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.
—
—
—
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