You’re Dead to Me, Reed Walker

After

The crumbling floorboards creak as the house shifts on its aging foundation.

Gusts of wind howl against its bones, rocketing the shutters back and forth, sending ice-cold breath slipping through the crevices.

Each sound a new note in an orchestra of decay—rot blooming, a rustle of wings, the scampering of mice.

I should feel cold. I should feel spooked.

But I don’t.

Old houses make noises. And if anything is here to press frozen fingers against the necks of unsuspecting victims, it’s us.