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Hi listeners, I'm Michael David Axel and I have a story I want to tell you.

A story of mischief and horror burrowed in the walls of a family home.

So, gather round and listen, close.

Calling the place a fixer-opper would be a hell of an understatement.

Built in the 1890s, Willow House was three floors of crumbling beautiful ruins.

It was one of those homes old enough to actually have its own name, its own history, probably its own ghosts.

But this isn't a ghost story.

If I stuck to the plan of working on my own, it would take me months, maybe a year, to put the house in any kind of working condition.

It was perfect.

Madison loved Willow House from the start.

Can I have a room that's high up, dad?

You can have a room at the tippity top of the tower if that's your heart's desire, Maddie.

Willow House stood on a 15-acre parcel, solidly in the middle of the sticks.

The nearest neighbor was a quarter mile away.

The building had a wraparound porch, nine bedrooms and a gothic vibe,

only partially undercut by all of the rotting wood and peeling paint.

Look at the chimney, dad. There's a tower. It's like a castle.

Maybe the corpse of a castle, I thought.

I didn't say that, though.

I just smiled and agreed with my daughter, and basked in this rare display of unreserved joy.

...