“You’re imagining things,” I whispered.
“Laura!” my mom called. “Come help your father with your dresser!”
I took a last look outside, trying to stay calm. Nothing. I must have imagined it. But as I hurried out of my bedroom, I had the distinct feeling that something was watching me.
We ate dinner that night sitting on boxes of furniture in the living room. Stache was covered in so much dust that he looked like a statue in progress. My mom tried to brush off my account of a shadowy figure watching me in the woods, telling me I was clearly imagining things because I was shaken up about the spiders and that it would take a few days to get used to the new house. Thanks, Mom.
In fairness, I did have a bit of a history with some…creative concerns. I mean, I have a pretty developed imagination, and I am kind of a worrier. Okay, I worry a lot. I asked for a carbon monoxide detector for Christmas when I was four—which was totally valid, by the way—and then I also had a theory that we had a possible sinkhole beneath our house and tried to prove it by digging a hole in our yard to inspect the soil content when I was nine. I also have a lot of nightmares and check on Tom ten times a day.
And the more I thought about it, the more I realized she was probably right. It could have been a shadow from a tree or something, and I was just a little freaked out from the message in my closet. It was probably nothing. I decided to forget about it.
I popped a french fry in my mouth and looked at Tom. “How’s your room?”
He shrugged. “Seems all right. I think I heard a mouse in the walls.”
“You did not,” my mom said sharply, though she did glance at my dad.
He nodded. Tom had amazing hearing. If Tom thought he heard a mouse, there was probably a mouse. One time when Tom was five years old we lost our cat, Muffin. We searched the entire town for three days, and then my mom finally told me that Muffin wasn’t coming back. I cried for another two days after that.
A week later Tom and I were in the backyard playing house—I always made him be my butler—when he suddenly looked up and said, “I hear Muffin.”
Our old house backed onto a forest too, and I ran to the back fence and listened for a few minutes, not hearing a thing. I patted his shoulder.
“Muffin’s gone, Tom,” I told him sadly.
He shook his head. “She’s crying.”
I still thought he was imagining things, but Tom was persistent, so I got Stache and the three of us set off into the woods. We walked for at least five minutes before I finally heard a faint, weak-sounding meow filtering through the trees. It was another five minutes before we found Muffin lying on her side next to a tree, covered in dirt and almost completely unable to move. We rushed her to the vet, and Muffin—who was already sixteen—lived for two more years after that.
And I never forgot how Tom had found her.
“I think this house has a lot of potential,” my mom said, obviously changing the subject.
I scanned the living room. Like most of the house, it was in rough shape. The mossy-green paint was peeling, the stucco ceiling was covered in yellow water stains, and the windows were so filthy you could barely see out of them. Dark hardwood ran through the entire main floor—except for the kitchen—but it was dusty and dirty and cracked.
A huge red-bricked chimney stretched like a pillar right up to the second floor, though I noticed it didn’t actually have a fireplace. It must have gone right beside my bedroom to the roof. I wondered why they would have a chimney with no fireplace.
My dad followed my gaze. “Yeah, not sure what the point of that is,” he said thoughtfully. “But I think it may actually be a support structure, so have to leave it.”
“When was the last time someone lived here?” I asked.
“Six years ago,” my mom said. “Got it for a steal. The last owner…gave it to the bank, and they sold it as an estate sale. We only got to see it once, but we fell in love.”
Tom took a bite of his burger. “He disappeared.”
“What?” my mom asked, looking at him. “How do you know that?”
He shrugged. “I heard you talking on the phone with Grandma last week.”
She glared at him. “I was outside.”
“The window was open.”
I turned to my parents, frowning. “The last guy who lived here disappeared?”
“Sort of,” Stache mumbled.
“They don’t suspect foul play,” my mom added brightly.
I popped another fry in my mouth. “Super.”
My mom waved a hand. “It’s no big deal. Every house has a story. Trust me, once we get this place fixed up—”
She was suddenly interrupted by a loud, booming knock at the door. My mom jumped and almost toppled right off the box. There was another pounding knock.
“Maybe he’s back,” Tom whispered.
“Enough,” my mom said. “Honey?”
“On it,” Stache said, wiping off his hands and heading for the door.
I glanced at the curtainless windows, thinking of the shadow I’d seen in the woods. I watched nervously as my dad approached the door. He pulled it open.
“Ha!” he said. “I was wondering if you’d come by, you big lug.”
Stache was suddenly embraced in a hug by an even larger man. Stache was huge: six foot four and about 250 pounds, with big hands, and a strong jaw. But his brother was even bigger. He was about the same height, but while my dad had a gut, Uncle Laine had muscles bulging out of his usual button-down plaid shirt. He had a thick black
