply, nodding absently. What the hell is going on? It’s like this place doesn’t want a new house built on it, especially one this massive, and frankly, gaudy and pretentious.
I’m making a hell of a lot of money on this contract, however. I want Bailey to have the biggest diamond this side of the Mississippi on her finger come this Christmas.
“I’m going to get an electrician here this week to see if he can get us back on grid. We’ll set up some exterior outlets along the foundation base while we’re framing,” I say, motioning toward the bones of the almost ten-thousand square foot mansion we’re building. “I’ll buy tools with cords if I have to. We gotta get this beast framed by August if we’re going to get back on schedule.”
Jose just nods, looking as frustrated as I am.
But then a pearly white Lexus tears into the driveway, and both of us curse under our breath.
Jake, the new owner of the Gregory property, gets out his car looking like he just walked off the greens. His khaki shorts and pale pink golf shirt are spotless as he glances around and pushes his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose.
Here we fucking go.
“What the hell, Tanner?”
“Nice to see you, Jake,” I grumble, tucking my hands in the pockets of my jeans as I walk in his direction.
“Yeah,” he practically growls. He waves a hand toward the beginnings of his future home with a sneer. “What am I looking at?”
“Framing.”
“Ah, looks totally liveable.”
“You realize how long it takes to build a house bigger than the local high school, right?”
Jake glowers at me for another second before pushing his sunglasses back up the bridge of his nose and crossing his arms over his chest, heaving a sigh.
“The wife is on my ass. All of my money is going toward this, and she wants to take a vacation.”
“Didn’t you just get back from vacation?”
Jake shrugs, sniffing. “What’s the smell? Is something burning?”
“I don’t smell anything.”
Jake looks around, watching the crew of ten guys I have working on the framing portion of this job. I told Jake I’d have it fully framed by July, and it’s June. Despite the mishaps with the tools, we’re still somewhat on track.
But Jake is young, dumb, and rich. There’s a lot of people like him flooding the old towns lining the Mississippi River, buying up all the old plantation properties and building shit like this.
Modern. Sparkling. All sharp corners and big windows. None of the charm Hahnville is known for.
“Look, Jake. This house is enormous, plus you wanted the five car garage finished first. We’re on track, but we’ve been running into vandalism issues again. I wanted to talk to you about putting in a new gate at the start of the driveway and hiring a security guard or two to walk the grounds at night–”
Jake waves a hand, cutting me off. “Do whatever. I don’t care. I just want this place finished so I can put it on the market. The wife wants to buy a place in Miami now.”Jake’s phone rings, and his tone changes the second he answers it. Suddenly, he’s chipper and charismatic as he walks to his car and gets inside.
He peels out, kicking up dust.
I shake my head, watching him speed off down the driveway, the low hanging cypress trees swallowing his car from view.
Do whatever…. Fine. This man doesn’t care how much money he’s spending on construction as long as he can sell the house for triple what he spent on it.
I remind myself this is just a job as I get back to work. But I’ve always had a thing for these old properties. I love the architecture, the charm. I love the way the marsh hugs the property line and how the cicadas sing their song when the sun starts to go down.
One day, I want a house on the river like this. I want to bring one of those old houses back to its former glory.
I want to sit out on a screened back porch with Bailey while our kids catch frogs at sunset, and fall asleep beside her while rain patters against reclaimed windows.
That’s why I continue to take jobs like this.
Admittedly, however, the Gregory property gives me the creep. The house that sat here before had none of the charm I’m hoping for and every ounce of foreboding like something out of a slasher film.
“The radio’s acting up again, boss,” one of the framers says.
“I’ll add that to the list,” I reply testily.
Hours pass, and somehow, my crew gets the entire second floor framed. I’m packing up to leave, instructing my crew to just take their tools home to be on the safeside. The sticky note in my pocket is full of notes about who to call about security guards and a new electronic gate out front, and that’s honestly the best I can do.
I watch my crew leave, but I linger.
It’s sunset. I have to start a three day shift at the firehouse tonight. Bailey is home getting ready to start a nursing gig for the neighbors, Helen and Robert.
I have nowhere to be right now, so I sit on the foundation and take a deep breath.
I look up at the frames of what’s eventually going to be a four story home. Maybe Jake will let me bring in some contractors to help bring some character to this modern style behemoth. I can imagine the house as something else with the same bones–something grand and colorful, dripping with character, and worth every penny of the four million dollars Jake thinks he’s going to get for it when it’s done.
Even with my successful business, I could never afford a house like this. Not here. Not with all the rich folk moving out of New Orleans seeking more land to stake a claim to.
Frogs are making a racket in the tree line as the sun dips below the horizon, casting the area in a deep violet glow.
I turn my head toward the cemetery–which Jake has been fighting with the historical society about removing–and notice someone standing there among the headstones.
I rub my eyes, thinking they’re playing tricks on me.
I don’t believe in ghosts. I never have. I’m not a religious man either. I firmly believe there’s a logical explanation to everything.
When I look back at the cemetery, it’s empty.
I go straight from the job site to the firehouse. I shower and get in bed, rolling over onto my side and plugging in my phone. I text Bailey, telling her I love her, and that she should come by the firehouse for dinner tomorrow if she has a chance.
But as I send the text, it bounces back. The service bars on my phone cut out, and so does the power.
Ronnie, one of the firefighters, sits up in the cot he’s been lying in for a while now.
I sit up as well, listening in the sudden, total silence. A clicking noise sounds in the utility room directly below us, and then the back up generator kicks on.
It’s a clear, still night. No storms to worry about.
“Weird,” Ronnie says, lying back down.
“I’ll go check it out,” I groan, getting out of bed.
I walk down to the utility room. Nothing is amiss, and the generator is working properly. I walk out into the street next. There’s definitely a power outage. Hahnville is cloaked in darkness as I edge back onto the sidewalk with a sigh. I should call Bailey and make sure she’s okay. I don’t like the idea of her being in the house all alone when it’s so dark.
I turn toward the firehouse and catch movement out of the corner of my eye. It’s just someone walking on the sidewalk away from me–a man in a strange coat–something dated, almost like a costume.
I watch him walk around a corner and out of sight before going back to bed.