The tall house stood imposingly upon the edge of the cliff. Beneath it, the surf roared tempestuously, the waves crashing furiously against the rocks at the base of the precipice. Glancing at Ruth, who sat beside me in the passenger seat of the SUV, I knew we had the same thought: We were really in for it this time.

The house was a three-story turreted Victorian with a widow's walk between the two towers. To say it was in disrepair was an understatement. The paint had been weathered off until the original color was unrecognizable; the front veranda sagged dangerously. It was not as advertised but that is what we get for buying property sight unseen.

Since the 2007 recession, Ruth and I have been purchasing properties on auction in the view of fixing them up to flip. When each of us lost our office jobs, we turned to the real estate game in order to make a quick buck. We'd faced the misfortune of making a bad purchase on occasion but the one that faced us now was by far the worst of the lot.

Slowly the SUV crept up the steep road leading to the top of the cliff. The closer we got to the house the more Ruth shrank back into her bucket seat. It was as though she were willing herself as far away from our current location as possible.

"It's probably not as bad as it looks, Ruthie." I tried to be cheerful but wasn't actually feeling it.

"It is as bad as it looks, Malc," my wife responded as she reached out to grip the dash with white knuckled fingers.

"Ok, it is as bad as it looks," I responded, "but we're stuck with it, my dear. We'll clean out the ghosts and make a bundle on it."

"Ghosts?" Ruth asked with a tremble in her voice. I knew, instantly, I'd said the wrong thing.

"Not to worry, love," I stated to reassure her. "There's no such thing as ghosts." At this point, as we drew closer to the old house, even I had my doubts.