My first step father was a retired drill sargent when he met my Mother. After, he was a self employed contractor, apperently normal work wasn't good enough for him.
Often my step brothers and I were dragged along to help because it was cheaper then paying other people to do the work, nothing like child labor.
He was ripping out plaster walls in a old derelict house and replacing it with new dry walling. The job was contracted by the city of Greenbay, the house would later be put on the market.
The house was right across the street of a old cemetery, which bothered my brothers and I a bit, we were all only in our early teens.
So we start tearing down the plaster, ripping down the lats and removing old dusty insulation when suddenly I hear a scream.
One of my brothers comes running out of an adjacent room, holding his nose, blood pouring out of it. He tells us "something" punched him in the nose.
My step Dad starts to say "That's a bunch of bullsh-" when the door from the room my brother came from swings open violently on its own and then slams.
Everyone, including my step father runs from the house. He ends up deciding that's enough work for one day and we go home.
I think that was the last time we helped him. After that all of us refused to go with him. He tried several times to get us to go back, but we always managed to avoid it.
A skeptic to the end, even on his death bed, he insisted it was something else. If anything else at least he stuck by his convictions.