3. Kristin
KRISTIN
By the third morning, the house looked enough like a home to pretend we slept well in it.
Coffee percolated in the kitchen, and Hailey consumed breakfast in her usual teenage posture, scrolling, sighing, and hating us.
Getting satellite internet installed had improved her mood drastically from the first couple of days, but she still hadn’t forgiven us for uprooting her life.
Henry was nestled in my arms, drowsy from his morning feed. Patrick hurried into the foyer from the hallway, smelling faintly of toothpaste and the same cologne he’d been wearing since before Hailey was born. He checked his watch and let out an exasperated sigh. “Shoes. Coat. Backpack. Let’s go.”
Hailey threaded her arms through her coat and swung her bag over her shoulder. Her bangs flicked with practiced annoyance as she stepped away from the food she had barely touched.
Patrick paused at the front door and met my gaze, slowing down for a moment. “You sure you’re going to be okay, Kris?”
It was Monday, the first day of school after winter break for both Patrick and Hailey, which meant my first day alone in the new house. Being alone hadn’t gone well for me before, but I was better now.
I smiled like I meant it. “Yeah, I’m sure. You two get going. I love you both.”
“I love you too,” Patrick said.
Hailey started to walk out the door, ignoring me completely before Patrick flicked her shoulder.
“Ow. What the hell!” She looked up at him with disdain and then glanced over her shoulder at me.
“Ugghh. Love you too, Mom.”
Patrick gave me a quick wink before they both disappeared.
Hailey’s attitude and her wish to be back in Chicago were nothing new, but what was new and struck me as very odd was that Henry was sleeping through the night here.
At twelve weeks old, he was suddenly capable of seven-to-ten-hour stretches of uninterrupted slumber.
Patrick thought it was amazing. I found it suspicious.
Every parenting book would have heralded him as a miracle child.
But the baby monitor told a different story.
Twice the first night, and once the second, I woke to his cries ripping through the monitor.
It was that frantic, breathless newborn wail that hits a mother somewhere deeper than nerves.
I sprinted to his crib, heart pounding, breasts sore from the buildup of milk, and each time, he was sound asleep.
He wasn’t stirring or even twitching. His cheeks weren’t red or streaked with tears.
He was out cold, as if someone had pressed “mute” on him and wiped his face clean while I was racing to his room.
I decided that it was postpartum exhaustion or hormones or my brain misfiring, confusing a dream with the waking world.
Even when Henry slept, the house didn’t—and neither did I. The nighttime creaks and moans, the soft thuds in rooms we weren’t in, and the quiet patters across the back patio kept me on edge. And then yesterday afternoon, there were gunshots, sharp enough to make me jump out of my skin.
“Hunters,” Patrick had said, with the calm of a history teacher who believed only in what could be explained. He was settling in just like I knew he would, effortlessly.
The rafter above the great room gave a low, deliberate groan, as if protesting under a weight it wasn’t used to.
It wasn’t a normal house-settling noise.
This was slower, heavier. I looked up, breath caught in my throat, waiting for it to happen again.
There was an odd band of discoloration around the center of the beam.
“Hey,” Patrick said gently. “You okay?”
I snapped out of it, startled, and looked at him.
“Perfect,” I lied. “I’m perfect. What are you doing back?”
He didn’t notice the insincerity in my voice. “I forgot my keys,” he answered, jingling them in the air. “Text if you need anything.”
I let out a long, shaky exhale. It was just me, the baby, and a house I didn’t trust yet.
A house that felt too big and unfamiliar for someone who hadn’t slept more than a couple of hours at a time in twelve weeks.
But there were fewer people out here. Fewer chances for things to happen.
Fewer reasons to be afraid. It was just a house, I reminded myself, just a structure of windows, doors, and walls.
Nothing more than a lifeless vessel to keep us warm and safe.
After finally getting Henry down for a nap, I clipped the baby monitor to my waistband and made my way into the kitchen.
The morning’s mess was sprawled across every surface.
I rinsed the bowls, plates, pans, forks, and spoons in the sink and wiped down the counters.
The refrigerator hummed its low, uneasy drone but was interrupted by a single loud pop from somewhere near the frozen pond.
“It’s just the ice cracking,” I whispered to myself.
I swallowed hard, surveyed the kitchen, and was pleased enough with my work to move onto my next task, more unpacking.
I grabbed a box labeled closet—sheets and carried it toward our bedroom.
Halfway down the unlit hall, a whisper brushed against my ear: a soft hiss, no words, just a presence.
It must be old ductwork adjusting. But the hairs on my arms rose one by one the longer I stood there.
I sprinted to our bedroom and flicked on the lights, kicking the door closed with my heel.
I thought about unpacking the sheets, putting them in their respective drawers, and making some progress on the dozen-plus cardboard boxes littered throughout the house.
Instead I slid the box into the closet, too tired to unpack it, and left my bedroom, switching off the light.
Two steps beyond the doorframe, a muted click sounded behind me.
I stopped cold and glanced over my shoulder.
The room glowed again, a warm yellow spilling across the floorboards.
My pulse accelerated so much I could feel it in my neck. The house was suddenly too quiet, like it was waiting to see what I’d do next. I searched for the simplest explanation: crappy wiring . . . a loose switch . . . it’s just old and worn out.
I stepped back inside and toggled the light off, holding it for a few seconds in the down position to ensure that it would stay.
Something pressed back. Not enough to flip it—just enough to feel it.
There was a faint resistance beneath my thumb, like the switch was breathing against me.
I froze, my hand still there, waiting for the click that never came.
My eyes felt thick and grainy, the kind of heaviness that made the world seem unreal. If I could just sleep, really sleep, maybe I’d feel like myself again. Maybe my brain would stop filling in the gaps of reality with my own imagination.
But there was still too much to do, too many boxes, too many decisions, too much house. So I pulled my hand away and went back to unpacking and staying busy on purpose. I folded towels, shelved Patrick’s books, put out decor, reorganized the kitchen, and flattened cardboard.
At 10:22 a.m., three even knocks tapped at the front door, startling me out of my crazed focus. When I opened it, there was no one there.
“Hello?” I called out into the winter void.
Nothing answered back. I stepped out onto the porch to look around, and my foot struck something heavy.
Lined up on the welcome mat were three glass dishes wrapped in aluminum foil.
It was as though they’d been delivered by a coordinated team and then quickly abandoned.
“Hello?” I called again, hoping the deliverer of the food would make their presence known.
The circular driveway and the sprawling yard stared back at me.
There were no footsteps in the snow, no tire marks, and no crunching of someone hurrying away.
I hugged my arms around myself as a chill set in.
Shy neighbors, I decided. They were probably the quietly nice type, Midwestern to the core.
They were eager to welcome us but too polite or too nervous to risk a real interaction.
Maybe they didn’t want to bother me or need any praise for their kindness.
Maybe they were old-fashioned, the kind of people who believed food said everything a person needed to.
And honestly? I appreciated it. I hadn’t planned anything for dinner.
It hadn’t even crossed my mind. With the lack of sleep and the endless unpacking and Henry’s unpredictable naps, feeding myself was barely on my radar, much less feeding Patrick and Hailey.
So casseroles, mysterious or not, were a blessing.
I didn’t know what was underneath the foil, but my mind immediately went to the warm, comforting corners of the Midwest food scene—shepherd’s pie, cheesy potatoes, goulash, all of which sounded amazing in this freezing hellscape.
The casseroles fit on the top shelves of the fridge, as though the space had been measured for them.
I shut the door and drifted to the corner of the living room where my art supplies sat piled against the wall.
The canvases leaned like quiet accusations, their blank sides facing me.
The unfinished commission loomed in my mind, the one I was supposed to complete before Henry was born.
And then suddenly, there was a crash.
I spun around, heart jerking into my throat.
The fridge shuddered, and the door swung open.
All three casseroles tumbled out in a clattering heap.
Thick glass colliding with the wooden floor and banging off each other deafened my ears.
When the room was finally silent, I waited for the sound of Henry’s cries to fill the house, but nothing came.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, ready to take in the amount of mess I would have to clean.
Fractured chunks of glass, the oozing and pooling of thick sauces and smeared potatoes.
But when I stepped around the island counter and surveyed the site, not one dish was broken.
Not one had spilled even a drop of its contents.
They lay perfectly intact on the floor as if someone had set them there.
My pulse hammered, and the cold air from the open fridge slid over my skin like fingertips.
The shelf must’ve given out from the weight, I told myself, even though the explanation felt flimsy.
I crouched and began gathering the dishes, stacking them on the counter. When I finished, I brought my trembling hands to the sink and ran hot water over them. The shock of heat steadied me enough to breathe again.
I lifted my eyes to the window and jerked in surprise.
An old woman stared back at me. Her face was pressed close to the glass, deep wrinkles folding into one another.
A faded scarf tied down her graying blond hair, knotted under her chin in a style I hadn’t seen in many years.
Her dark and sunken eyes locked onto mine with a chilling steadiness.
A small, strangled sound caught in my throat, and I squeezed my eyes shut, like a child hiding under blankets, hoping the monster would go away if I just couldn’t see it.
When I worked up the courage to open them, only my own reflection remained in the glass, pale and wide eyed. The patio and the frozen pond stretched beyond. I gripped the edge of the sink, forcing air back into my lungs.
Old furnace. Old wiring. Old house. Old nerves. As my husband would say, everything had an explanation.