Page 9

The walk signal changes. A passing car blocks my view for only a second. When it passes…

She's gone.

I scan the street. Nothing. No child. No parent searching. No red coat disappearing between houses. I stare toward the woods. The cottage behind me creaks softly. Almost like it is trying to get my attention. I turn around.

"Don't start."

The house remains silent. For now. I unlock the door and step inside. Then my phone buzzes again. A weather alert fills the screen.

Severe Thunderstorm Warning. Effective immediately.

I look up. The sky above Sleepy Hollow has turned almost black. And somewhere far beyond the trees…

Something answers with thunder.

The first drop of rain hits the porch railing. Then another. Then dozens. Within seconds, the quiet October evening disappears beneath the sound of water pounding against the roof.

I stand just inside the doorway, watching the storm arrive with the kind of confidence usually reserved for things that know they belong. The weather alert hadn't been exaggerated. Rain slams against the windows. Wind pushes through the trees hard enough to make the branches bend and scrape against the roof. The old cottage responds the way old houses do.

It groans. It shifts. It settles.

I have spent enough time here to know every sound this place makes. The creak above the hallway. The pop of the fireplace stones cooling after use. The way the kitchen window rattles when the wind comes from the north. But tonight…

Tonight the house sounds different.

I tell myself that is because the storm is different. Because the weather changed quickly.

Because October in Sleepy Hollow has always been dramatic. Because I am tired. Because Everly has spent the last hour talking about the town feeling "awake," and, apparently, I am impressionable enough to start assigning personalities to buildings.

Ridiculous.

I set my tea on the kitchen counter and pull off my damp coat. The herbs Everly slipped into my bag sit beside the sink. I pick up the little packet. A handwritten label is attached.

For protection.

I stare at it. Then laugh.

"Absolutely not."

I put it in the junk drawer. The same drawer where I keep batteries, takeout menus, spare keys, and things I refuse to admit I might need.

The cottage lights flicker. I freeze. One second. Two. They return. I look toward the ceiling.

"Don't."

The house creaks.

"Seriously."

Another creak.

I point toward the hallway.

"We've been very clear about this arrangement. You provide shelter. I provide mortgage payments. Nobody starts acting haunted."

The fact that I am negotiating with a house is not something I plan on sharing with my therapist. Mostly because I don't have one. Mostly because I know exactly what she would say.

You should talk to someone about what happened 15 years ago.