The house had bordered a messy bog, full of dead trees, dead branches, and dead shrubs. Everything about the place, including the house, was a dull gray the color of weeping.
Susana Albright had come home with her family to find nothing in way of the house--mansion, really--but some sadly toppled blocks of stone, and swallowed foundation.
Her husband looked at the project with great uncertainty.
"How," he asked, "Do you expect to resurrect a house in the middle of a swamp?"
"It's not a swamp," said Susana. "It's a bog."
"What's the difference," muttered her husband.
They didn't take long to being the work. Within two weeks of the return to Abbysford, the construction crew arrived.
They had a job maneuvering their trucks down the unpaved, mucky road to the place where the house would stand once again.
Generations ago, this house was the grandest anyone from Abbysford had ever seen, or heard of, west of the Rockies. That it was surrounded by wetland which seemed to be swallowing even the ruins of the mansion whole, seemed simply an unfortunate problem--one that could be dealt with.
Susana wasn't the first of the bloodline to, as Derek put it, "resurrect," the house. No, through the generations many distant relatives had passed the deed from one hand to the other, each taking a pass at raising the house that had crumbled back in the 1800s.