2. Memory Lane
Eve lingered at the base of the stairs, watching as this family shed their winter jackets. The father slid open the coat closet without looking—a motion that confirmed he’d done it many times before. It was a subtle thing, but one that put Eve a little more at ease. At least he wasn’t lying about growing up here. The kids, one at a time, handed him their jackets.
Meanwhile, the mother waited by the entrance, eyes scanning over the dirt-stained floors, the water-damaged walls, the piles of clutter. Unimpressed. Eve held her tongue, fighting back the urge to justify the mess, to blurt out something like, “We just moved in,” or “You should’ve seen how bad it looked a month ago.” Both of which would have been true.
And in Eve’s defense, the cheesy real estate listing had, just a tad, exaggerated the “ready to be lived in” state. On day one, the place was filled with enough old junk to make a hoarder blush. She and Charlie had cleared out most of it, but remnants still remained. And the dust. It had been caked into everything—the walls, the floor, the ceiling. When it came to maintenance, it was obvious the bank had upheld the bare minimum: just enough to keep the place standing, and even that was debatable.
Yet, like all totally not haunted houses in the middle of nowhere, it was listed at a killer deal. It needed work, but that was Eve and Charlie’s thing: fix up old houses, flip them for profit. On average, a project would take three to six months, but here, with so much work, they would need at least a year—longer if they did a teardown. Under normal circumstances, they would’ve figured this all out before buying the place, but again, the deal had simply been too good to pass up. Besides, the land alone would be worth a lot more in a year’s time.
Still, with this one, Eve had been more than a little reluctant to take the plunge. They usually did projects on the East Coast, closer to their friends, their families. But 3709 Heritage Lane was way out in the Pacific Northwest, backcountry Oregon. Sure, the scenery was nice, but the isolation, even for an introvert like Eve, was a bit much. Before they’d signed the papers, she brought up her worries with Charlie: “What if something goes wrong up there? Isn’t the nearest hospital like two hours away?”
Charlie admitted to sharing similar concerns, but with the last property not doing so well, things were tight. “Not to make you panic, but, financially speaking”—Charlie paused—“we’re kind of treading water.”
Great. A drowning metaphor. Eve could actually picture the endless void below, the hand of financial doom rising from the bluish-black, wrapping its gnarled fingers around her ankle, dragging her into the depths below, and—
“It’s Thomas, by the way.” Back in the present, the father held out a hand.
“… Eve,” she replied, still half-lost in rumination. They shook. He had a firm grip, not surprising.
He stepped back, motioned to his wife. “That’s Paige.”
Paige offered a thin smile. “Nice to meet you.”
“You as well,” said Eve.
He pointed to his daughter. “That’s Jenny, the Inquisitor.” Jenny gave a little curtsy bow that Eve couldn’t help but return.
Thomas continued. “You can just call the boys Headache One and Headache Two. Or, if you really care, Newton and Kai.”
Thomas gestured to the tall blond one. “Kai’s the smug bastard.”
Paige bristled. “Let’s not use that word.”
Thomas looked over his shoulder. “?‘Bastard’?”
Her glare could have just about cut him in half. “Uh-huh.”
“What’s that mean?” Jenny chimed in, Blue’s Clues notebook at the ready. She’d already written it down in oversized letters, albeit spelled: “BASSTERD.”
“Cross it out.” Thomas stifled a chuckle. “That’s a bad word. Cross it out.”
Jenny furrowed her brow, her nose wrinkling at the same time—an expression she hadn’t quite mastered yet. “Why?”
Thomas hunched forward, took the pen from her, and scribbled it out himself. “You’ll understand when you’re older.”
Kai, hands in the pockets of a Portland Winterhawks hoodie, rolled his cold blue eyes. A look that only confirmed his father’s jest. Eve couldn’t shake how much this one reminded her of a pompous prince. Somehow, Kai looked smug and bored at the same time, like he’d been dragged to the class dork’s birthday party. Yes, it was wrong to judge a kid by his face, but…
The other boy tapped his foot against the hardwood, a twitchy, nervous movement. With red hair, round glasses, and hazel eyes, he was, in almost every way, the opposite of his brother. Freckled, small, and fidgety, he looked stressed out well beyond his years. Neurotic. It was built into his posture, a forward slouch usually reserved for middle-aged desk jockeys. Standing next to the others, he seemed out of place, like he could’ve been some random kid they’d picked up on the side of the road. Still, his frazzled “everything’s stressing me out” aura made him the most relatable. Go figure.
As Thomas looked around, a slow awkwardness filled the air—one of those silent nothings where no one quite knew what to say or do. It dragged on for three, four, five seconds until he cleared his throat and pointed upward. “There used to be a chandelier right there.” Everyone craned their neck. The vaulted ceiling was bare, save for a single brass chain hanging from the center. “My dad installed it himself. It was made completely out of deer antlers.” Thomas looked at Eve. “Was it there when you moved in?”
She shook her head, no. Technically, this was true. The creepy antler chandelier wasn’t there when they moved in—it had been in the living room, buried under a pile of clutter. Charlie had sold it on Craigslist a week earlier.
Thomas studied Eve, a look that suggested he knew she was lying, but he didn’t really mind. “My father killed every critter on that thing himself,” he said with a sigh. “Over two dozen deer.”
“Oh wow,” said Eve. “Impressive.”
Thomas rubbed his jaw. “That’s one word for it.”
Looking at him now, Eve realized he was a little older than she’d first thought. Under the brighter light, the markings of time were more visible on his face. Lines etched across his skin. Traces of gray hair speckled around his temples. But more than any physical markers, she could sense it behind his eyes. A weary burden of hidden knowledge that only came with age. The kind of eyes that had seen one too many caskets lowered into the dirt.
He started saying something to his family and looked over his shoulder. Now, Eve could see a constellation of pockmarked scars on his left cheek, reflected by the light above. Blotchy and pink. A few more on his neck. So subtle they could have been mistaken for mere blemishes. Eve wasn’t an expert, but they might’ve been healed burns.
Despite all this, or perhaps because of it, he still could’ve passed for a classic Hollywood movie star. With his broad shoulders and dimpled smile, Eve could picture him playing the leading man, lighting up a cigarette for the femme fatale as she strolled into his office. Cary Grant vibes.
A high-pitched whine caught everyone’s attention. It was Eve’s dog, sitting at the top of the stairs, peering through the banister, wary.
Jenny pointed up. “That’s a dog.”
“Yes it is,” said Thomas, stifling another chuckle. He turned to Eve. “What’s the breed?”
Eve shrugged. “Border collie,” she said, “and a bunch of other stuff.”
“Great breed,” Thomas said. “I had a chocolate Lab growing up.”
The daughter chimed in again, almost yelling, “What’s the name?”
“The dog?”
“Yup,” she replied, turning the word into two syllables with a plosive “puh.” She had her notebook and pen ready, like an overeager reporter, prepared to get the latest scoop.
Eve smiled at her. “Shylo.”
“How’s it spelled?” Again, she was almost shouting.
“Jenny,” said Paige, “she’s standing right there. You don’t need to yell.”
“How’s it spelled?” she repeated, barely quieter.
“Shylo,” Eve replied. “S-H-Y-L-O.”
With her green pen, Jenny scribbled that down, nodding. Shylo slunk off and disappeared into the upstairs hallway. Eve said, “She’s a little scared of strangers but completely harmless.”
“Shylo’s shy,” said the daughter.
Eve nodded.
The dog, just like Eve, never trusted strangers, and for good reason. About four years prior, Eve had found her curled up behind a highway gas station, abandoned and nearly frozen to death.
A mixed-breed pup with black fur and a splash of white across her chest. Over her left eye was a white, uneven diamond shape. She’d never grown into her big pointy ears—the right one stuck straight up, and the left flopped forward at a funny angle. Her eyes were each a different color: one a pale blue, the other a dark brown. Heterochromia was the technical name for it. Charlie had the same thing. “Witch eyes,” she called them. Apparently, some parts of the church deemed mismatched eyes a curse. As Charlie once said: “Don’t understand something? Witchcraft.”
After Eve had brought the poor dog home, it took weeks to earn her trust. For a long time, Eve was the only person Shylo felt safe around. No one else, not even Charlie, could get near the dog without her shaking in fear. It was like she only had so much trust to give, and she’d given it all to Eve.
But Charlie was determined. She would place a treat on the ground, walk ten steps back, and let Shylo take it. Each time, inch by inch, she reduced the distance. It took months, but eventually Shylo could tolerate Charlie standing three feet away, two feet, one. A few more weeks and Charlie could even scratch Shylo behind the ears. Now, four years later, both Eve and Charlie were the only people in the world the dog trusted.
Thomas drifted toward the staircase. “My father put this in too,” he said, running a hand along a varnished oak banister. Jenny shadowed him, taking notes every time he spoke. It was obvious she thought the world of her father, thought he was a superhero. Eve knew the look.
Thomas studied the dust on his fingertips. “So you guys are fixing this place up?”
“Yeah, uh, that’s the plan.” She didn’t have the heart to tell him they were considering a demolition. After all, it was his childhood home. That, and it almost felt immoral to destroy something so historic—but the inspection revealed problems with the foundation, water damage in the support beams, and a litany of other ailments. Sometimes it was easier just to tear it all down, start from scratch.
Thomas said, “That’ll be quite the renovation. I might still have some of the old blueprints in storage somewhere—if you’re interested.”
“Yeah, that, that would be great.” She was interested, if only because the bank had lost most of the original records. Apparently, there had been a fire down at city hall decades before. Almost everything about the house, from its origin to its chain of ownership, was a mystery. “Clouded title” was the bank’s term for it.
“You’ve got my card,” he said, “Just shoot me an email whenever you want; I’ll send over the scans.”
From his back pocket, Thomas pulled out a white rectangular tin. He flicked it open with a thumb and shook it over his palm. Two, maybe three mints fell out. In one quick motion, he downed them all and slid the box back into his pocket.
Those weren’t mints. Mo, Eve’s ever-present voice of paranoia, commented. For once, the Hillbilly Chimp might have been right. Eve had only caught a glimpse, a vague impression that was already fading. But whatever Thomas had just swallowed had the pale orange hue of a pharmaceutical. She was fairly certain she even saw pill-splitting indents. Maybe some antianxiety meds. Seroquel? Either way, she wasn’t one to judge—she used to take SSRIs herself. That being said, she’d never pretended they were mints.
Jenny, peering up at her father, tugged at his shirt—three short yanks. When he looked down, she held out an open palm and fluttered her big green eyes. Thomas shook his head. “These aren’t sweet,” he said. “They’re spicy, not for kids.”
Brushing away Jenny’s gripping hand, he took a few steps forward and looked down. “Well, that’s a big change.” His gaze swept over the hardwood. “Used to be black and white tile, like a diner.” He tapped his heel. “The wood’s a lot more fitting.” Squatting down, he knocked his knuckles against the boards. “Huh. Isn’t that something,” he mused, half to himself. He motioned his family over. “Check this out.” Jenny and the red-haired boy—Newton?—were the only ones who came. Paige and Kai seemed just about ready to leave. Thomas, with two of his kids standing over his shoulder, pointed to the floor. “Right there,” he said. “Between the slats you can see the old tile underneath.”
Eve narrowed her eyes, leaned in, and, sure enough, if you looked from just the right angle, you could see a sliver of the old floor, long covered. Black and white tiles. Thomas started to get up but stopped short, his eyes landing on something else: white crown molding at the base of the wall. It was carved with intricate designs: abstract flower shapes, and horses. The floral patterns were nice enough, but the horses, when you got up close—the lines were rough, the proportions off. “My mother carved these in,” said Thomas, running his hand across. “Took her almost half a year to do the whole house.” He looked at Eve as if expecting a response.
“Wow,” said Eve, “that’s… a lot of work, it’s… really nice, though.”
Thomas breathed out of his nose, not buying the compliment. “Don’t feel bad if you tear it out.” His eyes flitted to something on the underside of the banister railing. “Oh right, I almost forgot about those…”
Eve bent down to see. An odd symbol had been carved there. A circle, divided by intersecting lines of varying lengths, all meeting in the middle. It looked cryptic, like some kind of ancient glyph.
“They’re my sister’s handiwork,” Thomas explained. “You’ll find more scattered about the place, if you haven’t already. She was always hiding little messages everywhere. Quite the imagination on that one—”
It’s the mark of a death cult, Mo, the cymbal monkey, chimed in. This family is part of a demonic death cult and they’re coming back here to finish some kind of ritual and—
Eve ignored the barrage of ridiculous paranoia.
Thomas sighed, his eyes still fixed on the symbol as he spoke to his children. “Your aunt said this one kept bad luck away. Grandpa said it looked like blasphemy.” Thomas looked down at Jenny and said, “Here.” He held out his hand. Eager, she passed him her notebook and pen. He turned to a blank page and pressed it flat against the underside of the railing. He traced the symbol. All the while, Jenny watched, wide-eyed and mesmerized. When he finished, he handed it back.
“There you go,” he said. “Good luck for seven years. That, or you’ll turn into a witch.”
“Thomas.” Paige frowned.
“Right,” he said. “Witches are bad.”
Paige shot him another disapproving look. A look that reminded Eve of the time her parents discovered she’d been playing with a Ouija board at a sleepover. Couldn’t take chances with demons.
“Anyway.” Thomas rose to standing. “Mind if we go upstairs?”
As the family wandered down the second-floor hallway, Eve tagged along. Now, she was actually a little curious to hear Thomas’s anecdotes. Shylo followed too, but at a safe distance. Stranger danger.
“This room used to have blue wallpaper,” said Thomas, pointing into a green-walled guest room. “Mom worked on all her paintings here—”
“Grandmum,” Paige corrected him.
Thomas stared at her for a lingering moment, then turned away. “Your grandmum used to work on her paintings here.”
Jenny said, “Grandmum was a painter?”
Thomas tilted his head. “I wouldn’t say she was a painter painter. But she painted, as a hobby.”
“What’s that?”
“A hobby?”
“Yup.”
“It’s something you do for fun, like how I play guitar.”
Again, Jenny wrote this down.
As he moved to the next room, everyone followed. He pushed open a heavy oak door to reveal a long, rectangular study. Empty bookshelves lined either side. At the far end was a small stained glass window. With vibrant colors, it depicted a gnarled apple tree. Dark green leaves, bloodred apples. It overlooked the forest behind the house, a claustrophobic view—the pines lurking so close it felt like they were peering inside, spying on you.
“This was your grandpa’s study,” said Thomas. “He’d spend hours at a time working here.”
“Working on a hobby?” asked Jenny.
Thomas shook his head and looked down at her. “Grandpa didn’t like hobbies.”
That simple statement conjured a vivid picture in Eve’s head. A wiry man with gray hair, a pointed beard, and tired eyes that never slept. A man who took no pleasure in life and made sure others followed suit. The nemesis of fun.
Just then, something caught the corner of her eye. The two boys—they were standing off down the hallway, facing each other, eyes locked in some kind of staring contest. Without warning, Kai slapped Newton across the face—a percussive SMACK. The impact left behind a bright red mark on his pale cheek. Guess he lost.
“Boys,” Paige snapped. They both stood at attention. She motioned them over. “You stay with the family.” They slinked back into the group.
Out of sight from his parents, Newton rubbed his red cheek. Kai looked down at him, gave a smarmy grin, and messed up his red hair. Newton did nothing to defend himself; he just stood there, looking more defeated by the second. Poor kid.
“That window.” Thomas pointed at the stained glass. “I… I don’t remember it being in this room.” He scratched his temple. “I thought it was at the front of the house.” After a silent moment, he added, “Funny… how memories can change like that.” With his family in tow, he turned away and continued down the hall. He lurched to a sudden stop, looked over his shoulder, and raised an eyebrow. He stared at the yellow wallpaper, puzzled. “What happened to the dumbwaiter?” He glanced at Eve.
“Hm?”
“There used to be a dumbwaiter here,” he said, resting his palm flat against the wall. “Went all the way to the basement.” He started to slide his hand down.
“Oh,” Eve replied, “who knows?”
His fingers caught on something. Something beneath the wallpaper. Squinting, he leaned in closer—it was an oval bump. A handle?
“Huh,” he mused. “Looks like somebody covered it up.”
Eve detected the slightest hint of discomfort in his voice. A quivering timbre from deep within his gut, so subtle it might’ve been imagined.
Jenny, still standing at Thomas’s side, chimed in with another “What’s that?”
He stepped back and looked down at her. “A dumbwaiter?”
“Yup.”
“It’s like a miniature elevator,” he explained. “We used it for laundry, tools, food. If somebody got sick you could send a meal up without getting too close.”
“Why?”
“If you got too close,” said Thomas, “you might get sick too.”
Jenny noted that down. “Why’s it called a dumbwaiter?”
Thomas shrugged. “Beats me.”
Eve, half to herself, said, “Because it’s a waiter that doesn’t talk…”
Everyone looked at her.
A little self-conscious, she elaborated. “It delivers food like a waiter, and—”
“It’s stupid?” Kai interjected.
Eve shook her head. “Dumb used to mean mute. Unable to speak. It’s a silent waiter.” This was something she’d learned from Charlie. Her partner was a walking encyclopedia of obscure facts.
“Huh,” said Thomas. “That’s… interesting.”
Jenny finished writing, then turned to Eve. “Thanks, Emma,” she said.
Thomas quirked an eyebrow. “Her name is Eve, no?”
Eve nodded. “Yeah, it’s okay.” If he hadn’t said anything, she would’ve just gone with it, accepted “Emma” as her new name for the duration of the family’s tour.
“Anyway.” Thomas continued down the hall until he stood face-to-face with a white cord hanging low from the ceiling. A pull-string for the attic’s trapdoor staircase. He blew on it, a swift puff, like putting out a birthday cake candle. It swung back and forth like a metronome. “This leads to an attic,” he said, “but you’ve seen one attic, you’ve seen them all.”
In the two months they’d lived here, Eve hadn’t been up there herself yet, not even a quick peek. She wasn’t exactly a fan of dark places, musty rank, and cobwebs.
Thomas pushed around the corner and slowed to another stop. There was one last nook here. It went for about five feet, then ended with a plain white door. He studied it like it was a melancholic painting. Hesitant, he stepped forward and reached for the handle. “This used to be your aunt Alison’s room.” His hand clasped the doorknob, lingered, then slipped away.
Sensing a private moment, Eve cleared her throat, “Anyway,” she said, “feel free to keep showing yourselves around.” At this point, she’d decided they probably weren’t going to rob the place. “I’ll be downstairs if you need anything,” she added.
Thomas smiled at her—grateful.
Eve returned to an earlier task: prying out rusty nails from above the living room fireplace. The nails used to hold picture frames, judging by the discolored rectangles on the wall. But they had been mounted off-center, all a little too far to the right. She had just about finished the task when, behind her, Shylo whined. Eve looked back. The dog was standing in the middle of the room, rigid, ears pricked, staring at a closed door. The basement door.
“Shylo…?”
No reaction.
More so than attics, Eve was no fan of basements. She’d only been down there once, and even then, she just reached the bottom of the stairs and took a quick look around. It was pretty much what she’d expected, a cramped collection of unfinished hallways, nooks, and low ceilings. Relatively common in older houses like this one.
When she was a child, thanks to an overactive imagination, she half believed something evil dwelled in each and every cellar. She used to have nightmares about it. The nameless terror. Always lurking just out of sight, silent and faceless and so horrific it couldn’t even be described. No matter what basement, what house, it was always that same feeling. As if this unspeakable terror could divide and multiply itself throughout all the basements of the world.
Fortunately, over time, that childhood anxiety had faded away, like a brightly colored toy discarded in a sun-bleached desert. Yet, like all childhood monsters, it was only replaced by the mundane, and arguably worse, terrors of adulthood: credit card debt, car accidents, funerals. Things that sometimes made Eve think back to imaginary ghouls with rosy nostalgia.
And despite all the years gone by, her lingering aversion to basements remained—along with one specific remnant of childish fear: walking up basement stairs. To this day, every time she walked up and out of a basement, she remembered the nameless thing, stowed away in the depths of half-forgotten memories. She had this nagging conviction it was following her, an unshakable chill that grew with each upward step. She could almost feel it, hear it—rushing from the darkness below, breathing at her heels, giddy with evil intent.
Part of her still had to fight the urge to scramble, to run away from that imaginary nothing. Of course, 99.8 percent of the time, she could ascend basement stairs at a slow and measured pace like any reasonable adult should. But, every time she stepped out of the shadows, she couldn’t resist the compulsion to peer back down, only to confirm what she already knew—nothing was there.
The dog kept whining… the orange glow of the fire dancing over her black fur.
“Shylo?” Eve tried once more.
But Shylo didn’t look back; she kept her eyes fixed on the basement door. Eve set the hammer aside and strode over. Kneeling down, she scratched the dog behind the ears. Shylo was trembling, a jittery vibration beneath Eve’s hand.
She leaned in closer. “What’s wrong, girl?”
Shylo’s gaze drifted upward, as if tracking a slow-rising object—nothing was there, just the basement door. “Shylo?” Eve repeated, still to no reaction. The dog froze, eyes locked on empty space.
Uneasy, Eve got to her feet, marched over, and pulled out a ring of keys. Without thinking, she locked the door and…
She finally saw it. A black dot climbing the frame. She squinted. It was only a common house ant. Eve sighed with embarrassed relief—Shylo, believe it or not, wasn’t a fan of bugs. The ant slipped between the crack of the door, and the dog’s tense posture relaxed. Eve shook her head. “Shylo,” she said, “don’t scare me like that.”
The dog, with her mismatched eyes, looked up and blinked, uncomprehending. Eve couldn’t help but smile. She reached down, scratched Shylo behind the ear again, and returned to work.
Just as she pulled out the last nail, the family filed into the room. Thomas motioned at the fireplace. “Looks just like I remember it,” he said. “We had one going every night during the winter.” Turning away, he stepped up to the basement door and placed a hand on the frame. “Your grandparents would measure our heights here.” He slid his palm over its smooth white surface. “All painted over now, though.” He tried the handle—locked. Looking toward Eve, he said, “Do you mind if we tour the basement?”
She hesitated. They had definitely overstayed the fifteen-minute promise. “Oh, uh, there’s a lot of tools lying around down there,” she exaggerated. “It’s a little dangerous—”
Jenny chimed in. “Danger doesn’t scare me.”
Eve forced a smile. She put the hammer down on the coffee table. “The lights aren’t working yet either,” she said. “Something’s up with the circuit breaker and—”
“That’s why I brought this.” Jenny clicked her green pen twice. It cast a white circle of LED glow onto the floor. She swept it around, like a manic warlock wielding a wand. “It’s bright enough to be seen from Pluto—”
“Jenny.” Thomas set a hand on her tiny shoulder. “She’d rather we didn’t go in the basement, okay?”
Downcast, Jenny gave a single nod, clicked off her pen, and tucked it away.
Thomas’s eyes flicked to a nearby clock. “All right, gang,” he said, “let’s get outta here—for real this time.”
Jenny tugged on his shirt. “But there’s still, there’s still more house to explore.”
Thomas shook his head. “We’ve long overstayed our time limit, kiddo.” He motioned his family toward the foyer. But as they filed out, he lingered behind, hands in his pockets, eyes still on the basement door.
Eve padded into the nearby kitchen, and started washing dishes that didn’t need washing. Thomas looked at her. “Thanks for letting us take a look around,” he said. “It really meant a lot to my family.”
Aside from Jenny, it didn’t look like it meant anything to anyone, but Eve kept that to herself. Without looking at him, she grabbed a steel wool scourer and started scrubbing a spotless pan. “All good,” she said.
Thomas meandered closer, taking one last look around. “Must be nice, huh?”
Eve looked up. “Hm?”
He stopped at the threshold between the kitchen and living room. “Moving into a new place, fixing it up, settling in.”
“Ah, yep.” Eve sent him a brittle smile. Again, she and Charlie weren’t even close to settling down, but once more, she kept that to herself. Now, she just wanted to be alone. “Anyway, it was really nice to meet you all,” she said, a gentle signal she was done talking.
Yet Thomas hovered in the edge of her vision. Fidgety, as if building up the courage to ask her something. Please don’t. He glanced toward the foyer, making sure his family was out of earshot. He turned back and lowered his voice. “I know you’ve just moved in, but”—he paused for a moment, reluctant, embarrassed—“have you ever noticed anything—”
A commotion interrupted him. One of the boys was shouting, “STOP IT.”
Thomas marched off toward the foyer. Eve followed.
At the front door, the two boys were fighting while Paige tried to break them up. Without skipping a beat, Thomas strode over and ripped them apart.
“Newton started it,” Kai, the taller one, whined.
“Of course he did…” Thomas fell silent, head on a swivel. “Where’s Jenny?” he asked.
Everyone looked around—the young girl was nowhere to be seen.
“She, she was just here,” Paige stammered.
“JENNY,” he called out, his voice booming with authoritative resonance. No response. Only the tick, tick, tick of a nearby clock.
“Jenny,” Paige tried as well. No luck.
Rubbing his temples, Thomas turned back to Eve. “Our youngest,” he sighed. “She likes to hide.”
“Hide?”
“Spontaneous hide-and-seek,” he explained. “We thought she’d grown out of it, but—”
“Jennifer,” Paige shouted in the background.
He went on. “We should be able to find her easily enough… I’m really sorry about this.”
“It— it’s okay,” Eve said.
Thomas pivoted away, barely suppressing the anger in his voice. “Jenny, come on out.”
As the family started searching around, Eve wandered up to the window by the door. Snow had begun to fall, the first of the year. Normally, the sight would have filled Eve with a wistful comfort, but tonight it only made her uneasy. Where was Charlie? Were the roads safe? She checked the time: 8:57 p.m. Only twenty minutes behind schedule. Still, Eve reached for her phone when—
Off in the distant woods, a light snapped on. Eve paused, narrowed her eyes. It was a glowing point of pale blue, far away in the looming black—it seemed to be drifting toward her. A flashlight? Who would be out there at this hour, especially in the cold?
Jenny?
No, it was too far, but… Eve stepped closer to the window. As her vision adjusted, the blurry image became more defined. The light was stationary; the movement had only been an illusion, created by the falling snow. A porch light? A parked car? Was there a road out there? The precise distance was hard to judge through all the trees. Without warning, the light snapped off, and the darkness returned.
Above her, another commotion. Muffled voices.
Eve rushed upstairs. The family was standing in the middle of the hallway, huddled in a tight circle, looking at something. Eve stepped closer and peered over Paige’s shoulder. The wallpaper that had once covered the dumbwaiter was now torn back, a hanging flap. A square metal door was ajar, revealing a gaping throat of pipes and beams and reddish-pink insulation. There was no cart in sight.
Thomas leaned in, called out, “Jenny?” No response—only his voice echoing back. With an exasperated huff, he turned to the group. “Looks like she found a way into the basement after all.”