We Used to Live Here [Part 4] (FINAL)

  

The family was seated around my dinner table like it was their own. Eating, laughing, living it up without a care to be had. But as soon as I entered, the party stopped. They just sat there, staring at me as if I was the one who didn’t belong.

Thomas filled the dead air, “Abigail, there you are,” he said, wiping his mouth with a red kerchief that matched his shirt. “You were going to share with us what happened in the basement, yes?”

Keep playing along Eve, don’t escalate. Wait for help to show up. But, why did they all look so calm?

“I… I was looking for tools and got lost in the dark,” I said. “It… reminded me of an old memory. A scary one, and… I let my imagination get the better of me. But I’m okay now, it was all in my head.”

Thomas gave a slight nod: Good work. The kids nodded too, but Paige, she just stared at me, eyes narrowing.

A sharp gust of wind SLAMMED against the windows - the house lights flickered. The family jumped. Thomas looked outside, shaking his head. “These storms get worse every year,” he said. “Hopefully the power holds out.” He motioned for me to take a seat. Hesitating, I stepped forward, pulled back an empty chair, and sat.

Paige wrapped her fingers around the handle of a serrated steak knife. “Your Auntie is going to be moving out soon kids,” she said, cutting into her steak, blood oozing from the veins of the dead meat.

Jenny, the hide and seeker, just sat there, watching me. Only now, her previous gloom was gone. She looked content, cheerful almost. I stared back, searching for cracks in the performance, but there were none.

“Abby?” Thomas chimed.

I looked up.

He blinked at me, expecting an answer to a question I didn’t even hear. “You were going to explain your reasoning,” he prodded, “for moving out.”

“Oh.” I cleared my throat, “I… I just think it’s time for me to be on my own… feels like the right time.”

The kids nodded in unison.

“Well, you sure will be missed,” said Thomas. “But, I think we can all agree it’s time for a change.”

I managed to fake another smile. Didn’t know how many more I had left in me.

“So,” said Thomas, turning towards his daughter, “How was school today?”

Jenny smiled, sheepish, “I… I don’t know.”

“Wow, you don’t know, that’s a first,” Thomas replied playfully.

Jenny gave a little shrug and smiled wider.

Thomas leaned forward, “You gotta tell me ONE thing that happened,” he said, “just one thing, that’s all I ask.”

What is this? Stay calm, Eve. He’s just messing with you.

Jenny laughed a bit, “Okay, Uhm… there… there was this dog in class today.”

“A dog?” said Thomas. “What’s a dog doing in a school?”

“It… it was a seeing-eye dog,” she squirmed in her seat, shy.

Thomas sprinkled salt onto his steak, “A seeing eye dog, what’s that?”

“It’s a dog that… it helps blind people walking around,” Jenny beamed.

“Wow. A professional dog.”

“What’s that?”

Thomas raised an eyebrow, “Professional?”

“Mhm.”

“It’s when you get paid for your work.”

“Oh… I… I don’t think the dog gets paid.”

“Well, he should.”

“Maybe with treats?” said Jenny, sincere.

Thomas chuckled and glanced over at me the way a proud parent does - his eyes filled with: ‘isn’t she cute?’ For a moment, I almost forgot everything else that was going on. Like it was just a typical family dinner, but then-

“-What about your friend in the city?” asked Paige, killing the mirage - right on cue. I snapped back into the fucked-up present, “What?”

She gulped down another mouthful of steak, “Your friend in the city, does she still have that spare room?”

I shook my head, not sure how to respond.

Paige sighed, “Your friend Charlie.”

My stomach twisted. “Oh… I don’t know if… if she still lives there,” I replied, continuing to play along, barely.

“Hmmm,” said Thomas, dousing his mashed potatoes with gravy. “We’ll figure something out. And don’t feel rushed, you can always stay longer if needed. One week is just ideal for us.”

Paige shot him a disapproving look.

Wow, a whole week, to move out of my own house. “Thanks Thomas. Very generous,” I said, sounding a little more sarcastic than intended.

Paige huffed, and rose from the table. She strode to the cupboard, and grabbed a bottle of Charlie’s favorite red wine. Perusing for an extra moment, she grabbed the corkscrew. Eyes locked onto mine, she sat back down, twisted the corkscrew into the wine cork and-

-Another ruthless blast of wind pushed through the house. The lights flickered on and off until-

-Darkness. Power outage. If not for the orange glow of the living room fireplace, it would’ve been pitch dark.

Thomas let out an exasperated sigh, “Great… I’ll get the candles.” Pushing up from the table, he stepped out of the kitchen.

Is now my chance? What do I do? The front door is locked. The windows are barred. Abigail, Queen of the ants, is down in the basement. Ugh. I couldn’t even hear myself think - Paige kept cranking on that corkscrew, staring at me the whole time. She had to be doing it on purpose now. Then, finally, she popped out the cork, and poured until her glass was nearly full. Right to the brim. Classy.

But… that’s when I noticed the necklace.

Around Paige’s neck: Charlie’s necklace. I checked my back pocket. Empty. A flood of emotions followed: Grief. Fear. Confusion. Rage. It started in my temples, pushed to my hands, my feet, every single part of me like an uncontrollable wildfire.

Until now, I’d been in denial about what happened downstairs. Charlie wasn’t hiding. Charlie wasn’t being held captive. Charlie was dead. She must be. Yes, Abigail said Charlie was alive, but I saw that hammer - It was covered in blood. And now, Paige FUCKING Foster was wearing Charlie’s locket like it was her own.

“Where’d you find that?” I said, almost blurting it out.

“Hmm?” said Paige, slowly looking towards me, sipping from her wine.

“The necklace,” I said. “Where’d you find it?”

“Oh, just a store.”

I rose to a stand - the kids tensed up, wary - Paige stared at me, confused - I moved closer.

Wait, what was I doing here? What was my plan?

“…Abigail?” said Paige, nervous.

She kept blathering on, but I wasn’t there anymore. I was in the past. Memories were playing out in my head. Those strange, little moments that stand out more and more as time goes on. The way Charlie snorted when she laughed sometimes, then laughed even harder out of embarrassment. The way her face lit up every time she saw a dog stick its head out a car window. The way she wrapped her arms around me from behind, and nuzzled her chin up to my neck as we fell asleep. All these memories played out in my head like they were happening right now, and then-

-Before I even knew what I was doing - I’d grabbed Paige with one hand, and the corkscrew with the other. Arms gripped around her, I pulled back, and her chair fell to the floor with a CRASH.

Time slowed to a near stop. As I held the corkscrew to the side of her throat, her children screamed. The fireplace crackled. The wind outside howled. But Paige, she was silent. For the first time in her life, she didn’t have a fucking thing to say. Not one word. Only quick, terrified little breaths: music.

“Woah, now…” said Thomas, treading into the dining room, cell phone in hand.

I spun Paige around to face him, “Where is Charlie?” I snapped.

“Kids, go to your rooms. Lock the doors,” he said.

But they didn’t respond - they just sat there, paralyzed.

“NOW,” he boomed. They scrambled out of the kitchen.

“Abigail…” he spoke as calmly as possible, “You have to let her go-”

“-What the FUCK happened to Charlie?”

He took a deep breath, exhaled. “She’s living in the city now. You told us yourself, Abby you-”

“-Thomas, stop. My name isn’t Abby. I’m fucking done with this. Just tell me where Charlie is right now or-”

“-T-Thomas please,” Paige’s voice quivered. Petrified.

“Paige, don’t worry, she’s not going to do anything. Abby, listen to me - Charlie is okay, we can call her right now, she can explain everything and… Abby this isn’t you. The medications. I know you’ve been missing your doses. That’s what’s happening here, your mind is going through withdrawal, playing tricks on you… Your sponsor, they’re on the way right now. They’re going to help you and-”

-He held up his phone-

“-Look. I just called them, and-”

“-THOMAS,” I yelled so loud it shook the floorboards. I lowered my voice, “Thomas. I need you to listen to me. Listen carefully. If you don’t tell me where Charlie is - something really, REALLY bad is going to happen.”

Paige winced as the corkscrew pricked against her skin. “T-Thomas, just tell her,” she quivered again, riddled with fear.

Thomas took another small step forward, “Abby, listen to me. I need you to ground yourself. Focus on your senses. Focus on-”

-Wait, how did he know about that-

“-Focus on-”

-Sight: Paige’s blonde hair. Thomas’ dumbstruck face. The glow of the fireplace.

Sound: Heart thumping. Panicked breath. Howling wind.

Smell: Red wine. Blood. Desperation.

Touch: My hand gripped tightly around the corkscrew, and-

-a sudden, clawing pain shot through my right thigh. My whole body tensed up in a spasm. I staggered backward, let go of Paige, and looked down. Holy fuck. She stabbed a steak knife right into my thigh-

-Then I realized - my hands were empty. The corkscrew was gone. Paige toppled to the floor like a bowling pin. The bloody knife was still in her hand.

She hit the ground choking, gargling. What just happened? My eyes darted around for an answer, until finally, I saw-

-The corkscrew was lodged, handle-deep, into the side of Paige’s throat. I… I must have… I didn’t mean to… A thin line of blood trailed down her neck, onto the hardwood floor - her mouth slowly opened and closed, opened and closed. Like she was trying to speak. Trying to breathe.

“Paige…” Thomas whispered, stunned. I stumbled backward into the kitchen.

Snapping from his daze, Thomas collapsed to the floor over Paige. He held her neck, trying to stop the bleeding. “Paige,” his voice cracked. He stared into her eyes, but her gaze just flicked side to side - empty. Desperation growing, Thomas pressed harder, trying to stop the bleeding.

Mind spinning, leg throbbing, I limped out of the kitchen and into the hallway. Paige wasn’t human, I told myself. She wasn’t even real. None of this is real. But it felt real, more real than anything I’d ever felt. Every memory I ever had, good or bad, it didn’t matter - everything drowned in the present.

Staggering into the moonlit foyer, I went for the door. Locked. Already knew that. Fuck… I needed to get out of here. I looked down, a dark circle of warm blood seeped through my jeans. Deal with that later, just get outside. I turned around, and remembered-

-The hammer. I could use it to pry open the door.

“Paige,” Thomas whimpered from the kitchen, “I’m here, I’m here Paige, I’m not leaving.”

Focus Eve. I swept back into the living room, trudged up to the so-called quiet-corner, snatched up the hammer and scrambled back to the foyer. Wasting no time, I shimmied it pry-bar first into the door frame, and wrenched back. The wood splintered and strained. I kept prying, kept pulling, but it seemed hopeless, it seemed-

-Thomas SCREAMED. Animalistic, filled with unimaginable grief. RAGE. And I knew exactly what it meant:

Paige was dead.

“No… no… NO…” he trailed off into a strange guttural moan. Tragic and terrifying all at once. His clenched fist THUD against the floor - an impact so heavy I could hear the hardwood CRACK. More screaming, thrashing. Now, he was breaking things, tearing apart the kitchen. Wrathful.

I pried on the door harder and harder, but it was no use. It wouldn’t budge.

“ABIGAIL,” he screamed, voice filled with murder.

Fuck the door. Hammer still in hand, I scrambled upstairs. Thomas charged into the foyer, just in time to see me disappear at the top of the steps.

Right leg going numb, I pushed off the wall and staggered down the hallway. Behind me, FOOTSTEPS thundered up the stairs like an ever-rising war drum.

I tried the first door. Locked. The next one. Locked. My eyes shot down to the end of the hall: Abigail’s bedroom. Fuck it. I burst inside, slammed the door shut. Spinning around, I pressed my back up against it. I scanned the room, searching for somewhere to hide, somewhere to-

-Abigail. She was standing in the far corner of her room, back-turned, head slumped. Shaking… sobbing… weeping… “I didn’t know - I didn’t know - I’m sorry - I’m sorry…” she whimpered again and again. Sorry about what?

Behind me, the door BURST open, and Thomas SLAMMED into me like a freight train. Thrusting me against a barred window, he jammed his forearm against my throat, crushing it. He stared into my eyes, silent, possessed by rage. Sorrow.

As I gasped for air, I looked to the far corner: Empty. Abigail was gone. Was she even there to begin with? I looked back to Thomas.

Before this, I thought maybe he’d been putting on a show, but now, I could finally see it in his eyes: He actually believed he lived in this house. He actually believed I was his sister, but-

“-We did so much for you,” he snarled, spit spraying my face. “We gave you EVERYTHING.” With his free hand, he clutched me by the hair, jerked my head forward, and SMASHED it back into the wall. Throbbing pain.

“We ACCEPTED you into our HOME.” He slammed my head back again, harder this time - each impact heavier than the last. Pain radiated. Vision grew blurry. This was it. I was going to die. This was-

-Might as well fight back dipshit.

With my left leg, and all of my remaining strength, I kneed him in the stomach. Winded, he staggered backward, and crumpled to his knees.

I gasped in air, barely conscious-

-He looked up, readied himself to lunge and-

-I swung the hammer -- claw end first -- into the side of his face. A sickening CRACK filled the room as it lodged into his jaw.

Still on his knees, Thomas stared up at me in disbelief. He didn’t think I was capable of this. Neither did I.

Our eyes locked for a strange, quiet moment, and then… I pressed my foot onto his stomach, pushed it forward and - with both arms, all my strength, wrenched back. The hammer tore open his face with a sickening, wet sound. His perfect teeth ripped out and clattered to the floor in a bloody mess.

He crumpled over. Blood trailed down his jaw, over his neck - the torn flap of his cheek hung open - dangling. Fucking horrific.

But slowly, I raised the hammer, tensed up and…

…Thomas started sobbing. His pitiful, rising whimpers filled Abigail’s room like a noxious cloud. He was holding his face now, as if trying to put himself back together. Blood seeped through his fingers, and his whimpering grew more panicked, more desperate…

“Please… please don’t… Abby please…” he sputtered, drooling ropes of blood onto the floor.

…And all the while, I just stood there, hammer raised. Readying myself to finish the job but... I couldn’t. Despite all my fear, all my hatred, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Paige was an accident - I’m not a killer. I lowered my arm. The blood-soaked hammer slipped from my hand and fell to the floor.

I staggered back towards the hallway, stepped out, and started to pull the door shut. But at the last second-

-Thomas eyes snapped up, and his face twisted into a mangled grin, “Where are you going, Eve?”

I yanked the door SHUT, and held it. Why the FUCK did he just call me that?? Hold that thought. I grabbed a red chair from the hallway and wedged it under the door handle.

Focus. But why the fuck was he smiling at me? Stop, Eve. Focus.

-Help isn’t coming, they would’ve been here by now. Get outside, get to the neighbors. But the front door was locked. All the windows were barred. Maybe there was something-

-The attic. The porthole window. There’s no way that’s barred. Just get up there, onto the roof, find a way down - jump in a snowbank if you have to.

I yanked down the attic staircase and climbed, wincing pain throbbed with every step. All the while, not a peep from Abigail’s bedroom. Not a bang on the door, not a whimper, not even a footstep. Only silence - terrifying silence.

Hoisting myself up, I ran down the narrow hallway. Ignore the pain. Keep moving. Light-headed, I stumbled into the corner room, to the porthole window and pushed it open. I shimmied myself up and through. A tight fit. Wriggling my way out-

-A hand CLUTCHED around my ankle and YANKED me back inside. I slammed into the splinter-ridden floor chin-first, and SPUN around just in time to see the moonlight glisten off Thomas’ torn open face. How did he get up here so quickly?

He lunged onto me, wrapped his hands around my throat and started to SQUEEZE.

“We BUILT this house,” he BOOMED like a mad apostle - slobbering blood onto my face. I reached up, grabbed his wrists, tried to pull them away, but it was no use. He squeezed tighter. A lump formed in my throat, like an ever-expanding cyst. I couldn’t breathe. I was fading. Shadows crawled from the corners of my eyes. Everything was becoming nothing.

He lowered his voice to a spitting whisper, “We sowed the forest.”

Great, I get to die listening to a psychotic maniac. Right then, a shiny glint caught the corner of my eye. I looked over: universal tire chains. Thanks Charlie. With a final push of resistance - I reached - wrapped the tips of my fingers around the chains - and-

“-We gave life TO-”

-I swung. The chains CRACKED into his temple, and his head TWISTED to the side. A red curtain of blood WHIPPED onto the floor, the wall, the turtle painting.

Slowly, he turned back to me, but now, his gaze was empty. Vacant. Blood trailed from his cracked temple, into his twitching eye, and dripped onto my cheek. His grip loosened.

“We were… here before… before the” he trailed off into incoherent mumbles.

Tire chains still in hand, I shoved him off of me, and pushed up to standing. Thomas tried to stand too, but he couldn’t. He fell back to his knees, and looked up at me, barely conscious. He kept trying to talk, only to mutter incoherently. Kept trying to stand, only to fall back down. I stepped around - faced him from behind.

“Where… is… Charlie…” I demanded. But Thomas only responded with more meaningless mumbles.

Enough. I breathed in, and on my exhale - wrapped the chains around his neck. I pulled back. He reached up, pawing, trying to tear them away. Futile. Weak. Pulling tighter, I pressed my knee into his back and pushed. He gasped. Choking. Wheezing. I pulled back even harder. He coughed a spatter of blood. His efforts to fight were fading with each passing second until, finally-

“-STOP.”

I looked up.

In the doorway, eyes wide with terror, stood Charlie. I froze in shock, released Thomas, and staggered back. He fell forward, gasping for breath, barely alive.

“Charlie…” I whispered.

But Charlie was looking down, absorbing the sight of a devastated Thomas. Then… she looked up at me.

Questions shuffled through my head so rapidly I couldn’t even speak. What about her phone in the basement? How was she okay? How was she alive?

All the while, Charlie didn’t say a word, she just stood there, eyes filled with growing fear… but she wasn’t scared of Thomas.

She was scared of me.

“Charlie wait,” I finally managed. Lowering the chains, I took a step forward.

But she stepped back, eyes flicking down to the blood-slicked weapon in my hand. I dropped the chains, and took another step. Charlie kept backing away, shaking her head, on the verge of tears. Devastated.

Downstairs, the front door burst open. Heavy footsteps clamored through the foyer, up the stairs. Sirens.

“Charlie, I can explain, I can…” I stammered, voice cracking. She looked into my eyes one last time, then turned away, disappearing down the hallway. “… She’s up here,” said Charlie.

“Wait,” I stepped over Thomas, into the hallway and-

-Two police officers grabbed me by the arms, shoved me into the wall face first - pink insulation sliced my skin like paper-cuts. They clasped handcuffs around my wrists, and yanked me back. I didn’t fight, I didn’t even speak, I just stared ahead blankly as they tugged me through the attic. Now, from exhaustion and blood loss, I was slipping in and out of consciousness.

As they dragged me down the upstairs hallway, a few paramedics rushed into the attic. My gaze drifted across the wall. The dumbwaiter chute was once again covered up - as if it were never even there to begin with. They pulled me around a corner. My eyes landed on a cracked bedroom door. From behind it, Jenny peered out, face filled with inconsolable dread.

They pulled me down the stairs, into the foyer, towards the front door. Just as they pulled me outside, I looked back and saw-

-a painting. On the foyer wall, a painting of the house, covering up the jagged hole. Thomas’ family was in it. Him, Paige and the three kids. All of them standing out front, happy, smiling. But behind them, peering out through the porthole window, a hazy, solitary figure. Eternally trapped.

Outside, the storm was over now, the snow was melting. As the sun crept up over distant mountains - the sky split down the middle, half night, half day. On the ground - commotion everywhere. Fire trucks. Cop cars. Ambulances. Neighbors crowding on the street, Harpreet and Miguel among them. My eyes darted around, looking for Charlie, but she was nowhere to be seen.

The cops dragged me down the driveway, past the yellow tape, through the crowds, onto the street, and then I saw-

-Standing at the edge of the forest - hands once again covering her face like peekaboo - Abigail. But slowly, she started to pull her hands apart, revealing her face bit by bit, until finally, showing herself fully. This time, in the early morning light. Her once dull eyes were now permeating with life, vitality -- Her once sunken face was full again, red-cheeked. She looked straight into my terror-stricken soul and smiled, serene, a look of pure contented peace. Grateful. Grateful for what? Then, she turned around, withdrew into the darkened woods - away from the crowds, the chaos, the house. Before I could even process what this meant, I was thrown into the back of a van, and the door slammed shut.

Darkness.

—

Everyone keeps calling me Abigail.

But my name is Eve. I was born on October 3rd, 1987 at 2:56 in the morning. My current residence is 3719 Heritage Lane. My partner, the love of my life, is Charlie Bastion. We renovate old houses and flip them for profit. We’ve been together for the last seven years. My name is Eve Palmer, but everyone keeps calling me Abigail Foster.

Now, even according to official documents, the family owns the house, and they’d been living there for years. All my neighbors vouch for them, even Harpreet and Miguel. Nobody recognizes me anymore, not even Charlie. I still look the way I always have, but everyone treats me like I’m a completely different person.

So now, beyond all reason, all justice, I’m locked away in a criminal psych ward, charged with one count of homicide and one count of attempted. Locked away in a room no bigger than a walk-in closet. White walls. Rickety bed. Cold fluorescent light. I’m not sure how long it’s been anymore. Could be months. Could be years.

According to the lead doctor here, I’ve been in and out of mental wards my whole life. They tell me I’ve got a laundry list of psychotic delusions. They say my version of events, the story above, is nothing but an elaborate hallucination mixed in with little bits of reality.

Complete.

Fucking.

Bull.

Shit.

I’ve done enough reading to know that psychotic delusions and hallucinations don’t work that way. They don’t work like they do in the stories, with continuity, and tied-up loose ends. These weren’t hallucinations. These weren’t delusions. Somehow, Thomas Foster bent reality around me like a frayed wire.

And I’m pretty sure his sister Abigail was in on it too. I’m still putting it all together, but I think she took me down in exchange for her freedom. I think she replaced me.

As for the rest of his family, I don’t know if they were in on it, held captive or something in between. I’m still figuring that one out.

What about Charlie? According to so-called officials, Charlie was nothing more than my part-time sponsor for the last six months. Basically a volunteer caretaker. Maybe that’s what she is now, maybe that’s what she is in this reality…

At first, I thought everyone was pulling some horrific stunt on me. Even the doctors. But like I said, neighbors, friends, even my own parents, nobody recognizes me anymore. It’s like Thomas Foster pushed me into a completely different reality...

So who do I turn to? Charlie? I’ve tried to contact her dozens of times. Email, phone, even letters, but she’s never responded. Not even once.

—

The only good thing about this place is the library. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m sure this facility helps people who actually need it, but I don’t need it. I’m not psychotic, Thomas Foster is. That said, if this place didn’t have a library, there’s a good chance I would’ve actually lost my mind. They’ve got computers with internet too. Slow internet, but still. That’s where I’ve been doing my research, writing the real version of events, putting together my case. I still have Abigail’s journal too, so I’m threading together pieces from that. Figuring out what Thomas is, how to stop him. I’m not going to share everything until my case is air tight. But you just wait, soon enough the whole world will know what Thomas Foster did to me.

Either way, I don’t care if you believe me or not. Even if I had all the evidence in the world, it wouldn’t matter to some of you. I just need to convince the few people I still care about first. Then, I’ll worry about everyone else.

But despite all this, I feel hopeful. As long as I can stay stable, play along with the doctors. If nothing sets me off, then I can finally get out of here. Then I can finally talk to Charlie in person and explain what happened. Find a way to make everything go back to how it was before. At least, that’s how I felt up until a week ago…

I was lying on my bed when…

My eyes caught something - up on the white stucco ceiling: a solitary ant aimlessly wandering in circles.

“Abigail?” A voice snapped me out of the daze. I turned.

Standing in the doorway, a nurse, two security guards behind her. “You have a visitor.”

—

Flickering cold fluorescent light cast over the visiting room. Faded brick walls. Spaced apart tables. Guards standing at attention in every doorway.

Finally, the door BUZZED open, and in walked:

Thomas Foster. The father. My supposed brother. A sickening chill crawled down my spine. He caught my eyes from across the room and gave me a lopsided smile. The side of his face was scarred, but considering the injury, surprisingly well healed. His eyes were bright, present.

I looked down at the table, staring at my handcuffed wrists. Part of me was expecting the visitor to be Charlie, I don’t know why. Still holding out hope, I guess.

Thomas sat down across from me.

A long silence passed. Buzzing lights. From somewhere deep within the ward, muffled, hysterical laughter - laughter that slowly turned into sorrowful weeping.

“Abigail?” said Thomas, finally breaking the silence.

I didn’t look up, my eyes traced back and forth along the hand-cuff’s chain.

He cleared his throat, “It… it’s okay if you’re still not ready to talk. I understand. I just wanted to share a few things.” Thomas waited for me to acknowledge him. I didn’t. So, he just kept going. “This is kind of odd, but… do you remember Walter?”

Nope.

He continued, “Walter, my pet tortoise… you actually made me a painting of him - for my fifth birthday. Still up in my office.” He breathed out his nose. “I must’ve been six, maybe seven when he died. Even little things can feel pretty world-ending when you’re a kid… Everyone kept trying to make me feel better. Except dad: He said I needed to get over it by the end of the day,” Thomas chuckled bitterly. “Mom said it was normal: Tommy, she told me, pets die all the time, part of life. Walter’s up in heaven now.” Thomas sighed, shifting weight, “I don’t know if you remember this, but… you were the only one who actually made me feel any better.”

I looked up.

But he was looking down at the table now, “…You just sat beside me,” he continued, “wrapped an arm around my shoulder, and let me cry. That’s it. No lessons. No advice. No ultimatums. You just sat there quietly, and let me know it’s okay to feel like crap sometimes. Even if it was just a stupid turtle.”

He sniffed a little, eyes starting to water. “Gosh, Abby. I don’t know. I’ve been thinking a lot about you lately and…”

He looked right at me, but I looked away.

“It’s okay if you don’t wanna talk,” he went on. “I get it. I just wanted to let you know that…” he paused a moment, thinking over his next words carefully. “I’ve been working on myself a lot and, through all this… your relapse, my injuries, Paige’s passing. I’ve rejoined the church. Don’t know if you even knew I’d lost my faith, but…” He paused, again expecting me to say something. But I remained silent. He cleared his throat, “I’ve been talking with the doctors here, and they said you’ve made a lot of progress… They said as long as you keep at it, keep improving, following their guidance. As long as nothing unexpected happens. You could be out on probation sooner than you think.”

I remained quiet.

“Look,” he said. “I’ve come to accept that you weren’t in control of your actions. You have a condition. A condition you’re getting treated for and… I just wanted to let you know that… Abby?” He leaned in slightly, “Abby could you look at me?”

Slowly, I turned, and stared blankly into his eyes.

He stared back for a sullen moment, “I forgive you.”

The words hung in the air like a rotting stench, but my face remained neutral. I looked away. Thomas kept hovering, waiting for a response, but again, I gave him fuck all. I wasn’t playing his make-believe game. Not anymore.

A few tense seconds went by until he nodded slowly, “I understand. We can talk when you’re ready.” He stood up, turned to leave, and froze. “Oh… I almost forgot,” pivoting back, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a manilla envelope.

“The guards said I could leave this here,” he placed it on the table. “I know it meant a lot to you and Charlie.”

Finally, I looked up at him. For the briefest of moments, his face twitched. Then, he smiled sadly, turned around, and went for the exit. Footsteps punctuated the silence. The door buzzed shut as he left the room.

I just sat there, staring at the envelope. I already knew what was inside - but I couldn’t bring myself to look. Seconds dragged by like minutes until finally, I reached forward, opened it, looked in and…

…aching sorrow filled every part of me.

Inside, just as I expected, was the locket. Charlie’s locket.

I pulled it out. Flicked it open and-

-There it was. The photo of me. The one Charlie took when we first started dating. The one she put up in her gallery on that rainy Seattle day. The one in which, at the last second, I’d turned away, held up my hand, and hid my face.

The only known photo of Eve Palmer.

—

—

—

this is not the end

--. --- .. -. --. ..--..

We Used to Live Here [Part 3]

  

Thomas and Paige stared at me, both playing dumb.

Pretending they couldn’t hear Charlie’s ringtone. Oscar-worthy shit. But I didn’t have time to appreciate the performance. If Charlie was somehow in the basement, then she might be hurt, or worse. I needed to get down there, call the police, and find her - NOW.

Tucking away Paige’s phone, I started out of the kitchen.

“Eve, where are you going?” said Thomas.

Ignoring him, I hauled across the room, snagged the flashlight from the couch, and-

“-Eve, you can talk to us.” He grabbed me by the arm-

“-Don’t FUCKING touch me,” I wrenched free, stepped back. Silence. They just stared at me, wide-eyed, scared even. Good. They should be.

“Eve. What, what’s wrong?” he stammered, still giving a top-notch performance. Bravo.

Flashlight clenched in my hands like a weapon, I eased back towards the basement door. Slipping inside, I slammed it shut. Darkness. With both hands grasped around the knob, I braced for Thomas to follow, but… he didn’t. I listened for a moment, no footsteps. Only muffled voices. I pressed my ear to the door.

“What if she finds-” said Paige, but I couldn’t make out the rest. “Doesn’t matter now-” Thomas muttered a barely audible response. What were they talking about? Who knows - probably some death-cult fuckery - just find Charlie.

Convinced Thomas wouldn’t follow, I crept back, then spun around and hurried downward. At the base of the stairs, I pulled out Paige’s flip-phone and punched in 9-1-1. Two ringtones-

-A young woman answered, “Nine-one-one operator. What is your emergency?”

“Home invasion.”

“If you can, get outside or barricade yourself in a room.”

“Okay.” Sure, after I find Charlie.

“Name?”

“Eve. Eve Palmer.”

“Eve, are you hurt?”

“No.”

“Is the intruder still in the house?”

“Yes. There’s more than one actually.”

“Can you describe them?”

“A man, a woman and…” I trailed off. “Can you just send help?”

“And…?”

“Three kids…”

“Three kids?”

“Yes, they’re uh, a family.”

“And they’ve threatened you?”

“Yes. Well, not the kids, but the parents did.” Technically a lie. Sue me.

“Are they armed?”

“Possibly. I think they hurt my girlfriend, or they’re holding her hostage. There’s another woman in the attic too. She might be the guy’s sister, I don’t know. Just send help. Now.”

“Address?”

“3719 Heritage Lane.”

“Ma’am… a car has already been dispatched to your location.”

“Great. Thank you.”

“No, what I mean is, someone from this address has already called in a disturbance.”

“A disturbance?”

“Yes, a 51-50. Was that you?”

“No…” Let me guess: Thomas called it in - worthless piece of shit.

“Ma’am?”

Fuck. Did I say that last part out loud?

“Eve… I’d like you to stay on the line until police arrive. You should know, the storm has delayed response time and-”

-That’s when I noticed the blood. A trail of tiny red dots spattered on the ground. I lowered the phone to inspect and-

-Upstairs, a sudden CRASH. Followed by heavy scraping across the floor. A flood of footsteps. Like dozens of people marching around. Puffs of dust wheezed from straining floorboards above me. What the hell was going on up there?

Focus Eve.

I flipped the phone shut. Authorities were en route - that’s all that mattered. Even if Thomas called them in first, what would he say when they got here? ‘Uhm, it’s actually my house because I put a rocking chair in the living room.’ Good luck with that one buddy.

Following the trail of blood, I entered a long, narrow hallway. Doors on either side. Symmetrical. Numbered. It almost looked like a prison. The fuck? Flashlight in hand, I pushed forward. The scattered line of blood led straight ahead, past several doorways, and curved into an open room. A musty, brick-walled nook.

Continuing into the back corner, the blood ran over a pile of abandoned clutter. I beamed light through the mess. Behind it, a blocked doorway. I started grabbing debris and tossing it aside. Up above, the scraping and footsteps grew louder. A rickety, percussive drone. Finally, I cleared away the old trash and opened the door.

A long, uneven staircase receded downward into a darkened void. A basement within a basement. Come on. Suddenly, the sounds from upstairs cut short.

Silence.

Behind me, two quick shuffling scrapes. I spun around, aimed light into the doorway. Empty. Uneasy, I turned back and redialed Charlie’s phone. Two tones rang out-

-In the darkness beyond the bottom of the stairs, Ludwig’s classic riff chimed to life. Okay. Creepy sub-basement, here I come.

At the bottom of the steps, the trail of blood ended. Hard stop. Did it start or finish here? I stepped forward into a vast, shadowy room. Down here, Charlie’s ringtone pinged off the walls, echoing from every direction. Wary, I struggled to get my bearings. The circular glow from my flashlight revealed the room bit by bit - it almost looked like an abandoned mine. Cave-like, make-shift, bizarre.

Strained wooden beams struggled to keep the earth at bay. The room itself was filled with paintings - stacks and stacks of paintings. But none of them were hanging. They were just strewn on the ground - leaning against the dirt walls - piled up in the corners.

Charlie’s ringtone stopped, and for a moment, its echo lingered in the stagnant air. Silence. I redialed, but this time, calling from down here, it didn’t ring. I checked the screen: no service.

“Charlie…?” I called out. Nothing.

Determined, I wandered deeper. Maybe there was something here, something that would make sense of all of this insanity. But there were only paintings, and every single one was more or less the same. Depictions of this house in different contexts: half-built, fully renovated, abandoned, burnt down to a crisp. An exceptionally odd one portrayed the windows and doors swarmed with tiny black dots. Ants?

Who painted these? Was it Abigail? Did she make the one above the fireplace too? The smiling turtle in the attic?

As I crept forward, my light swept across a painting with people in it. I crouched down for a closer look. It was a family. Standing in front of the house, a Rockwellian couple with two children. Boy and girl. The father was nearly the spitting image of Thomas - right down to his perfect teeth. The young girl looked sad, despondent. The boy had Thomas’ eyes. This had to be his family, painted when he lived here as a kid. Thomas, his sister Abigail, and their parents. They looked so traditional, so serious, it almost made the family upstairs look fun in comparison. Almost.

I was about to step away, but… I squinted. In this painting, young Thomas looked out of place, like he was put there after the fact by a lesser artist. His dimensions weren’t quite right. His arms were just the slightest bit too long, his mouth the slightest bit too wide. Even his texture looked off. I pressed my thumb tip against his face. The paint for him felt different from the rest - cheap, acrylic, cold. Unnerved, I pulled away my hand, leaving behind a pinkish smear where young Thomas’ jaw used to be-

-A gleam caught my eye. I swiveled to look, but it was just an unlit oil lamp. It sat atop a cramped desk covered in stacks of black, leather journals. And above the desk, across a horizontal support beam, a message - scrawled with olive green paint:

THOMAS FOSTER IS NOT MY BROTHER

Okay… I crossed over. The desk lamp still had oil, and beside it lay an old pack of matches. I struck one and held it to the lamp until - a dim, flickering glow stammered to life. Shaking out the match, I looked around, absorbing the room in all its weirdness. Distorted, jittery shadows cast over precarious picture frame towers. In the far corner lay a dirt-stained mattress, overgrown with roots, covered in dust. Hadn’t been touched in years. Was Abigail sleeping down here? Above the bed hung a rope-ladder leading up to a hole in the ceiling. Did that connect to the dumbwaiter?

Turning back to the desk, I grabbed a journal from the nearest stack. Maybe this would explain what was going on here. I flipped through, but every single page was filled to the margins with:

Thomas Foster is not my brother. Thomas Foster is not my brother. Thomas Foster is-

-Useless. I tossed it aside, grabbed another one:

You are part of the house. You are part of the house. You are-

-worthless. I snagged the next one:

You are not who they say you are. You are not who they say you are. You are-

-nothing. Nothing but the meaningless ramblings of a seriously unstable person. I’d bet a thousand bucks the next one said: All work and no play makes Abigail a dull girl. But… what did she mean Thomas wasn’t her brother? I was about to turn away when - I noticed a solitary, deep-red journal, tucked away at the bottom of the furthest stack-

-I shimmied it out, cracked it open, and skimmed through. Entry after entry of young Abigail talking about moving into the new house. Her aspirations to become a painter. How she felt out of place in her own skin.

I kept flipping through, glimpsing hand-written moments of Abigail’s tragic life. All the while, looking for something, anything that would help me.

She wrote about the kids in school, how they tormented her for being ‘too tall’. How they called her: Drabby-Abby, Drabby-Abby, Drabby-Abby.

She wrote about the time she shaved her head. How her parents, as punishment, locked her up in the attic until all her hair grew back. How they sent her food rations up through the dumbwaiter chute. How on the first night locked away up there, she awoke covered in ants. Swarmed from head to toe.

She wrote about how she hated being an only child…

…an only child?

Then… she wrote about how Thomas was not her brother. How he came from the woods in the light of day. How he lived here before the house was even built. Before the trees were planted. How he was trying to drive her mad, and nobody believed her, not even her parents. How he was trying to turn her into-

-Something caught my periphery. I looked up.

Ants.

Above the desk, from a crack in the wooden beam, a trail of ants crawled out of the olive green ‘O’ in: THOMAS.

Okay. Slipping the red journal into my back pocket, I followed the trail as it disappeared behind a stack of rotting picture frames. They rounded a corner, and stretched down an ever-narrowing passage, receding into darkness. I raised the flashlight, flicked it on and-

-a woman.

Standing at the end of a dead-end passage with her back turned. Not Charlie - too tall. It was Abigail, had to be. Wearing an off-white hospital gown, just like in the attic. But somehow, it looked like she’d been standing there for years - almost rooted to the ground, like she’d become a part of the room itself. Paralyzed. Looming. Arms hanging limp.

Clutched in her left hand, a small hammer, the same one I’d used to pry nails out from above the fireplace. But now, it was covered in red. Blood…

…Then, she started shaking. A strange, soundless movement, somewhere between weeping and laughter. I stepped backward, and she looked over her shoulder towards me. Her face was pale, sunken cheeks. Her eyes were gently shut.

With surprising speed, the trail of ants climbed up the side of her leg, onto her back, over her shoulders, and began to circle around her neck - an unearthly choker. Her mouth twisted into a pained, toothy grimace and then, the ants started swarming her face. Crawling into her nostrils, her mouth. Writhing ants frantically forcing their way between the cracks of her gums, her teeth. But she remained unphased. Unmoving.

The sight was so terrible, so incomprehensible, I questioned if it was even real.

Then, the ants began to recede. Disappearing into her face until… there was only one ant left. Wriggling its way between her blood-red gums, writhing until, finally… it slipped through her teeth with an almost audible schlick-

-Abigail’s eyes snapped open. Cold and blue. Wide. Mystified. She looked down at the blood-drenched hammer in her hand. Face filling with a horrific mixture of terror, and unimaginable guilt, she whispered, “My name isn’t…”

I took a slow step backward.

“My name isn’t Eve.” She spun around, and took a step towards me - a sudden, unbalanced movement, as if puppeteered from above. Staggering forward, she raised the hammer back, wound up to strike and-

-I turned heel and hauled it the fuck out of there. Abigail in pursuit, I barreled up the stairs - out of the empty room - into the hallway and ran. Faster than I’d ever run in my entire goddamn life. Behind me, her bare feet SLAPPED against concrete. Gaining.

“WAIT,” she gasped.

Scrambling forward, I slid around a corner. Doors on either side blurred past. Numbered. Symmetrical. Wait, wasn’t I already here?

Ahead of me: a dead end. Above me: the ominous drones returned with a vengeance. Behind me: footfalls, getting closer.

Left with no choice, I shoved into the nearest room, pulled the door shut, and reached for the-

-no lock. Fuck. I scanned around, hunting for a weapon, something to bar the door, a place to hide, anything. But there wasn’t-

-Wait.

In the far corner: a shuttered-door wardrobe. Without thinking, I hurtled over, whipped inside, yanked the door shut, and held it there. All the while, the scraping sounds from upstairs grew louder. My heart pumped with short stuttering sprints.

Fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck-Shut the fuck up Eve. Calm down. Just, calm the fuck down. It’s only one person-

-yeah but she’s armed with a hammer and ants crawled into her face and she’s probably going to-

-STOP.

Just… stop. First off, turn the flashlight off. It’s lighting you up like a billboard.

My inner voice was starting to sound weirdly similar to a frustrated Charlie. I don’t know if that’s a good thing, but… I switched off the flashlight.

Okay, it’s off?

Yeah.

Good. Now breathe. Inhale slowly through your nostrils… hold it… and then… exhale through your mouth.

I breathed in through my nose… held it… then exhaled through my mouth.

Did that help?

My heart still thumped like a stampede.

Do it again dipshit.

Okay, maybe my inner voice was a little meaner than Charlie. But it was actually helping. My heart-rate was slowing down. Continuing to focus on my breath, I peered out through the wardrobe shutters into the dark room. Now, the sounds from upstairs were unbearably loud. An ever-rising earthquake, getting stronger and stronger. Then… the door to the room swung open-

-Instant silence.

There she stood, bloody hammer in hand. Abigail.

Deeply regretting my choice of a hiding spot, I sucked in a spurt of air and held my breath. Be quiet.

Abigail loomed into the room, almost bending over as she passed through the door frame. Holy fuck, she was tall. Hammer at the ready, she crept deeper. “I… I’m sorry…” she trailed off, as she started circling the room like a caged animal.

“I’m sorry about Charlie,” she whimpered.. “She’s still alive but, Thomas said it was the only way I could leave…”

What did she mean? What happened to Charlie? Was that Charlie’s blood on the hammer? Questions raced through me, but my survival instinct pushed them back. Escape. Survive. Figure this out later. All the while, I was still holding my breath, still desperately trying not to make a sound. Pins and needles pricked across my face. Lungs growing tighter.

Abigail wandered around the room for what felt like an eternity. Then… she lurched to a stop, sighed, turned for the door, and drifted away - One. Painfully. Slow. Step. At. A. Time.

Every fiber of my being screamed: Don’t breathe. Don’t you fucking breathe. Just hang on a little longer. But-

-my lungs forced me to gasp in air. Abigail froze in the door frame - peered back over her shoulder - and looked directly at the wardrobe.

Then, she tilted her head. The exact same way the shadowy figure on the basement steps did. Head still cocked, she stepped back into the room. And out from her ear, down onto her neck, crawled a thin trail of ants…

Holy fucking Christ.

She took a step closer - and another one. “Eve, is that you?” she whispered, edging forward. Her voice was tinged with repressed excitement now, like she was about to pull off a horrific prank. “Eve don’t worry. Everything’s going to be okay. We can help each other. You can help me leave. And I… I can help you find your Charlie.” Lips quivering, she stood right in front of the wardrobe now, staring at me through the shutters. Her eyes were empty - like a doll’s. Her cold breath brushed against my face. Frigid.

Slowly raising her hand, she slid her long fingers into the shutters, reaching for me. I leaned back as far as I could, but her jagged, overgrown fingernails scratched against my cheek. “It’s okay Eve,” she whispered again. The ants were now flooding off her hand, rushing down from her fingers, onto her nails and…

…onto my face. Swarming ants crept over my skin. Towards my mouth, towards-

-enough.

In one quick motion, I pressed my palm up against her outstretched fingers until they snapped back with a sickening CRACK. I drop-kicked the door open and-

-Abby wrenched to the side shrieking bloody murder - her mangled fingers still caught between the shutters. Trapped. The hammer flew from her hand and slid to a stop in the doorway.

Shooting across the room, I snagged the hammer and kept running - frantically spitting ants out of my mouth all the while. Behind me, Abigail screeched and wailed, struggling to yank her twisted hand out from the shutters. Good fucking luck.

Doors blurred past as I darted down the hallway, hunting for the stairs. Escape. Just escape. Behind me, her warbled screams echoed, getting louder. Closer. She was already free. Fuck.

She was gaining on me and this time, she was vengeful. Part of me wanted to turn around and smash her skull in, but I doubted I could bring myself to do it, even in self-defense. Plus I wasn’t sure if she was even human. So I just kept running…

Until finally, I came upon the stairs - still highlighted with the trail of blood. Sorry Charlie. But, if I don’t get out of here now, we’re both fucked.

I bounded upwards until behind me, Abigail’s cold writhing hands grasped at my heels, reached for my ankles, tried to pull me back into the darkness, but the door was just in sight. I was almost there. Almost free and-

-I burst into the living room, spun around, shoulder-slammed the door shut, expecting a struggle, but… there was nothing. No more footsteps. No more screaming. Only silence. Deafening silence.

“What’s wrong?” Thomas’ bewildered voice called out from behind. But I didn’t look. I was so intent on holding the door shut, I almost forgot the family was even there. Sure, they were god awful, but at least ants weren’t crawling out of their ears… not yet, anyway. Behind me, I could hear Thomas rise to a stand and march across the room. I didn’t look back - I kept holding the door.

Suddenly, he jerked me away, “What is going on-” -he blinked at me, stunned.

Then, I realized what he was looking at: the blood-soaked hammer in my hand. Reaching down, he yanked it away, “Where did you find this?” He held it up, but it was no longer covered in blood - it was spotless. Inexplicably spotless. He tossed it across the room. Hitting the floor, it slid to a stop in the quiet-corner. I was too shocked to even respond. Too exhausted to even fight back. It felt like the entire universe was slowly turning upside down.

“Were you hurting yourself again?” his voice was filled with distress, concern even. He began patting his hands over my neck, my shoulders, searching for injuries.

“Thomas,” Paige called from across the room. But he ignored her, still checking to make sure I wasn’t hurt, “Talk to me… what happened down there?”

“THOMAS,” Paige snapped so loud he almost jumped. He looked back.

She stared him down with a vicious glare, “Take her upstairs. You’re scaring the children.”

The kids were sitting in front of the fireplace, gaping at me with shock. And that’s when it finally hit me:

Everything was different.

Completely different. The furniture. The rug on the floor. The candles on the tables. The paintings on the walls. Everything. The house was now decorated like a throwback American dream home. I opened my mouth to speak, but only a sputtering wheeze escaped. What the fuck was happening?

Sighing, Thomas tightened his grip, pulled me away, and pushed me into the foyer. “I don’t know what happened down there, but I need you to listen to me.” He stared into my eyes, deadly serious. “You have to get yourself together, or I’m calling the ward. Do you understand, Abby? The kids can’t have their aunt running around the house like a lunatic.”

I stared up at him blankly. Abby? Their aunt? Was this really his plan? Was he really gonna try and convince me I was his sister all along? How fucking stupid did he think I was? That dumb shit might’ve worked on a twelve-year-old Abigail, but not on me. It would take a fuck-ton more than a redecorated house to make me believe I was a completely different person. I cleared my throat, “What… what did you do to my house?”

Ignoring the question, he took a new tact, smiling sadly, “You’re my sister. I’d do anything to help you, but I can’t put my family’s safety at risk any longer. Do you understand?”

For a moment… Part of me wondered if I truly was insane, if I might actually be his sister. But none of that made any sense. That’s not how hallucinations work, not how insanity works… right?

Besides, everything that happened so far was technically inside the realm of plausibility. Insanely fucked-up, yes, but not impossible. Maybe they were working with other people. Maybe they moved all the furniture inside while I was downstairs. Maybe they drugged me with hallucinogens after I hit my head. Or maybe…

…Maybe Abigail’s journal was right. Maybe Thomas really did live here before the house was even built. Before the trees were even planted. Maybe he came from the woods in the light of-

-Eve, those were just the ramblings of an unwell mind. He’s only a person. A psychopath. But a person nonetheless.

I refocused.

Play along until the police show up or, until you find the right moment to escape. Come back with help and save Charlie. Don’t escalate things. Yet.

Smiling back, I nodded gently.

“Good. Now,” he continued, “We were just about to have dinner, and I’d love for you to join us. Show the kids everything is okay. Tell them their aunt was just looking for something down in the basement and got lost, alright?”

“Okay.”

“We love you Abby, you’re a part of this family,” he reached out and touched my shoulder gently. I shuddered, but he didn’t seem to notice, or care. “You’ll get through this,” he continued, “you’ve gotten through worse.”

“Thanks Thomas…”

Smiling warmly, he turned back for the kitchen. Lingering behind, I watched him go, waited until he disappeared around the corner, and then-

-I dashed to the front door, grabbed the handle and-

-Locked. From the outside?

I went for the window. Barred. The adjacent room - every single window was barred. My house was like a prison now. How did they pull all this off so quickly?

“Abby?” he called out from the kitchen. “Ready for dinner?”

I stopped. Took a deep breath. Collected myself. Eve, you’re outnumbered. Play along until help shows up. If help doesn’t show, do whatever it takes to find Charlie.

Even if you have to burn this fucking house to the ground.

—

—

—

r/Polterkites

We Used to Live Here [Part 2]

  

Get to the neighbor’s house.

Pushing forward down the driveway, I tucked Charlie’s necklace into my back pocket. Maybe she dropped it by accident? Doubtful. Regardless, my goal didn’t change: Get to the neighbor’s house. Call Charlie - find out where she is - why she left without telling me. At this point, I was even considering calling the police, but…

…What would I tell them? I let a family of five into my house, I think they put up a painting? Not exactly police priority. Call Charlie first, evaluate from there.

The storm was getting worse. As I trudged down the road, freezing wind swept through me, down into the forest at the end of the street. My face stung, teeth chattered, eyes burned. Fun.

Finally, I reached Harpreet and Miguel’s place. A mint-green bungalow with a meticulous, but snow-covered, Japanese garden out front. I gave three sharp knocks and waited. Nothing. As I reached for the bell, the door swung open.

Harpreet answered, “Hello?” Dressed in a housecoat, her eyes were tired, and her hair was tousled. Wait, what time was it? I checked my wristwatch: 6:58 on a Saturday morning. Yikes.

“Hey Harpreet, sorry to bother you so early.”

She looked at me, a little confused, almost like she didn’t know who I was. Fair enough, we’d only met once before, but…

“It’s Eve,” I reminded her, “Just moved in up the street. We were gonna do a game night together?”

She smiled, “Oh right… Eve,” she said. But it almost felt like she still didn’t recognize me and was just being polite. That, or my social anxiety was yet again taking the reins. “Can I use your phone?” I asked, “Mine’s dead.”

“Sure…” she reached into her pocket and handed me her cellphone.

“Thanks.” I punched in Charlie’s number, three tones rang out, but no answer.

I went to dial again, when-

-Charlie called back. Thank God.

“Hello…?” she said. I exhaled relief. Just hearing her voice felt like a big warm hug. “Charlie, where are you?”

“Who’s this?”

I raised an eyebrow, then remembered I wasn’t using my phone. “It’s Eve,” I clarified. “My phone’s dead. I’m using the neighbors.”

“Oh? Hey Eve… it’s pretty loud in here. You’ll have to speak up.” In the background: barcode scanners beeping - muffled voices - cars. Sounded like she was lined up in a grocery store.

A thousand questions passed through my head, but I settled on: “When are you coming back?”

A long, drawn-out silence.

“Eve…” she sighed, “I… I can’t talk right now. Can we do this later?”

“Charlie, I just… why did you leave without-”

-BEEP. She hung up on me. That, or the call dropped. Yeah, the call must’ve dropped. The storm messed with the signal, that’s all. No way Charlie hung up on you. Stop catastrophizing everything.

Harpreet glanced over her shoulder, then back to me. Restless.

Smiling apologetically, I redialed Charlie, but this time it went straight to voicemail.

“Hey Charlie, I think our signal dropped? I… I found your locket on the driveway and - this family is just really weirding me out. Come back as soon as you can, okay?” Ending the call, I handed back the phone. Harpreet studied me with subtle concern in her eyes. “Is… everything okay?”

“Yeah, I’m good… thanks.” Part of me wanted to tell her what was going on, wait here until Charlie got back, until this creepy family was gone. But Harpreet wasn’t exactly rolling out the welcome mat, and I couldn’t blame her. Guess people with healthy boundaries don’t just let random strangers into their houses. Go figure.

As I marched back home, I kept playing the phone call through my head. Something seemed off with Charlie. She sounded distant, standoffish even. Maybe it was something I said last night? Maybe it was something I did last week at-

-STOP. Stop spiraling. Stop mind reading. Focus. If something was bothering Charlie, she would’ve told you. She’s probably just hungover, preoccupied. I took a deep breath and exhaled. WWCD: What would Charlie do?

Charlie would go home, tell these creeps to get the fuck out of her house.

—

With renewed focus, I slogged back through the snow. Halfway across the road, I noticed a figure obscured by the snow. A person. Standing at the end of the street, on the edge of the forest. Back-turned. Unmoving. Dressed in a white gown, or at least, that’s what it looked like from this distance. A gown in the middle of a winter storm? Maybe it was the hiding kid. “Jenny?” I called out, but the shrieking wind swallowed my voice. I tried again, louder. No response. Then, the figure withdrew into the woods, disappearing from sight.

I glanced down the street, towards my house: Go back inside, or go after the kid? It was freezing out here, even with my whole winter getup on. In a gown, she might catch hypothermia, or worse.

I took a step forward and-

-an image flashed through my head. An image from last night: the hunched figure on the stairs, slowly rising to stand. The memory was so sudden, so vivid - I could almost see it, projected onto the snow in front of me. My eyes drifted back towards the house, then back to the dark forest. Last night was just a trick of the light, I told myself. You got this Eve. Go find the kid. Besides, it’ll get this family out of your house.

Reluctantly, I headed towards the treeline.

—

The old forest swayed and groaned as I tracked the faint trail of footsteps. Up ahead, the kid slipped behind a gnarled tree. Was her hair black? All the kids were blonde. Maybe it was the light again? Picking up the pace, I trailed the winding footprints as they led deeper into the woods - over a bank - into a small crevice and-

-vanished. The trail just ended. Hard stop. As if the person I was following ceased to exist. I paused, looked around: trees, branches, snow and… more trees. I called out again, but only the dim echo of my voice responded. Great.

My skin tightened as the wind needled through me. Somewhere close, a heavy CRACK, followed by a thundering BOOM. Was that a tree falling over? This was getting too dangerous.

Left with little choice, I turned back for the house.

Sorry kid.

—

In the foyer, I shook off snow. The uncanny strangeness of everything still clouding my thoughts.

Thomas stepped around the corner, “Any luck?”

I blinked at him, unsure what he meant.

“Getting ahold of Charlie,” he clarified.

“Oh. Had to leave a message.”

He nodded.

I was just about to mention the kid in the woods when-

-Behind him, his daughter Jenny stepped into the room. I stared at her, lost for words.

Thomas glanced back, “Oh. She finally surrendered.”

Jenny wore a white t-shirt and blue corduroy overalls, not a gown. This raised an obvious question: who was the person outside? I almost brought it up, but again something told me, keep it to yourself. My distrust in this family, and even my own judgment, was growing by the second.

“Anyway,” he said, “We’re heading out as soon as the storm clears up.”

“I... I think it’s safer now.”

“I know,” said Thomas. “But without winter tires. My wife’s a little paranoid.”

Surprising myself, I pushed more, “I’ll get the tire chains from the attic.”

He smiled grimly, “Hmm… not sure they’ll fit our truck.”

“They’re universal.”

Thomas paused ever so slightly, and then, “Perfect. That’ll work.” He exhaled with seemingly genuine relief, “We’ll start packing up our stuff right away. Check-out time’s at eleven, right?” He smiled at me, expecting a laugh.

I gave him a blank stare.

His dumb smile evaporated.

“Paige?” he called out, and disappeared into the living room.

But Jenny lingered behind, looking up at me. There was a deep sadness in her eyes, almost like she didn’t wanna leave. Poor kid. Based on my brief time around her parents, I didn’t blame her. I would’ve hid in the basement too.

I smiled sympathetically, but she just looked down at the floor and-

“-JENNY,” Paige’s voice snapped from the living room. “Help us tidy up. NOW.”

Jenny looked up at me, turned away, then slipped out of view.

Tire chains, Eve. Tire chains. I turned to head upstairs, but - there was a jagged, fist-sized hole in the drywall. Wait, was that there before I left? Did the movers do it last week, and I didn’t notice until now? No, that doesn’t make sense, I would’ve seen that. Better yet, Charlie would have 100% caught a hole in the wall and called them out. I’ll come back to that later. I was about to step away when, I noticed-

-an ant crawl out from the hole. Bloated as all hell. A fat fucker. With surprising speed, it zig-zagged down the wall, slipped, and dropped right to the floor. Without missing a beat, it scurried across the hardwood and slipped into a crack beneath the front door. Okay…

…Almost felt like it was running from something. What was that about?

Focus Eve: Universal tire chains.

—

Standing at the top of a pull-down ceiling ladder, I poked my head into the attic. Hobbled wooden floors. No windows. Everything covered in dust. This’ll be fun.

Flashlight in hand, I hoisted myself up. I’d peeked my head in here once before, but never got the whole tour. Slanted boards, low cielings, narrow hallways. Weird attic. I eased my way in. It was quiet up here too, save for the muffled sounds of the family downstairs.

According to Charlie, the tire chains were in the last room on the left. Stepping deeper into the attic, I entered a long, shoulder-width passage. Claustrophobic. Up here the house’s time-worn innards were exposed: reddish-pink insulation, rusting pipes, frayed wires. Looked like a botched surgery.

Curving through the corridor, I came upon a gap in the wall. A three-foot by three-foot square at stomach height. An entrance? I peered inside. It was the dumbwaiter chute… why would it go up to the attic? I beamed light down - a long narrow shaft led all the way to the basement. The elevator cart was at the bottom. Three stories. That’s a long drop. Suddenly, the hair on the back of my neck stood up. Memories of the basement twisted through my head and-

-Was coming up here such a good idea? Maybe I should’ve stayed with the neighbors. Maybe I should’ve-

-Doesn’t matter now, Eve. Tire chains.

Finally, I reached the end of the hallway, rounded the corner and-

-A door. Wooden, covered in peeling, olive-green paint. Adorned with three locks. Unlatched. An attic with deadbolts on its doors? Any other time this would’ve sent me running. I pulled it open and-

-Blinding light-

-From the far wall, glaring sunlight shone through a porthole window.

I flicked off the flashlight, stepped forward, looked around. This room was barely bigger than your average walk-in closet. Random junk crowded up against the walls - a motley crew of thrift store rejects: Bald tires. Old books. More empty picture frames. A fish tank and… turtle pellet food? Behind that, a dusty, watercolor painting of a bright-green, smiling turtle. I guess the previous owners really liked turtles? I mean, turtles are pretty cool, but…

…Why didn’t Charlie mention any of this stuff?

Behind the turtle tank, was a file-box. Written on its side, in black sharpie: CHARLIE’S STUFF (DONATE). Leaning forward, I hoisted the box up onto the turtle tank. Inside were a few camera lenses, a bunch of film rolls, and an old 35mm Pentax. Charlie’s camera.

Photography used to be a passion of hers. I still remember the day she had her own gallery showing. It was a rain-soaked day in downtown Seattle, but I’d never seen her happier. She even put up the blurry photo of me. The one from the locket. I was flattered, despite the fact you could barely see my face in it.

Charlie always wanted to start a photography side-business. But three years back, after her father passed, Charlie put away the camera and never took it out again. Her dad was the one that got her into photography to begin with. I asked her about it once, but she just shrugged, said she didn’t have time for it anymore. It was so unlike Charlie. Before that, she never walked away from anything. That said, I was in no position to judge. I’m the type of person who gives up on projects I don’t even start. Need an example? I dropped out of art school three months before the first semester.

Setting the lid back onto the box, I turned to survey the room and-

-in the far corner: the pile of tire chains. Finally. I crossed over, bent down and-

-Outside the house, a door slammed shut. I tilted my head. Silence. But then, muffled, heavy footfalls crunched against gravel and snow. Charlie? I stepped over to the porthole window. Down on the driveway, Thomas marched towards the street. He got about ten yards from the house, then lurched to a stop and… let out a primal scream of rage. What the fuck? He went quiet, and glanced around, looking embarrassed. Then, he shook out his hands. Did he and Paige just have a fight? Maybe… but what about?

Reaching into his coat pocket, he pulled out a pack of cigarettes and glanced back towards the house. All clear. He lit up, took a long drag, and relaxed a bit. Secret nicotine addiction - repressed anger issues. Two more points against this picture-perfect family. Maybe he punched that hole in the wall too? He continued down the driveway, onto the street, and disappeared behind the treeline-

-along the forest surrounding my house. From this angle, the trees were eerily familiar - old, almost menacing. Was this the treeline from the painting-

-Behind me, a labored, metallic rasping sound. I turned. Listened. Around the corner - dissonant grating, like overgrown fingernails scraping against rusting metal. Tedious. Guttural. Growing louder and louder with each passing second.

Disturbed, I crept over to investigate, but before I could even get there, the sound rattled to a sudden stop. A halting noise that made me realize what it was:

The dumbwaiter.

Flashlight in hand, I peeked around the corner. Nothing. Just the long, empty hallway.

Maybe it’s the kid again? Maybe she’s coming up here to hide? I glanced at the tire chains - come back for those later. I eased forward, one step at a time. From this angle, I couldn’t see into the dumbwaiter chute… yet.

But part of me worried something terrible was waiting inside. Something waiting to pull me down into the basement, drag me into who the fuck knows where and-

-Stop. Don’t spiral. Take a deep breath. Exhale. It’s just the kid, Eve. Everything that’s happened so far has a reasonable explanation-

-Really? What about the dad’s whispering freakout in the basement?

Yes, even that.

The painting above the fireplace?

…Yes, that too.

The figure on the stairs…?

Yeah… I think?

Mildly emboldened, I stepped forward to look, and… the elevator cart was empty. Joy. Somebody must have pulled it up here from below. Of course. You can pulley a dumbwaiter chute without being inside it - that’s actually how they’re meant to be used. Exhaling relief, I turned away and-

-Footprints.

Footprints in the dust. Long, narrow. Starting at the dumbwaiter entrance and leading off down the hallway. Away from me - down through the attic - towards the only way out.

Not good.

They sure as hell didn’t look like kid footprints. Maybe I wasn’t thinking clearly, but… they almost didn’t look human.

Okay. No more attic.

I took a deep breath, pointed my flashlight, and headed for the ladder at the end of the hallway. I quick-stepped into an open area and swivel-checked the corners like a wannabe marine. All clear. We’re good. Just get to the exit-

-The flashlight dimmed into darkness.

Seriously?

I smacked it - flickering light.

Shit. I’ve watched enough horror movies to know: Nothing good follows a randomly dying flashlight.

I smacked it again. Harder.

But this time, it surged bright. Like a flare, somehow lighting up the entire attic and then-

-Darkness.

I flicked the on/off switch. Nothing. I smacked it again. Nothing. Again. Nothing. In a fit of stupid rage, I hurled it into the dark - it clattered off a wall and fell to the floor with a hollow THUD.

Silence.

A growing sense of panic swelled within me. Whoever brought the chute up here was still in the attic, and I was seriously starting to doubt it was one of the kids. Was it the figure on the stairs? What if it was-

-my tailspin was saved by a literal ray of hope. About forty feet away: the still open attic door.

Just follow the light.

Moving one foot at a time, using the distant glow to guide me, I focused on my breath. Breathe in through your nose - out through your mouth. Be careful, don’t trip on the notched floor-

-behind me, something moved: a skittering, almost fragile sound. Now, completely terrified, I hauled ass towards the light and-

-my foot snagged on a floorboard. I staggered forward, nearly biting it. Close call. Scrambling, I sprinted towards the exit. Almost there. Almost free and-

-The stairs slammed shut with an authoritative WHAM.

Darkness.

I yelled for whoever was down there to open it. No response. Collapsing onto the hatch, I frantically searched for the handle. Sliding my hands over the splinter-infested floor, hunting for something, anything. Cold sweat trailed down my forehead - my heart thumped - breath gasped. I stopped myself again. Calm down. Breathe in. Breathe out. In. Out.

Ground yourself.

Focus on your surroundings.

Your senses.

Sight: pitch dark.

Smell: musty air, rotting wood.

Touch: cold wet hair, coarse hardwood.

Sound: Your own breathing. Wind gusting outside. The creaks and groans of the old house and-

-a rolling sound, behind me - like a metallic cylinder against hardwood. I gazed back over my shoulder. Only darkness. But then, light flickered to life. The flashlight. About thirty feet away, rolling in a lazy arc, beaming through stagnant clouds of dust. I watched, hypnotized. The rolling flashlight slowly scanned over the walls, the reddish-pink insulation, and then-

-It settled to a stop - shining into the narrow hallway at an angle. It almost felt as if this light was trying to show me something, but… nothing was there, just a dark, empty hallway. I squinted.

And then I saw it. A figure. Standing in the darkness just outside the light’s edge.

A person, cast in shadow. I stopped breathing. Slowly, the figure became more defined. It was a woman, wearing an off-white hospital gown. Tall. Her head was shaved down to thin black roots - bluish veins pulsated beneath pale skin. Her face was concealed behind peekaboo hands, like a child playing a game. Motionless. The breathless moment seemed to stretch on for eternity and then-

-She took a sudden, shuffling step forward, and froze in place. Now, the front of her bare feet stood in the light - overgrown, dirt-stained toe-nails. And then… another quick step forward. The flashlight snapped off. Darkness returned. Slow, monotonous footsteps followed. Like a lumbering metronome, speeding up bit by bit.

Bottomless dread pushed up from my stomach, into my throat, but- only a gasping wheeze escaped. I couldn’t even scream. So I spun around and pounded on the floor. Hitting harder and harder. All the while, footfalls getting closer and closer - one short step at a time.

Finally… I managed to scream. Scream louder than I’d ever screamed before. I screamed for help, but no one responded. Only the sound of footsteps getting closer - closer. They were nearly upon me and then-

-the stairway swung open. I tumbled downward and SLAMMED into the hardwood floor -- headfirst.

Darkness.

—

With a sharp gasp, I snapped awake. Where was I? Slumped on the living room couch with a nasty fucking headache. Thank god - I half expected to be tied up in an underground torture chamber.

Next to the fireplace, Paige sat in a chair, knitting. Her kids played with Lincoln logs on the floor. It was still daytime, but slowly getting darker.

“You okay?” asked Thomas, stepping into view.

“Uh…” I didn’t know what to say, I was still processing everything, “There… there’s somebody in the attic.”

He nodded considerately. The kids looked up at me, on edge.

He glanced towards them, “Why don’t you go upstairs?”

Collecting their toys, they filed out.

Holding a smile, he waited for them to leave, then sat down across from me. “Tell me what happened,” he asked thoughtfully.

“There, there was a person. They were…” I trailed off, trying to make sense of it. “I… I think I saw them in the basement too, last night on the stairs, but…”

He weighed this for a moment. “Before you moved in, how long was the house sitting empty?”

“Huh?”

“When did the previous owners move out?”

“Oh… about half a year ago, I think.”

He smiled grimly, “Sitting empty that long? Could be a squatter. Happens more often than you’d think. Especially out here.”

“I don’t know…”

“Well, did she seem dangerous?”

The bizarre image of the woman, hiding behind peekaboo hands, flashed through my head. It was almost as if she were taunting me. “We… I should call the police.”

He shook his head, “No reason to escalate things until we know what we’re dealing with.”

I was barely even listening. My thoughts were still trapped in the attic - circling around something that I couldn’t quite place yet.

He cleared his throat, “I’ll go up and take a look, alright?”

“I don’t think it’s safe…”

“I’ll be fine,” pushing up to stand, he strode towards the foyer.

Paige chimed in, “Don’t forget the tire chains,” she said, not even looking up from her knitting.

Grunting noncommittally, Thomas disappeared around the corner.

—

SHE.

—

Five minutes had passed, and Thomas was still upstairs investigating the attic. What was taking him so long? Who was that up there? Could it be his sister, Abby?

-Rhythmic creaking interrupted my train of thought. I looked up.

Paige was rocking back and forth in a chair, knitting. An unfamiliar red rocking chair. Catching my gaze, she stopped moving.

A few awkward seconds of silence went by. “Nice chair,” I said pointedly.

She offered a meek smile, “Thomas grabbed it… from the truck. It’s… it’s good for my spine. When I was younger, I hurt my back in an accident. I used to ride horses, almost qualified for Regionals…”

Who gives a fuck? Leaning back, I crossed my arms. The fire crackled and hissed - slowly dying into fading embers.

She went back to knitting, unphased by my lack of response.

Considering the peekaboo-lady up in the attic, part of me was actually glad for the family’s presence. But now, I had less than zero faith in them. And worse still, I didn’t even fully know why-

“-Sorry about last night,” said Paige, almost blurting it out.

Raising an eyebrow, I looked towards her.

She continued, “What I said, at the dinner table… It wasn’t appropriate.”

I stared at her, surprised, but not invested.

“…I just,” she sighed, “I’m not used to how fast the world’s changing these days…” she tapered off, eyes scanning the floor.

“…Same here,” I said dryly.

Dead quiet and then-

-Thomas stepped into the room.

I sat up, awaiting his report. But he just looked at me and shrugged. “Didn’t see anything,” he said, almost apologetically. “Found this though.” He handed me my flashlight.

“No footprints?” I asked.

“Hmm? Footprints? …Nope.”

Impossible. I rose to stand, but he pressed his hand against my shoulder, stopping me in my tracks.

“Eve,” his eyes filled with the type of concern that makes one feel pathetic, “Is everything okay?” I didn’t respond. I didn’t know how.

He continued, “I know you barely know us but… You can be open here, maybe we can help.” No fucking thank you. What was this guy up to?

I shrugged his hand away and stepped towards the kitchen. Pulling a cup from a cabinet, I filled it at the sink, gulped it down, and slammed it onto the counter like a shot glass. “You should leave.”

Thomas’ face twitched like something did not compute. And then he snapped back to his pseudo-charming self, “Why don’t we wait until Charlie gets back?”

Ready to rip, I opened my mouth to respond, but then-

-I noticed the cup on the counter, the one I’d just set down. It was an unfamiliar, red plastic kid’s cup. On its side, a pale blue moon with gently shut eyes, smiling a toothy smile… Whose cup was this? More importantly, what was it doing in my cupboard?

“…Something wrong?” asked Thomas.

“How long was I out?”

He studied me, unsure.

I locked onto his eyes, “After I hit my head.”

“Oh… ten… fifteen minutes?” he broke eye contact. “Tops.”

Clearing his throat, he tried his pitch yet again, “We’ll stay with you until Charlie gets home. Then we can use her phone to call the police. After that, we’ll finally get out of your hair. Sound good?”

“Uh-huh,” I muttered, only half-listening. Now, I was staring at the creepy moon cup, searching for something, something just out of reach in my mind. Something that-

-she-

-Minutes earlier, when he asked me about the attic person, Thomas said: “Did she seem dangerous?” But I never mentioned-

-The blaring RING of a cell phone cut into my concentration. Repetitive - monotone - BEEPING.

I looked around, bewildered.

The sound was coming from Paige. Fumbling in her pocket, she yanked out a flip-phone and switched it off.

Deafening silence filled every corner of the room.

I looked at Thomas, but he looked away, embarrassed. So much for not having phones.

“Let me use that,” I said.

“Oh. It’s… it’s not,” she stammered, “the service out here is… and I just-”

-Midway through her sentence, I marched over and snatched the phone away. Paige shot to her feet, trying to grab it back, but Thomas spoke up. “It’s okay Paige. Let her use it.”

She paused, stared at him for an uncertain moment, then sat back down. Smart move Paige. I was about to break your fucking jaw (despite the fact I didn’t have the slightest idea of how to do that).

Dialing Charlie’s number, I stepped back into the kitchen. Three tones rang out, and then…

…Faintly, through a vent in the floor - a muffled synth cover of Beethoven’s Fifth played out from the basement.

Charlie’s ringtone.

—

—

—

r/Polterkites

We Used to Live Here [Part 1]

  

The family on my doorstep looked normal enough.

Normal in a 1950’s sitcom kind of way: Tall handsome dad, petite blonde wife. Behind them, three young, blue-eyed kids lined up by height. One girl, two boys. This was the type of family that showed up early to get the front row pew.

“Hello miss,” said the father, “Sorry to bother you so late.”

“Hey… how can I help you?”

“I grew up in this house.”

“Oh, nice.”

He cleared his throat, “Would you mind if we showed the kids around?”

“Like… inside the house?”

He nodded, “Show them where their dad grew up. If it’s not too much of a problem.”

“Oh, I… I’m not sure. My girlfriend’s coming home soon and-”

-The mother winced at the word’ girlfriend,’ almost like someone had spat in her face. I pretended not to see it.

The father smiled, “We’d only need ten, fifteen minutes, tops.”

“Yeah, I just… we’re still moving in and, it’s a bit of a mess and-”

“-Say no more,” he put up his hands in a little surrender, and stepped back. “This was all very last minute, and… thank you regardless.”

Muted disappointment fell over the kids’ faces.

“We’ll give you a proper heads up next time,” he added. “Might be passing through in another year, or two.”

They all turned around and started back down the snow-covered driveway. Watching them go, my ever-present, people-pleasing personality kicked into gear. Right on cue.

“Wait,” I said, “fifteen minutes?”

The father looked back over his shoulder, “Tops.”

—

My girlfriend Charlie and I had just moved in.

A killer deal on a two-story at the end of a quiet suburban street. All surrounded by rolling hills and an old forest. “Barbie’s gothic dream house,” Charlie joked. It needed some work, but that was our thing: fix up old houses - flip them - move on. Lucrative, if you do it right.

The neighborhood felt good too. A young married couple from across the street, Harpreet and Miguel, even invited us over for a game night next week. An actual game night. Two married couples playing board games - isn’t that like the settling down suburbia dream? Granted, Charlie and I weren’t married yet, but we talked about it. And for some reason, this house was starting to make that feel possible.

Anyway, there I was, alone on a Friday night when this excruciatingly perfect family showed up on my doorstep.

—

I followed them through the upstairs hallway.

“This room used to be painted blue,” said the father, pointing into a green-walled guest room. He strode forward, and his family followed. “This room,” he nudged open a half-closed door, “used to be a library.”

Now, it was just a storage room. Well, that’s what it was until we figured out what to do with it.

He kept walking, sharing a brief, mundane fact in each doorway. And then, he stopped in his tracks as if remembering something. Turning around, he stared at the wall, puzzled. “What happened to the dumbwaiter?”

“The what?”

He placed a hand flat against the wall, “Used to be a dumbwaiter chute here.”

“I… I don’t know.”

He slid his hand down until it snagged. Leaning forward, he squinted: beneath the wallpaper was a square bump. A handle?

“Huh.” He stepped back. “Looks like somebody covered it up.” He glanced towards the kids, “There used to be a dumbwaiter chute here - went all the way down to the basement.”

They stared at him, confused.

“It’s like a mini elevator,” he explained. “We’d use it for the laundry.”

The kids nodded.

Their mother checked the time on her wristwatch, then crossed her arms. Impatient.

As the father moved on, his family trailed behind. He stopped at the last room, a closed door, and reached out. He froze. Silent. “This used to be your Aunty Abigail’s room,” he said, studying the door like it was a sad painting. A strange gloom hung in the air.

Sensing a private moment, I cleared my throat, “Feel free to keep showing yourselves around. I’ll be downstairs if you need anything.”

He looked back at me and smiled, grateful.

—

I was downstairs now, hammer in hand, prying rusty nails out from above the fireplace mantel. Judging by the discolored rectangles on the wall, several small paintings used to hang here. But they must have been hung crooked, all shifted a bit too far to the right. Just as I wrenched out the last nail, the family filed into the living room behind me.

The father strolled over to the basement door. “Your grandparents used to measure our heights here,” he said, running a hand over the frame’s smooth white finish. “All painted over now though.”

He tried for the handle. Locked. Looking towards me, he opened his mouth to speak but-

-in the kitchen, the oven timer went off. “One second,” I said, setting down the hammer. I crossed over and turned off the timer.

The father blinked at me, “Can we go into the basement?” he asked, hand still gripped around the doorknob.

“Oh shoot.” I shook my head. “Sorry, we’re renovating down there. Lots of tools laying around. Not exactly safe.” Opening the oven, I pulled out a steaming roast.

“We’ll be careful,” he said.

“Lights are out too.” I set down the roast.

“No work lights set up?”

“Not yet.”

His face twitched for the briefest of moments. Then, all smiles, he released the knob and backed away from the door. “Alright, no problem,” he relented.

I hadn’t even been down there yet, but according to Charlie, the basement was a little ‘fucky.’ An old labyrinth patchwork with extra bits added on over the decades. According to neighborhood legend, the house architect was a little eccentric (to put it lightly).

“Alright gang, let’s head out,” said the father. “Don’t want to overstay our welcome.” He motioned his family into the foyer. But as they filed out, he meandered his way back towards the kitchen.

“Thanks again for letting us take a look around,” he said, “meant a lot to the kids.”

“No problem.” Didn’t look like it meant shit to the kids, but I kept that to myself.

Lingering at the edge of the kitchen, he glanced back towards his family as if making sure they were out of earshot. Content, he turned to face me, curious. “This… this is kind of odd but, did you ever notice anything-”

-A commotion in the foyer cut him off, “Excuse me.” He went to investigate.

Intrigued, I followed.

By the front door, the two young boys argued over something while the mother tried to calm them down.

“Where’s Jenny…?” said the father.

No response. The boys kept arguing.

“Where’s Jenny?” he boomed, voice resonating with sudden authority.

The room fell silent, and everyone looked around. No Jenny in sight.

“She, she was just here,” said the mother.

“Jenny?” the father called out. No response. He sighed, rubbing his temples as he turned back to me, “I… I’m really sorry about this. Jenny, our youngest, she likes to hide.”

“Hide?”

“Spontaneous hide and seek. We’ve been trying to correct it but-”

“-Jenny?” the mom called out in the background.

“We should find her easily enough,” he continued. “Gosh, this is so embarrassing,” he shook his head, blushing.

“No… no it’s okay.”

He turned away, “Jenny?! Come on out,” he said, trying to hide the irritation in his voice.

As the family searched the house, I wandered up to the front door and stared out the window. Now, gentle snow was falling. Where was Charlie? She should’ve been home thirty minutes ago. I pulled out my phone and - two missed calls, both from her. Of course. I called back, and three tones rang out. Voicemail.

“Hey Charlie,” I said, “My phone was on silent. Call me back when-”

-upstairs, someone whistled. One of the boys had found something.

“Call me back when you can. Drive safe.” Tucking my phone away, I hurried upstairs.

The family stood huddled in the middle of the hallway, facing the wall. Stepping forward, I peered over the mother’s shoulder to see what they were investigating. A hanging flap of wallpaper had been torn back, revealing the dumbwaiter chute - rusty metal door ajar - no elevator cart in sight. Fuck. This could only mean one thing:

Jenny, the missing kid, was hiding in the basement.

—

Flashlights in hand, the father and I descended the darkened staircase. So much for the basement being off limits.

The rest of his family lingered behind us, wary.

At the bottom of the steps, the father looked around and huffed. His light scanned through rickety shelves, aging support beams, and sagging cobwebs. Down here, the dad almost seemed nervous, like this place brought up bad memories. “Know the basement well?” he asked.

“Not really,” I said, “Charlie’s more familiar with the layout.”

“Charlie?”

“Oh, that’s my girlfriend.”

“Right. Don’t think I caught your name by the way.”

“Eve.”

“That’s a good name,” he said. “I’m Thomas. My wife’s Paige. You can just call the kids: Headache one, two, and three,” he glanced at me, expecting a laugh. I managed a polite chuckle.

Squatting down, he swept his light over the floor. “She’s probably in full-on hiding mode now. We should split up. Cover more ground that way.”

I furrowed my brow, skeptical.

“You have to be quiet.” Thomas pushed off his knees to stand, “If you see Jenny, try and grab her or she’ll just run away and hide again. She’s fast.” His voice strained with the exhaustion of having done this one too many times.

“You’re sure? Just grab her?”

“Yeah, it’s fine. All part of the game.”

Looking to his right, he whispered, “I’ll go this way. You go that way?” he nodded to the left.

“Sure,” I replied, still unsure of his plan. He turned and disappeared around the corner. I moved left and was greeted by a long, empty hallway. Creepy. I trudged forward. This sucked.

And Charlie was right: the basement was fucky. All sorts of nooks and pockets.

Rounding the next corner, I shone light into a garage-like room: Mostly empty. Save for a row of metal shelves. And, sitting in the far corner: a coat-rack beside a dozen or so empty picture frames. A cold draft pushed through me. Shivering, I stepped forward and-

-Something clattered against the concrete. Startled, I turned to look and, across the room, a tin can rolled over the floor. A mess of nails and screws. Great. Now this stupid kid’s gonna step on a rusty nail, get tetanus, and the parents are gonna sue us.

I strolled over, set the flashlight down, and used my hand to sweep nails back into the tin can. As I swept, the flashlight started to roll away. Uneven floors. Nice. I set my foot out to block it and-

-Something in the beam of light caught my eye. Or rather, hundreds of somethings:

Ants.

A trail of black ants, marching along the bottom of the far wall. Fantastic. Add pest control to the unexpected expenses list. Frustrated, I grabbed my flashlight and slogged over. The ants led around the corner, deeper into the basement - all marching in the same direction.

Is that normal ant behavior? Aren’t they supposed to march both ways? Vague memories from a Nat Geo documentary echoed in my head. Shrugging it off, I followed the trail. I rounded the corner into another long, uninviting corridor. The ants trooped into receding darkness - I could almost hear their little feet tapping against the concrete. Where were they going?

Curiosity building, I crept forward. Halfway down the hallway, they took a hard turn into a make-shift wine cellar. I stepped inside.

Stone floor. Arched brace ceilings. Old, empty barrel racks. This room almost looked medieval. The ants ran in a straight line towards the furthest back corner - disappearing out of sight.

I crossed over, and hunched down. They filed into a crack at the bottom of the wall. What’s on the other side? I raised my flashlight and-

-Behind me, two quick footsteps scraped over concrete.

I spun around. About twenty feet away, in the room’s entrance, stood the father - back turned. His posture was strange, almost rigid. Arms straight at his sides, flashlight aiming at the floor. Motionless.

“Hey…” I called out.

No response.

I stood up and glanced around the room. He was blocking the only way in or out.

“Thomas…?”

Silence.

That was his name, right? Clearing my throat, I stepped forward, a growing pit of dread in my stomach. I was about to call out again, but-

-He started whispering, talking to the blank space in front of him, “What are you doing down here Abby? We’ve been looking everywhere for you-”

“-Thomas?” I said, louder now. No response. He just kept talking to dead air, exasperated, “I’m not sure how much longer we can do this,” he said. “I thought you were on board?”

I moved closer, reached out, touched the back of his shoulder and-

“-Holy CHRIST.” Thomas spun around, setting a hand against his chest. “You’re… you’re a quiet one,” he exhaled, catching his breath.

“I… I…” I stammered, still in a bit of shock.

Collecting himself, he chuckled, “Almost gave me a heart attack.”

“I called for you like three times… who were you talking to?”

He stared at me, sincerely confused, “Come again?”

“You were whispering.”

He shrugged, unsure what I meant.

Disturbed, I looked back over my shoulder, just in time to glimpse the last of the ants receding into the wall.

“Any luck?” he asked.

Turning back, I shook my head.

He nodded, “Yeah, me neither. Caught a glimpse of her, but she slipped away. Anyway, we should head up. Jenny’ll get spooked down here soon enough, put up the white flag.”

I agreed. Besides, now I just wanted to get the fuck out of this basement.

—

Upstairs, the rest of the family sat around the living room fireplace. Comfortable.

“Battle of the wills now,” said Thomas. His wife gave a slight nod.

Still unsettled, I wandered off into the foyer by myself. Why weren’t they more concerned about their missing kid? What just happened in the basement? And, more importantly, where the fuck was Charlie? She should’ve been here like an hour ago. I pulled out my phone and-

-the front door swung open, and Charlie stepped through. “I’m late. Roads are shit. Getting shittier,” she said, shaking off snow. “What’s up with the moving truck?”

“The what?”

“There’s a one-ton, parked at the end of the-”

-As if to answer her question, the father stepped into the foyer.

Charlie shot him a puzzled look.

“This is Thomas,” I said. “He grew up here as a kid. He was just showing his family around and-”

“-And now our daughter is playing solo hide and seek in the basement,” he said apologetically.

“Oh yeah? My brother used to do that,” she shot out her hand for a shake. “Name’s Charlie. Charlie Bastion.”

They shook hands, a firm, single shake.

Charlie was my emotional polar opposite. Chill with everybody. Confident, extroverted, trusting, and direct. Good at setting boundaries too. “Any hidden rooms or ghost stories we should know about?” She asked, hanging up her jacket.

Thomas cleared his throat, “It’s a ghost-free house,” he smiled. “Anyway… don’t let us spoil your night. She’ll give up any minute now, never seen her hold out too long. We can go sit in the truck if you want some space.”

Charlie scoffed, “Sit in the truck? You might as well join us for dinner.”

“I… I think we’ll be alright. We had a big lunch.”

“Lunch? Come on, join us. Eve always makes more than enough.”

Thomas smiled tepidly, looking like he didn’t want to impose.

Part of me wanted to grab Charlie by the arm, tell her to drop it, but I didn’t. She hadn’t seen Thomas’ whispering episode in the basement. That being said... maybe I was overreacting? Had a bit of a reputation for that.

“Sure,” he relented, “but only if it’s not a problem.” He glanced over at me as if checking for my approval, but I just shrugged, looking away.

“Wouldn’t be offering if it was,” said Charlie.

—

The fireplace crackled. Wind outside billowed. The creaks and groans of the old house filled the silence. Minus the daughter, we were all seated around the dinner table now.

Charlie reached across and grabbed a wine corkscrew. “Maybe the kid’ll smell the food and give up,” she said.

Chuckling softly, Thomas picked up his fork and-

“-Thomas,” hissed Paige, his wife.

He set down the fork, cleared his throat, “Would it be alright if we said a quick prayer before eating?”

Charlie shot me a look.

“Not wanting to impose,” he said. “This is your house, after all.”

“Yeah, it’s okay,” I said.

Grateful, he smiled. Bowing their heads, they shut their eyes.

I never had a problem with prayer, grew up in a religious household myself. I still value some of the lessons, but for every great lesson, there was something that made me question who I was.

Paige cleared her throat, “We’d like to thank Eve, and Charlie, the hosts of this house, for allowing us to eat with them-”

-Considering how traditional this family appeared, I would’ve expected Thomas to lead the prayer.

But as Paige prayed, I glanced over at Thomas: his eyes were wide open, staring blankly at the table cloth in front of him. He looked distant, almost out of place. Was he even religious? I mean, down in the basement, he took the precious Lord’s name in vain so…

Paige continued, “We’d like to thank God for our health, our family, and our friends. We thank you for allowing us to have a fresh start as we move cross country. Amen.”

“Amen,” I mumbled, an old reflex back from the dead. Charlie shot me another look, this time with a playful smirk. I glanced away, embarrassed.

“So… you’re moving, huh?” Twisting the cork out of a red wine bottle, Charlie poured herself a glass. “What prompted that?”

“Needed a fresh start,” said Thomas.

“Where to?” asked Charlie.

“Oh, downstate-”

-“This is delicious by the way,” Paige cut in, looking at Charlie. “It’s really appreciated.”

“Don’t thank me. Eve’s the master cook tonight,” Charlie held up the bottle. “Wine?”

Thomas shook his head, “We don’t drink.”

“Very wise,” said Charlie. She glanced at the two boys. “Listen to your parents, kiddos.”

Paige smiled, opened her mouth to speak but-

-A techno-cover of Beethoven’s Fifth cut in: DUN-DUN-DUN-DUUUUH. Charlie pulled out her phone, “My bad.” She muted it. As she went to put it away, the screen caught her eye, “Oh shit.” She held it up for me to see:

NOTIFICATION:

DANGEROUS DRIVING CONDITIONS ALONG THE NUMBER FIVE CONNECTOR. WINTER TIRES RECOMMENDED.

“Hmm?” said Thomas.

“Roads are getting worse.” Charlie tucked her phone away, “Hopefully the kid shows up soon, huh?”

“She will. Just have to give her space.”

Charlie glanced at the time, “Looks like she’s going for the hide-and-seek record tonight. You guys got winter tires?”

“I used to drive long-haul trucks year-round. We’ll be fine.”

Charlie grabbed the salt, “There’s some tire-chains up in the attic.”

“We’ll be fine,” he insisted.

Paige looked at him, concerned, “You sure it’s worth risking?”

Mouth full of food, he half shrugged.

Paige, deflecting Thomas’ indifference, shifted topic, “Are you married?”

“…Us?” I asked.

She nodded.

Charlie almost scoffed, “Nope.”

Paige nodded again, as if to say, I expected as much. “Are you religious?” she asked, looking directly at me now.

“What, me? No, not really. I mean, I used to be.”

“I only ask because I noticed a Bible in the living room.”

“Oh… that was a gift from my parents. We used to go to church together.”

Smiling tight, Paige jabbed her fork into the roast and started sawing with a steak knife. “What about them?”

“Who?” I asked, starting to feel interrogated.

“Your parents. Do they still go to church?”

“Yeah.”

“What denomination?”

“Lutheran.”

“And they’re aware?” her eyes flicked to Charlie, then back to me.

“Aware of what?”

Paige glanced at her children as if the following words might be too much for their innocent ears. “Aware of you and your friend’s… lifestyle choices.”

“…They are.” Lifestyle choices?

“And they accept it?”

Uncomfortable, I opened my mouth to respond but-

-Charlie cut in, chewing on a mouthful of roast, “What about yours?”

Paige looked at her, “…Hmm?”

“Your parents. They know about your lifestyle choices?”

Paige furrowed her brow. “I don’t understand what you’re getting at,” she said pointedly.

“Paige,” Thomas intervened, “That’s enough.”

Paige stared at Charlie for a long moment, but Charlie didn’t break eye contact. Finally, Paige looked away and returned to eating.

As a chronic conflict avoider, I was actually relieved when Thomas stepped in. But Charlie, she was chomping at the bit, ready to fucking battle. Had I not been there, she would’ve gone at it until Mary Magdalene started crying.

“I was only curious,” Paige relented.

Right then, a blistering gust of wind slammed against the windows. The house lights flickered.

Thomas looked over his shoulder, “Hopefully the power holds out,” he turned back to the table. “Went down all the time when I lived here,” he said, trying his best to change the topic.

The rest of the meal dragged on in tedious silence.

—

The table had been cleared - the kitchen had been cleaned.

Now, I was leaning over, setting kindling into the fireplace. Outside, it was a full-on blizzard. Wind whipped the quick-piling snow into a frenzy.

Thomas had already gone down to the basement several more times, but still, no Jenny was in sight. I still couldn’t shake how calm he and Paige were about it. ‘Calm’ might be an understatement - it was bordering on apathetic.

“Eve,” said Thomas, stepping into the living room.

“Yeah?” I replied, crumpling a ball of newspaper kindling.

“Know any nearby motels by chance?”

“Hmm, nothing close by that I can think of.”

Silence hung in the air, almost like he expected me to say something more. I continued, “I mean… worst-case scenario, you guys can crash here for the night.” I regretted the words the second I spoke them - but in my defense, their daughter was still missing. What was I gonna do? Send them off into a blizzard, one kid short?

“Are you sure?” he said. “We wouldn’t want to impose. We can sleep in the truck too. You’ve already done so much.”

“No… it’s fine.”

“Well, thank you Eve. I’m sure Jenny will show up soon, but just in case she doesn’t - that really means a lot to us. We can compensate you financially for all the trouble too.”

“That’s okay.”

—

But sure enough, Jenny remained a no show. About another hour clocked by until the family finally retired for the night. The two boys into an upstairs guest room - Thomas and Paige into adjacent bedrooms. Despite being married, they didn’t sleep in the same room. Yikes. I almost felt bad for them.

Alone at last, Charlie and I shared a blanket on the living room couch. The warmth of the fireplace filled the room. Charlie leaned forward, grabbed a bottle of wine off the coffee table -- noticing the hammer and bent nails from before.

“Took out the nails,” I explained.

She looked up at the empty wall, “From above the fireplace?”

“Yeah.”

“What? That’s where I was going to hang our crucifix.”

I smiled, “Stop.”

Leaning back, she twisted the bottle opener into the cork. “You seem on edge tonight. Is something up? I mean, besides our new roomies.”

“I just… something feels off about them.”

“Agreed, but something feels off about everyone to you.” She popped the cork out and started pouring herself a glass.

“I know, I just…”

“I need specifics.”

“Before you got back, Thomas and I were in the basement, looking for the kid and…”

Charlie finished pouring, set the bottle down, and looked at me attentively. She used to say I overreacted to things, but lately, she’d been working on her empathy and active-listening skills. The effort was appreciated.

“In the wine cellar,” I continued, “I heard footsteps, and when I looked back, the dad, Thomas… he was just standing there. Back turned. Blocking the entrance. I called out like three times, but he didn’t respond… he just kept whispering to somebody named Abby. I think that was his sister’s name? But, there was nobody there. And then he just… snapped out of it.”

“So, he was standing in a doorway, whispering? Was he talking to the daughter, maybe?”

“No… her name is Jenny…”

“I don’t know,” I sighed. “Maybe I’m overreacting. What do you think?”

“About the family?”

“Yeah.”

Charlie took a long sip, “To me, casual bigotry aside,” she handed me the glass of wine. “They seem pretty unremarkable. Or, at the very least, I doubt they’re gonna murder us in our sleep.”

As Charlie shifted her weight, a shiny glint caught my eye. I turned to look. She was wearing a new necklace: A thin silver chain with an oval locket.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“It’s a necklace.”

I rolled my eyes.

Charlie reached down, popped open the locket, and held it up. Inside was a photo. A blurry picture of me, hiding my face behind a single hand. I remembered the moment instantly.

When we first started dating, Charlie always joked about how less than zero photos of me existed. I was notoriously camera-shy. Still am. So one day, Charlie, 35mm Pentax in hand, snuck up from behind me - but I saw her at the last second, turned away, held up my hand, and hid my face. Close call.

Charlie clicked the locket shut. “It’s the only known photo of Eve Palmer,” she said.

“…When did you get it made?”

“Today, in town. Little cheesy huh?”

“No… I think it’s sweet.” Charlie was never the sentimental type, but I was a big sap, so the locket was a welcome surprise.

We stared into each other’s eyes for a long moment and then-

-behind us, Thomas stepped into the living room, groggy, rubbing his eyes. He glanced down, surprised to see us there.

“Hey,” said Charlie.

“…Mind if I sit?” he asked.

“Sure,” I relented.

Yawning, he wandered over to an armchair beside the fireplace and slumped down. Flickering shadows danced on his face as he looked around the room. His eyes seemed to fill with memories.

After a long, ponderous silence, he finally spoke, “My parents… they used to make us stand in that corner over there.” He pointed across the room. “Called it the quiet-corner.” Chuckling, he leaned back in his chair. His eyes caught the bottle of wine, “May I?”

“Go for it,” said Charlie.

He leaned forward, grabbed the spare glass, and poured. So much for not drinking.

“Trouble sleeping?” asked Charlie.

Setting the bottle down, he nodded and took a sip.

“Your kid should give up soon enough,” she assured him.

He nodded again, detached. “They’re not even ours,” he said, looking into the fire now. “They’re my wife’s deadbeat brother-in-law’s kids. We adopted them.”

Uncomfortable silence.

“That’s... good of you,” I offered.

“I guess,” he shrugged, “didn’t have much of a say in it though.” Taking another sip, he turned away from the fire. “Sorry about my wife’s comments earlier, at the dinner table,” he smiled grimly. “I never got the obsession with people’s personal lives. Pretty sure Jesus has more important things to worry about.”

Charlie and I nodded, appreciating his effort - at the very least, he seemed well-meaning.

He chugged the rest of his wine and set the glass down. “Anyway. I’ll let you be.” He started to stand but-

“-Earlier,” I said. “You wanted to tell me something.”

Thomas stared at me, puzzled.

“Before your daughter started hiding, you asked if I had ever noticed anything…” I clarified.

“Oh,” he said, understanding now, “It’s stupid.” He waved a hand, “It’s nothing.” He turned to leave, but-

“-Wait,” said Charlie. “Now, I’m curious.”

He sighed, “It’s just… Weird things happened here when I was a kid, is all.”

“What kind of weird things?” Charlie never believed in ghosts, but she sure as hell loved hearing stories. So did I.

“I mean… I don’t think it’s haunted,” Thomas paused, debating whether to share more. Relenting, he sat back down.

He let out a long sigh and then, “We’d been living here about three years when - my sister started to believe the house was… changing. She’d wake up not recognizing her own room. Said weird things like, the walls were a different color now. The furniture was getting swapped out, but… she was the only one who could see it. To everyone else, myself included, it was just the same house it always was.” He paused, rubbing his square chin with a knuckle. “Mom and dad told her it was just nightmares, delusions, but then… she started forgetting faces. People she’d known her whole life became strangers,” he sighed regretfully.

“Our parents never took her to the doctors - they didn’t believe in that. They believed in prayer. So we tried that for about half a year or so, and then she just… vanished.”

Thomas went silent, eyes flicking back and forth across the far wall. “One winter, she just… disappeared in the middle of the night. Police did a three-day search. Nothing ever showed up.” He shook his head again. “But, about one week later, a witness came forward, said they saw a young girl, down by the river that night, standing on the Kettle Bridge. Cops said she probably jumped. Case closed, right? Made sense to my parents, but I just…” he furrowed his brow, weighing his next words carefully. “It’s strange… but part of me wondered if she ever even…” Thomas paused for a moment.

“Despite all the searching, all the diving teams, they never found anything, and I just…” he stopped himself again, then looked towards us. “Anyway, that’s about it,” he said with somber finality, eyes apologizing for the dark story.

“I… I’m really sorry to hear that,” said Charlie.

He gave a slight shrug and turned towards the fire. “Guess I thought coming back here would bring me some sort of closure, but…” he trailed into silence. Muffled wind, aching creaks and groans from the house filled the empty space. I didn’t know what to say.

Thomas’ gaze drifted up to the blank, paintingless wall above the fireplace mantle. His face twitched ever so slightly.

“…Anyway,” he said, “I should get back to sleep.” He pushed up to standing, “Good night.”

“…Night.”

He drifted out of the room, and went back upstairs.

Charlie waited a moment to be sure he was gone, “What the fuck.”

Fair enough.

—

We went to bed shortly after. Charlie was out in five minutes flat. But after hearing that story, I lay wide awake, staring up at the stucco ceiling. Considering what happened, why would anyone bring their family back here? How was he even sleeping while his daughter was still missing? I couldn’t shake any of this. But finally, after two hours or so, I somehow managed to fall asleep.

—

A distant clang snapped me awake.

I sat up, listened carefully: Wind outside. Clock ticking. Charlie breathing. Okay, you’re fine. Climbing from bed, I stretched up my arms and shook out my hands. Maybe the dad’s story was getting to me.

Either way, I needed a glass of water.

—

Downstairs, in the kitchen, I sipped lukewarm tap water from a tall glass, ruminating on the strangeness of everything. When will that stupid kid finally show up?

-Across the living room, the basement door was wide open. Maybe the kid finally caved?

Setting down the glass, I crossed to the top of the steps, and peered down. Uninviting darkness. No thank you. I was about to close the door when-

-At the bottom of the stairs, a small silhouette. Motionless. Child-sized. Enveloped by shadow. Jenny, the missing kid.

I squatted down to appear less intimidating. The same way one does when trying to coax an unfamiliar cat.

“Hey Jenny…” I said, almost whispering, “Your parents are really worried about you. Do you think it might be a good time to come back upstairs?”

Her head tilted, but otherwise, she remained motionless. Now, I could see the slightest glimmer in her eyes, reflecting the moonlight. A long silence dragged by until… I realized something else.

She wasn’t blinking.

Ten… maybe twenty seconds had gone by, and she hadn’t blinked. Not even once. What the hell?

And then… as if reacting to my realization, the figure slowly rose to stand. It wasn’t child-sized after all - it was only hunched down. Now, standing at their full height, the person at the bottom of the stairs must’ve been six feet tall.

In one quick motion, I jumped upright and slammed the door shut. Then, I scrambled upstairs with record-breaking speed.

No fucking thank you.

—

I shook Charlie awake.

“What?” she mumbled.

“There’s someone in the basement.”

Charlie blinked at me, “Yeah… the kid.”

“No, an adult.”

Charlie shook her head, and reluctantly pushed up to sitting, “How do you know?”

“I saw them on the stairs. They were tall.”

Charlie sighed, I could tell part of her wanted to believe me, but mostly, she was just tired. In her defense, I had a long history of freaking out over things that turned out to be nothing.

“Was it dark?” she asked, trying and failing to sound patient.

“Yeah, but-”

“-Eve,” she said, “I’m exhausted and still a little drunk. Can we figure this out in the morning?”

“Charlie, I know what I saw.”

“I know. I believe you, but not enough to look around the basement at three in the morning.”

“I…” I didn’t want to let it go, but Charlie was close to her breaking point and barely awake on top of it. “Okay…” I relented. Maybe she was right. Maybe it was just a trick of the light. Maybe my paranoia was getting the better of me once again, but…

Charlie rolled away and dozed back to sleep. I sat up beside her in bed, staring at the cracked open door until-

-Finally, I fell asleep too.

—

A warm beam of sunlight roused me awake. I looked to my side - Charlie wasn’t there.

Stretching my arms, I climbed out of bed and yawned. All the strangeness of yesterday felt smaller in the morning light - like a fading nightmare. As I stepped out into the hallway, the smell of breakfast filled the air: Eggs. Bacon. Coffee. The only meal Charlie knew how to make.

—

Downstairs, I wandered into the kitchen, but Charlie was nowhere to be seen. Instead, Thomas stood over the stove, humming a happy tune, making scrambled eggs. His family, minus the MIA kid, sat at the table. I lingered on the edge of the kitchen, at a loss.

Thomas looked towards me and smiled, “Morning Eve! How do you like your eggs?”

“Where’s Charlie?”

“Who?”

“My girlfriend.”

“Oh. She mentioned something about picking up a generator from town - for the basement.”

I raised an eyebrow. Leaving without telling me, that wasn’t like Charlie.

“She didn’t want to wake you,” he said, “everything okay?”

“Yeah… I’m good.” Unsettled, I stepped around the corner and pulled out my phone. Time to call Charlie. I tapped the screen and-

-Nothing.

I held down the power button. Nothing. Dead battery? I paced up to the bedroom and plugged it in. Still nothing. I blew in the socket. Nope. Factory reset. Nada. I definitely charged this thing last night. Did Charlie unplug it and put hers on? Maybe…

Regardless, I kept my phone plugged in, just in case it started working again. I returned downstairs.

Back in the kitchen, Thomas had joined the rest of his family at the table.

“Can I borrow your phone?” I asked.

He looked at me, chewing on a mouthful of eggs. He swallowed, “Don’t have one.”

I blinked in disbelief and looked at Paige, “Can I borrow yours?”

She shook her head, “We don’t have phones.”

A modern family without cell phones - that might be the strangest thing to happen yet. What was going on here? Frustrated, and getting more weirded out with each exchange, I turned for the foyer. Just borrow the neighbor’s phone.

Halfway across the living room, I stopped short-

-above the fireplace, where I had removed the nails, an unfamiliar painting now hung. A large painting of a treeline - the edge of a dark, green forest. Vaguely familiar. It looked old, almost menacing…

I glanced toward the living room coffee table - the hammer was gone. Did Charlie put it up to troll me? Maybe, but… it seemed a bit much, even for her.

Thrown, I continued for the front door. I needed to phone Charlie. Now.

Dressed for winter, I stepped down onto the driveway, and my heel crunched against something. Looking down, I lifted my foot. Buried in the snow was a small, shiny object:

Charlie’s locket.

—

—

—

r/Polterkites