Mrs. Armstrong gives the camera a small, unsure smile. “Excited for it,” Mrs. Armstrong says, her voice wavering. The realtor’s being camera-shy is fine by Rudy; it’ll only make the Coles seem better by comparison.
“But before we go in,” Rudy continues, “here is the amazing outside of the new mansion!”
Amber dutifully pans over the exterior of the house. To Rudy, the neighborhood around Tremont Street looks like the kind of place with a homeowner’s association that monitors lawn height to the centimeter and gets vicious over Christmas decorations. Of course, the Cole family won’t be here long enough to find out. Their timeline is short: six quick weeks to renovate the house, furnishings included, and document it for the ’gram before moving on to the next project—and, as their mother constantly reminds them, the more they shave off that timeline, the better.
All four floors of the house reek of old money and spoiled finery; now, it’s speckled with broken windows, peeling paint, and sagging shutters. For some reason, Rudy finds himself thinking of rotten fruit, or a dissonant minor chord. Behind the Coles, a long driveway stretches into the woods toward town. Tremont Street is a few hundred feet behind them, obscured by the trees. The lot is very secluded, but Rudy imagines it will feel a little less isolated once they’ve finished some much-needed yard work. He tries to picture the mansion when their parents are done with it: repainted exterior; weatherized windows; sleek, open-concept kitchen. Modern, with welcoming castlelike vibes.
“Now, isn’t she a beauty?” Mr. Cole asks.
“By the time we’re finished, she’d better be,” Mrs. Cole mutters, so quietly that only Rudy and his father can hear. Mrs. Cole turns to the camera, and just like that she is on again. It’s no secret where Rudy gets his acting talent from. “I’m ready to get started!” she chirps.
Rudy moves behind Amber and watches her phone as she crouches down and maneuvers the camera, catching the house at its worst angles—-a.k.a., the best angles for the Coles. On the livestream, comments are already flooding in. Rudy watches their viewer numbers skyrocket into the tens, the hundreds, the thousands of thousands. It makes him dizzy to think about that many people tuning in to them, in to him. He feels flushed with excitement. He bends down and starts to read over Amber’s shoulder.
Ungh! Cecily is Soooo Hot.
You’ve got your work cut out for you! That’s the worst mansion I’ve never seen.
Morticia Addams called.
I want a tour! Especially of the showers
It’s mine.
Something about that last comment is . . . strange. He points it out to Amber. She clicks on the avatar.
It is, unmistakably, a picture of their new house. The Tremont house.
That’s weird.
His eyes scan over the username of the last comment. @Alex_Grable. Amber clicks on the account: no likes, no followers, no posts. Only the one photograph of the house. Created just hours ago. As if it was made for them.
Something about it feels wrong. Wrong and . . . intriguing.
Amber clearly shares his confusion, but she gives him a look that says, Don’t even start speculating. It’s too late; Rudy is already wondering why on earth this account would have a photo of their new house, but there’s not much he can do about it right now. He has a livestream to host. Maybe they are just a superfan.
As Rudy turns back to the camera view of the Tremont house, he realizes that the woods around them have gone quiet. All the small animals are silent. A thought comes to him: This is the kind of silence that means danger.
Rudy shakes it off; he’s just being paranoid.
Amber stops panning and gives him a thumbs-up. Rudy takes a deep breath to brace himself before popping back on camera. “Come on in!” With a sweep of his arm, he leads them through the wide double doors.
Mrs. Armstrong launches right into a description of the foyer. It is vast and empty, complete with a wide, sweeping staircase and worn hardwood floor. There are white squares on the walls where paintings used to hang, back when this place was a home. She mentions proudly that the realty company did a quick cleaning themselves before the Coles arrived. Rudy catches his mother’s stern glare and mimes zipping his lips; he knows better than to mention on the livestream that the Coles had been warned that the once-abandoned home is a popular spot with squatters.
It’s quiet here, too. Rudy’s unease returns.
“The woodwork in here dates back to the eighteen hundreds,” Mrs. Armstrong says, beaming at the Cole parents. She seems unclear whether she should be looking at Mr. and Mrs. Cole or at the camera, and her resulting swivel makes Rudy’s neck hurt just looking at it. “I do hope you’ll retain as much of the original house as possible—there are some lovely features, and it’s just so nice to have these historic places preserved, especially in a town like Norton, where they’re few and far between . . .”
She trails off as she leads them into the kitchen, eyes drifting to the small cage that had been set up in the corner.
“And, of course, here is Speckles, everyone’s favorite
