Table of Contents

Threshold

Copyright

Dedication

Threshold

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Scott

Scott

Scott

Scott

Hudson

Hazel

Scott

Scott

Hazel

Scott

Hudson

Scott

Scott

Hudson

Hazel

Scott

Scott

Hudson

Hudson

Scott

Alastair

Hazel

Hudson

Scott

Hazel

Hudson

Scott

Hazel

Hazel

Scott

Hazel

Scott

Hudson

Hazel

Scott

Hudson

Hazel

Hudson

Scott

Hazel

Scott

Hudson

Alastair

Hudson

Alastair

Scott

Alastair

Mulkailot

Scott

Alastair

Scott

Alastair

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About the Authors

THRESHOLD

BY SEAN PLATT & DAVID WRIGHT

Copyright © 2016 by Sean Platt & David Wright. All rights reserved

Edited by: Jason Whited jason-whited.com

Email at: jasonhwhited@me.com

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, businesses, events, or locales is purely coincidental. The authors have taken great liberties with locales including the creation of fictional towns.

Reproduction in whole or part of this publication without express written consent is strictly prohibited.

The authors greatly appreciate you taking the time to read our work. Please consider leaving a review wherever you bought the book, or telling your friends or blog readers about this book to help us spread the word.

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Published by Collective Inkwell

Visit: CollectiveInkwell.Com

eBook Edition — v2

Sept. 9, 2016

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Sean Platt & David W. Wright

SCOTT

Scott swung the battered Nissan into his driveway and killed the engine. He sighed, looking up at the peeling paint on the antique home he and Holly spent too much on — faith, dollars, years. Two stories were capped by a low-pitched roof with broad eaves and a drooping face that looked sad despite the bright-yellow paint. Like inside, where the living room looked hollow despite stuffed shelves and mountains of life. The backyard had verandas, wide porches, and a nice patio, but even in shape they were broken, with scattered stacks of boxes — interior refugees with little hope of ever returning.

It was a crappy home, but it was their home. Until the bank came and took it.

Scott looked at Hudson and Hazel in the Nissan’s rearview. On the outside, they looked like your average fifteen-year-old boy and eleven-year-old girl. But in their eyes he could see how much they’d aged in the six months since their mother vanished without a trace.

It’s okay, I miss Holly too.

Of course, he didn’t say that. Bringing her up was getting harder to do with each day gone without her.

Scott smiled, burying his anxiety as the kids reached for the door handles. He looked past them, out the car windows, looking to make sure that no one was coming. No men with certified letters, or police telling them to get out. At least not yet.

Scott yanked his keys from the ignition, hit the button to open the trunk, and stepped out into the late summer sun. He went to the trunk. Hazel was already leaning inside and grabbing two plastic bags while Hudson made a beeline to the front door, without offering to help.

Sighing, Scott slipped his fingers through the straps of six plastic bags — three per hand.

Hazel nodded toward the house. “Want me to get him?”

“No. Probably not a good idea.”

The idea was, in fact, awful. If Hazel went inside to tell Hudson he had to help Dad with the groceries because it was his job, Hudson would be his usual moody teen self, lash out at Hazel, tell her to stop managing him and that she’s not his mother. That would lead to yet another fight he’d have to break up, and more hurt feelings as the kids sulked in their respective corners.

Holly had a saint’s patience, and had always been so much better at navigating sibling squabbles. Scott, not so much.

He followed Hazel up the drive, onto the porch, through the front door into the living room, and across to the kitchen. Hudson — giant surprise — was already on the PS4, playing The Last of Us, picking up from where he left off before Scott demanded that they go shopping as a family. Not because he didn’t trust Hudson alone (Scott doubted he would do anything other than play the game he borrowed from his buddy Brady), but because he specifically didn’t trust him to refuse the notice of default that would be arriving any time: the notice that had haunted Scott since losing their house became inevitable.

“No, we don’t need any help unloading the groceries,” Scott said to Hudson as he passed. “But it’s awesome of you to offer.”

Scott hated himself for being a passive-aggressive parent, but lately couldn’t help it. Without Holly around, he had no balance, and if he didn’t pepper a bit of passive into his aggressive, Scott was afraid that his aggression might go too far. He wondered if his children knew how close to the edge he felt. How close he was to exploding, again. Scott had no idea how much Hudson remembered of his earliest years, if the kid could remember Scott’s temper before they had Hazel, before Holly had helped him see just how destructive his behavior was.

Raising children was hard; raising them without a mom was harder. Raising them without a mom because she vanished without a trace, well, Scott couldn’t imagine too many things harder than that. Hudson was confrontational and moody: A mouth like his mother with few of her manners. Hazel was withdrawn like Scott, but had Holly’s deep, intelligent soul. She sought answers inside herself and trusted their whisper.

Hudson ignored Scott’s passive-aggressive remark, which pissed Scott off more than his blind eye to the groceries. Scott considered escalating the situation, letting his son know that attitude wouldn’t be tolerated. Instead, he heard Holly in his head: Put yourself in his shoes.

Scott had been a jerk at fifteen, too, and hadn’t had to swallow any of the crap that Hudson was forced to gulp as their world decayed from bad to worse to what in the hell are we gonna do now?

He set his bags on the kitchen counter. On the way back outside, Scott stopped at the couch for a word with his son. He wouldn’t get Hudson off the PS4 without an argument, and wouldn’t try. Worrying about the house — and the unrelenting threat of getting served — was hard enough. Until things were settled, Scott’s mantra was No conflict.

“So, is the game as good as you hoped?”

Hudson paused his game, shrugging. “Yeah. But the hype kinda ruined it for me. I’m playing what I thought it would be, instead of what it is. Wished I played it before everyone said it was the Second Coming.”

Hudson tucked a long strand of hair behind his ear and turned back to the game.

“Yeah, movies are like that, too. You read all the great reviews and anything short of perfect fails to live up to the hype. Lower your expectations, and life gets a lot better.”

“Sage advice, Dad,” Hudson said, staring at the screen.

Scott felt like a jerk, teaching his son to subtract from his dreams. He wanted to correct it, maybe ask another question about the game, but his heart hammered in a way he couldn’t explain. He turned from the couch, looking around.

Where’s Hazel?

He looked outside and saw his fear turned real: Hazel speaking with a stranger.

“I’ll be back.” Scott slapped his hand on the sofa and launched himself toward the door. Hudson caught his father’s stress, leaped up behind him — without pausing his game — and followed Scott outside.

Scott headed straight for the man, who looked exactly like the sort of person who came delivering news that promised an end to Life as They Knew It. Even though Scott had been preparing since the inevitable first blew its breath on their necks, with their lives and histories packed, Scott could never be ready to go. For one, he had no money, no job, no credit, and no prospects to send them anywhere but wayward. For two, he wasn’t ready to leave. None of them were.

What if Holly comes home?

As odd as it felt, leaving meant closing the door to the possibility of Holly’s return. It was agreeing with those who said she was dead. He’d accept her death, but not without proof.

Scott stepped between his daughter and the man who threatened their world.

* * * *

SCOTT

The man smiled like a man who took pleasure from delivering bad news.

“Mr. Dawson.”

Scott hated everything about him — the man’s phony smile, his tiny gold-rimmed glasses, the perfect head of wavy milk chocolate hair, his trim waist, the phone on his belt, and most of all, the suit that looked like it cost enough to feed them for months. Scott wanted to punch him, hard. He wanted to fall asleep with a dull ache in his bruised knuckles after having felled the man who ambushed his daughter in the driveway and drove them from their home.

“Who’s asking?”

Scott’s heart beat faster as he realized things weren’t making sense. The car was a rental, and a nice one. The Italian suit was wrong. He had warned the kids about a man in a tie, but never pictured silk. The person sent to deliver their paperwork would be a glorified clerk, not the lawyer himself.

The man reached into his jacket, pulled out an envelope, and handed it to Scott. “My name is Jared Davenport, sir. I’ve come—”

Scott shook his head, held his hands palms out, and retreated several steps back. He grabbed Hazel — almost too roughly — and spun her to Hudson, who had followed him out to see what was happening.

“Take her inside. I need a minute.”

“Sir …”

“Whatever you have, I don’t want it. I’m not taking it. You need to get off of my property, now!”

Scott had to swallow hard not to roar. He spoke through gritted teeth and barely kept the growl from his throat. He was tempted to say, “Before I call the cops,” but in cases like this, the police would only facilitate the delivery of terrible news.

“I mean you no harm, Mr. Dawson.” The man cleared his throat and took a step toward Scott. “I’m here about Holly.”

Holly’s name felt like a thunderclap on a clear day.

Hazel pulled away from Hudson and ran toward the stranger. She grabbed Scott’s hand and yelled, “Mommy?”

Scott had one happy second. His heart gave a grateful thud, and his mind swam, brightened by an unexpected spark of hope. Then he felt crushed ice in his bloodstream as he realized that whatever this man — lawyer — had to say about Holly, it couldn’t be good.

Good news meant Holly standing in their lightly stained driveway, not this mysterious stranger in his expensive suit and charitable expression. Scott turned to Hudson.

“Take her inside. Now.”

Hudson took Hazel by the wrist and turned her toward the house.

“No!” She pulled away. “It’s about Mom, not the house! I’m allowed to know that. I’m allowed to be here!”

Scott bellowed with his back to the stranger.

“Go inside with your brother, now!”

Hazel’s eyes turned into two great lakes as she tried to stifle a flood.

“Come on, Hazel,” Hudson said, taking his sister by the shoulder and leading her toward the porch.

Scott waited a moment for Hazel and Hudson to get inside the house, and for his breathing to settle, before turning to face the patient stranger. The man seemed as if he had nowhere to go, and was in no way offended when Scott finally found his voice. “What?”

He cleared his throat again. “I can understand your alarm. But I’m here to help.” His smile seemed awkward as he tried again to hand Scott the envelope.

Reluctantly, he took it.

“You can read it later. I’m sure you’d like to get back inside. But please, let me give you the broad strokes: Again, sir, my name is Jared Davenport. I’m a lawyer representing the late Mr. Alastair Galloway. You and your children have been named in Mr. Galloway’s last will and testament.”

“Who the hell is Alastair Galloway?”

The name sounded made up, like it belonged to a rich villain in a badly written movie full of clichés and clunky dialogue.

“Ah, yes, we did anticipate some confusion.”

“Some confusion? Try total confusion, pal. I don’t know anyone with the last name Galloway, except for my third-grade teacher. And I don’t remember her first name, but it sure as hell wasn’t Alastair. I’ve no idea what this has to do with me or my family.”

“Yes, Mr. Galloway was under the assumption that Holly wasn’t exactly forthcoming about her family tree.”

“What are you saying, Davenport?”

“Mr. Galloway is Holly’s uncle, husband to her aunt Lucille.”

“Never heard of either of them.”

“Yes, I understand what you’re saying, Mr. Dawson …” Davenport held his awkward smile. “But I can assure you, Holly was quite aware of her uncle, whether she ever spoke of him or not.”

A too-long pause settled between them. It seemed to Scott that the man was waiting for him to say — or maybe do — something.

“So, what do you want from me?”

“I’m so sorry. I feel like we’ve started this all wrong. Again, I know how difficult things have been for you and your family.”

“How do you know anything about my family?” Scott’s anger was swelling. He could feel Hudson and Hazel staring from the dining room.

“It is my business to know everything about your family, my family’s business, actually.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I’m a lawyer with one client, same as my father and my father’s father before him … and so on. It is my job to serve the Galloway family. I could continue, but prefer not to do so here. There are things we’ll need you to do, some things that must be tended to. These things must be done elsewhere. I’ll need you and your family to come with me to Clovis Point in three days.”

“Clovis Point? Where’s that?”

“Right outside Galloway Falls, Oregon. The envelope has a letter explaining the nature of Mr. Galloway’s last will and testament, along with your itinerary.”

“Itinerary?”

“Yes, Mr. Dawson. Everything has been arranged. You’ll find plane tickets for you, Hudson, and Hazel. Our man Johnston will pick you up at the airport.”

“Sorry, Davenport. I can’t do that. Too many things happening here.” Scott thrust his thumb behind him. “We’re days from losing this house. I’m on pins and needles waiting to hear from Holly, and, well, I can’t just drop shit and go, at least not if you’re unwilling to tell me what this is about.”

“I understand your concern, and your hesitation. But I assure you this is in your family’s best interests, Mr. Dawson. You and your children are in the will because of your relationship with Holly. She is the intended beneficiary. Because she is missing, you three will inherit her share.”

Scott looked around, searching for a hidden camera, or some jackass from a prank reality show or Youtube channel. If someone was pranking him, using Holly no less, he’d probably kill them with his bare hands.

“Again, I apologize for the lack of clarity, but this is all expressly detailed in Mr. Galloway’s will. You must be present at the estate for the reading, no exceptions. I can promise, however, that your house here means nothing. Not anymore. Let the bank take it. You can leave and never return. Once the will is read, housing will never be a concern for your family again.”

“What?” Scott almost whispered.

“Yes,” Davenport nodded. “I promise you’ll be quite happy once the will is read. But that is all I can say. Again, everything you’ll need is in the envelope, along with my card. Call if you need anything at all — I’m here to help you however I’m able, twenty-four hours a day.”

“Twenty-four hours a day?”

“Yes,” Davenport continued to nod and smile. “I serve the Galloways, which means I’m now serving your family.”

“My family?”

“Yes.” The lawyer broke into a quiet chuckle. “I know how odd this must seem, but everything will make sense when we meet again.” He gestured toward the house. “I see that Hudson and Hazel are worried; please tell them there’s nothing to fret about, and that although I’m afraid I don’t have good news about their mother’s whereabouts, I do offer some very real hope for all of you.”

Still in disbelief, Scott said, “I’ll make sure to tell them.”

Davenport gave Scott a final smile, a two-fingered salute, then climbed into his rental, pulled out of the driveway, and shrank down the street as Scott stood there, the envelope in his hand practically screaming at him to open it. But he couldn’t do anything but stare in disbelief. After what felt like forever, he turned and started walking back on shaky legs toward the house.

Things had been too hard for too long.

Ever since the Dawsons had lost it all in 2012, life at large had felt a bit too hard. Yet Scott still managed to hold onto hope for a better tomorrow. That wasn’t his nature, but it was Holly’s. When the numbers finally refused to work, quitting months after they should have, Scott found himself upside down, sobbing in an icy tub for hours until she found him, then dabbed his tears and whispered until he stopped crying.

They slashed their income in half and said all was well. Scott could finally become the father he wanted to be, the kind he’d always imagined being. He lost his business, but gained presence, and in the last five years had grown to know his children in ways that few fathers ever could.

As a family, things were improving.

But Holly’s disappearance ended that. Hazel’s quirks were getting quirkier, Hudson’s moods were getting moodier, and Scott felt rage creeping through his every crevice.

Holly had given them balance, and now she was gone.

Scott looked up at their old home as he stepped onto the porch, then over to the dining room where his children stared through the window, trying to untangle his expression. He swallowed, then crossed the porch into the house, envelope shaking in his hand.

It was time to say goodbye to what wasn’t working, time to believe in the impossible just like Holly would have wanted.

The children erupted in questions.

“Pack,” he said. “Three days, and we’re gone.”

Hudson said, “We lost the house?”

“Probably, but who cares? We won’t need it where we’re going.”

“Where are we going?” Hazel asked.

“Someplace better than here.”

* * * *

SCOTT

Clovis Point was right outside Galloway Falls, Oregon, as Davenport promised. But Galloway Falls, it turned out, was a long way from the airport.

They flew into Portland, then took a small private plane to the coast, where their driver, Johnston, whisked them through the rocky headlands looming high above the sea. Sprawling vistas spilled over craggy rocks scattered along the shoreline like broken soldiers. The coast was carved with rivers and patched with forests, all under a mournful gray sky churning with clouds that unleashed a deluge on their drive’s final hour.

Scott and his kids sat in the back of the car — a Jaguar XJ8L — with Hazel to his right and Hudson to his left. When Scott wasn’t sizing up his surroundings, he found his attention drifting to the back of the driver’s head.

Johnston was long and lean — didn’t appear to have an ounce of fat on his body — with a face as long as the rest of him. He seemed to have a mountain of hair, but it was all stuffed up under his charcoal driver’s cap. Scott could see tufts of silver locks falling out in small, curled ribbons from the side. He stayed mostly quiet through the drive, opening his mouth only to remark on scenery, or announce an upcoming landmark.

“It’s gorgeous,” Hazel whispered many times while staring out the window, past raindrops racing down the glass. Johnston smiled like he’d painted their surroundings himself.

“There’s no place prettier than Oregon.” He met their eyes in the rearview. “Not in America, and not in the world. Most folks just don’t know it. Even folks from around here don’t know what they’re looking at, even when they’re staring right at it.”

“What do you mean?” Hudson asked.

“Well, it’s a bit of distance from here, but take the fossil beds — millions of years’ worth of history there, buried in layers of volcanic tuff. A window back millions of years just sitting there, waiting for discovery.”

“That sounds cool,” said Hazel, awestruck.

“That it is, Young Miss Hazel,” Johnston said.

He fell silent for many slow forest miles after that, saying nothing until they were passing through a small downtown nestled by the surrounding woods. “Just a few minutes now.” Johnston smiled into the rearview.

They left downtown, continued along a winding wooded road, until trees began ceding some of the land for homes.

“I hope Mom can find us here,” Hazel said.

Scott flinched, waiting for Hudson’s response.

“Oh, here we go again.”

“What?” Hazel whined.

Scott shot his son a look and shook his head. The last thing he wanted to do was invite their old pain to a new place.

“Nothing,” Hudson said, glaring at Scott before rediscovering his iPad.

“What?” Hazel repeated, egging him on.

“Enough,” Scott said.

Hazel returned her attention to the passing scenery.

Scott couldn’t help but see a miniature version of Holly. Hazel looked just like her mother did as a child. And, before Holly’s disappearance, had the same sort of confidence.

But lately Hazel was becoming insistent that her mother was still alive and somehow visiting in her dreams. Every time she’d talk about the dreams in the morning, it would piss Hudson off. He’d call her an attention-seeking baby, and sometimes worse.

And while Hudson hadn’t said it in so many words, Scott could tell what his son was thinking: Holly was dead. She wasn’t ever coming back, and Hazel was just in denial.

On the scale of hope, Scott felt himself unfortunately closer to Hudson than Hazel. But of course he couldn’t admit that to anyone. Whenever he was around others, old friends and neighbors, he could feel their judgment like waves of heat wafting off of their bodies.

Oh, look, it’s Scott.

I wonder if he killed her.

Or maybe he was such a shitty husband that she ran off with a lover.

Scott wasn’t sure what he hated more: the not knowing what happened, or having to pretend for his children that everything would be okay, and that mommy would be home soon.

Perhaps worse than not knowing if she was alive was how her absence was slowly killing their family.

Before Holly’s disappearance, the family was chatty, trading stories, rumors, and jokes in bellows and whispers. Their home was rarely silent. After she went missing, loss was a blanket on their lives. It changed them, and they each found themselves settling into their own breed of silence, not quite knowing how to relate to new versions of each other. The spoke that held them together had gone missing from their wheel.

In the last few days, though, chatter returned. Not a lot, and never in bursts as it once gushed, but curious questions were given voice. Out loud wondering was back. Scott hoped Davenport hadn’t flown into Las Orillas with an envelope and empty promises, but even if they went back home with nothing, Scott was already grateful to see a change, a spark, in his children. It helped him believe that more was possible, and maybe coming just past the bend.

As the car turned off the road and pulled up to a looming black iron gate, the rain stopped, and the clouds seemed to part as if the heavens themselves were proud to reveal the sight below.

A driveway that looked a half-mile long winded through a well-manicured lawn replete with colorful flowers and impressive hedgerows, leading to a house on a hill. But it wasn’t just a house. With its steep-pitched roofs, towers, and turrets, it was practically a castle on a hill looking down on what appeared to be a guest house and perhaps a garage. Beyond the manor stretched rolling knolls, brilliant and lush, and tall trees that looked centuries old, growing thicker the farther you went from the house. It was hard to tell where the grounds ended and the woods began, and all of it left Scott breathless.

“Oh my God,” Hazel said beside him, echoing the words he might have uttered if he could pick his jaw up off the floor of the car.

The castle looked like something out of a Disney park. Years had done little to dilute the manor’s majesty. The brick had been brushed by age, but still seemed regal with deep shades of red and clay. Walls were ornamented with mosaics and strange symbols Scott had never seen. He couldn’t be certain about the number of stories because of how they were stacked, but it was definitely the largest house he’d ever seen this close.

The garage was past the last gazebo. Johnston parked and the Dawsons piled out. Scott started to thank the driver, wondering if he should tip him.

Johnston nodded toward the front porch at a pair of somethings that were probably supposed to be stone gargoyles. But they were long and lean rather than squat or gothic. Tall like sticks, eight feet from toe to nose, and nothing but muscle. “Davenport was supposed to—”

The driver didn’t finish. The manor’s double doors swung open, and the lawyer stepped outside. He passed the odd stone creatures and took two steps at a time across the lawn toward them.

“It’s good to see you again, Mr. Dawson. Thank you for coming.” Scott shook his hand, then the man turned to Hazel. “What do you think?”

She shrugged and said nothing, instead chewing her lip. Scott wondered where her awe had gone.

“I think it’s awesome.” Hudson was smiling like a happy drunk. “How old is this place?”

“Quite. It’s been in your mother’s family forever.”

Hudson shook his head. “No flipping way.”

Hazel held her silence.

Scott looked around at the trees, gardens, and fresh white paint on the sharp-cornered gazebos. The gleam of a greenhouse sat neatly between the farthest two. Though the rain was gone and the sun was high and warmed the world below, Scott felt a sudden chill.

Davenport thanked Johnston, then gestured toward the manor doors. “I’m sure you’re eager to discover what this is all about. I apologize for all the secrets, Mr. Dawson, but again, I can only act as instructed by the will.” He smiled. “Fortunately, that’s over now that you’re here.”

He started up the steps as Johnston carried bags from the Jag to the stairs. Scott followed with Hudson and Hazel beside him, his son uncharacteristically close. Hazel cried just as Davenport started through the doorway. Scott turned to find her standing behind them, rooted to a spot about fifteen feet back.

He went to Hazel, leaned down, and looked her in the eyes. “What is it, honey?”

“I don’t want to go in there, Daddy.”

He looked at her. “Why?”

“Because.”

“Because why, Hazel?”

“I don’t want to say.” Before Scott could ask why not: “You won’t believe me, and he’ll make me feel bad and say I’m only trying to get attention.” Hazel thrust an accusing finger at her brother.

“Oh my God. Really? This crap again?”

Scott turned to Hudson. “Please.”

Davenport stood patiently, not wanting to rush the family’s moment.

“It’s okay.” Scott took Hazel’s trembling hands, ice cold in his. “Tell me why you’re scared. I want to know.”

“Because she doesn’t want us here.”

“Who doesn’t want us here?” he asked, figuring she meant Holly.

Hazel pointed to a second-story window, two spires over. “Her.”

Scott looked up, but saw no one. Still, another chill ran through him. “There’s nobody there.”

Hazel looked up, then shook her head. “There was a girl. A girl with long blonde hair. Up there. She was staring.”

“So.” Scott shrugged. “Haven’t you ever stared out a window?” He laughed. “I’ve seen you do that, honey.”

“There’s something about her … something wrong.”

Davenport raised his eyebrows, seeming to assess her.

Scott wanted to kill this quick. Hazel was seconds from tumbling down one of her irrational rabbit holes. Once at the bottom he wouldn’t be able to pull her back with a hundred yards of rope. Once Hazel got hysterical, Hudson became a jerk, saying things you should never say to your kid sister, and it would take every molecule of Scott’s patience to regain control.

If Hazel saw a girl in the window, then the girl probably lived there, or was maybe Davenport’s daughter. Scott didn’t want his daughter freaking out and offending people.

Scott smiled, still kneeling. “It’s okay, sweetie. Everything is fine. I’m right here by your side. But we have to go inside if we want to hear what Mr. Davenport wants to tell us. Aren’t you curious?”

“Not enough to go inside.”

“Please, Hazel.” Scott squeezed her hand tighter.

She met his eyes, looked back to the window, then let out a tiny sigh.

“Okay, Dad.”

Davenport smiled at the Dawsons, then turned the knob. Scott stood and glanced back at the window to where the girl was supposed to have been standing.

He saw only cream-colored curtains, but felt Hazel’s chill. She took his hand, and together they entered the manor.

* * * *

SCOTT

They crossed a massive foyer, filled with sky high ceilings and art that seemed to hang nearly from roof to floor. After what felt like a minute of walking they turned right down an endless hall, passing many closed doors until they reached the end and entered a sprawling library, where Scott was surprised to see nobody waiting.

“Where is everyone?”

Davenport was so precise about the day and time, Scott expected to find a room full of waiting people.

The lawyer smiled. “You’re it. This is the family required for the reading.”

“What? What do you mean, we’re it? You mean the will’s already been read and we’re the last to hear it? Why the exact date and time then?”

“Because that is how the will states things must be. And no, Mr. Dawson. The will has not been read. You are all that remains of the family.”

“Really? Nobody else?”

Davenport’s smile grew cold and sad, suddenly filled with something that made Scott afraid. The lawyer looked down, eyes grazing the plush carpet before returning to Scott. “I’m sorry, but your wife, and your children, are all that remain of the Galloways.”

Davenport turned, walked toward a large mahogany desk, and sat as the Dawsons took their three neatly arranged chairs: Scott in the middle, Hudson to his right, and Hazel on the left. “Well then, let’s get started.”

Davenport shuffled papers, moved them to the desk’s corner, put on his glasses, then slid a tablet toward the Dawsons and pointed at the screen. “That’s the same thing I’ll be reading. I thought you might like a copy to look at as I go over it. I’ve also sent you a copy by email. Just drag your finger to scroll.” He tapped the screen. “Questions?”

The children were silent. Scott shook his head.

“Okay, then.” Davenport cleared his throat and read:

I, Alastair Galloway, declare this as my Last Will and Testament.

I give, devise, and bequeath the residue and remainder of my Estate to Hazel and Hudson Dawson, in the absence of their mother, Holly Dawson, maiden name Florence. The Estate shall remain in the sole custody of Mr. Scott Dawson, legally betrothed to Mrs. Dawson, and guardian to Hazel and Hudson, disbursed in the sum of $1,000,000 United States Dollars for every calendar year spent in its entirety at Galloway Manor.

Davenport stopped reading and looked up at the family.

Scott was speechless. He knew Davenport had said their housing situation would be taken care of, but even as they entered through the iron gates, he didn’t think they’d be getting this house. He looked at his children to see if they were as shocked as he was.

Hudson’s eyes were giant. “This house is ours?” He looked pained, like he wanted to say more and was throttling his smile for fear of a joke.

Immediately, Hazel’s eyes began to well up.

Scott set a hand on her shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

“We can’t leave our home. What if Mom comes back?”

“She’s not coming back, dummy.”

“Hudson!” Scott gave his son The Look.

Hazel folded her arms across her chest, seeming to sink deeper into the large chair. “You don’t know that!”

“If I may,” Davenport interrupted.

Scott nodded.

“Miss Dawson, I understand your concern, which is why we’ll arrange to purchase your old house from the bank. Should your mother return, she will find her home as it was, and we’ll leave word of your whereabouts. We’ve also arranged for movers to pack your old house and bring your belongings here, should you approve.”

“I don’t know why we can’t just live there.”

“I’m afraid it doesn’t work that way.” Davenport smiled kindly at Hazel. “The will is explicit that your family must live here. Your mother, should she return, will also be welcome to live here with you, as it is her family’s estate.”

Hazel rubbed her eyes. Scott squeezed her shoulder tighter. “It’s going to be okay, honey. If Mom comes back, she’ll find us.”

“If?” Hazel met his eyes.

“When,” he amended.

Scott gave Hudson another look to make sure he kept his mouth shut while Hazel calmed herself. Then he turned back to Davenport, still in disbelief. Scott had expected a longer reading — two paragraphs? — and too many questions left him clueless about where to get started.

“That’s it?”

Davenport adjusted the tablet so it was facing him, dragged his finger across the screen, then turned it back toward Scott.

“As you can see, the will has many provisions, so it isn’t just what you’ve heard.” Davenport tapped the screen. “Totals are here at the bottom so you can see the estate’s value, valid as of this last quarter. But yes, Mr. Dawson, essentially, this is it.”

Scott ignored the lawyer’s finger.

“Why did we need two planes to hear one paragraph? It’s not that I’m not grateful, Mr. Davenport …” Scott paused, unsure exactly what to say, or even how to say it. They had just been given something extraordinary enough to seem impossible.

“We — myself and Mr. Galloway — knew when we drafted the will that we would need the three of you here. Would you have accepted the house without seeing it first? Yes, that’s likely. But who knew how long it would have been before you settled? Mr. Galloway required someone at the house immediately. He is a superstitious man, and the manor has never been left unattended. Someone from the family has always been here. He wanted — needed — to know you would be here as he passed, otherwise he would have had to make other plans.”

“Then why the three days?” Scott asked.

Davenport smiled sadly. “Because Mr. Galloway requested them. His life support was turned off as Johnston drove through the gates. He is being removed from the premises as we speak, per his wishes.”

Scott stared at the lawyer as he tried to push through waves of unexpected information.

“I know this is all quite sudden and confusing. I do apologize. But there could be no other way. Hopefully, you will see this as the opportunity it is, Mr. Dawson. For you and your family.” Davenport smiled and dragged his finger down the screen. “Guidelines have been sent to your email along with the will, and can also be seen here. Ignoring the rules will relinquish one hundred percent of the inheritance. You might think Holly’s Uncle Alastair is insane, but understand that crazy or not, if a single rule is broken, you will forfeit the fortune and be ejected from the property. The estate will then be destroyed.”

“Destroyed?” Scott could hardly believe someone would go to such extremes over superstition. Hazel and Hudson were clearly considering the lawyer’s lunacy.

Davenport nodded at the Dawsons.

“The rules are simple, and we can go over them all if you’d like, but I suggest we start with the two most important.”

Scott nodded.

“One of your children must stay on the grounds at all times. From here on out, you must make Galloway Manor your permanent home. I cannot stress this enough: Leave, and you will lose everything.”

Bluntly, Scott said, “So, you’re saying that we’re prisoners forever if we want the house and money?”

“I don’t think Mr. Galloway would want you to feel like prisoners. And I’m sorry for the misunderstanding. You can leave, but only one at a time. Mr. Galloway is insistent that someone from the bloodline remains on premises at all times.” Davenport cleared his throat and turned to Scott. “You, however, Mr. Dawson, are free to go whenever you’d like.”

Scott turned the odd request in his head, wondering what kind of weirdo Uncle Alastair was to have such odd stipulations. I’ll give you more money than you could ever want, but you have to abide by my superstitious nonsense. No wonder Holly had never mentioned him.

“As you can imagine, an estate as large as Galloway Manor takes a tremendous amount of care and maintenance. Its general health is as important as a person’s. The staff ensures that its heart keeps beating and its muscles stay strong. The manor’s most important muscle is the caretaker, Carter. And that man will be here until he dies. Carter lives in the servant wing along with your two maids, Jacquelyn and Mara; Able, the gardener; Johnston, whom you’ve already met — he does some general maintenance along with the driving; Garza, the chef; and Don, our handyman. Nothing he can’t do. Keeps the manor looking just so, like his great-great-grandfather did back when the manor was first built. We’ll also bring in the best teachers in the state to homeschool you kids.”

“Cool!” Hudson grinned. “I don’t have to go to school anymore. What’s the other condition?”

“All staff are permitted to stay so long as they continue to fulfill their duties. They, in their way, are also part of the family, and their salaries are provided for in the will.” The lawyer sighed appreciatively. “I can’t imagine how much this is to take in, and I’m sure you have plenty of questions.” He turned to Hudson, who was clearly most excited. “What do you think?”

“So, all of this. It’s all ours — for real?”

“For real. As long as you follow the conditions set forth in the will.”

“But we can’t leave?” Hudson scrunched his nose.

“You can leave, but never together. With you two,” he looked from Hudson to his sister, “it can only be one at a time. Someone in the family, in the bloodline, which doesn’t include your father, must remain here.”

“That’s crazy,” Hudson said, tucking hair behind his ear. “I mean, it’s cool, and I’m happy to do it. But it’s nuts, no doubt.”

Scott shot Hudson a look. Hazel eyed her brother like he was stupid.

The lawyer smiled. “My family has served the Galloways for generations. I understand the need for preservation better than most people could. So no, I don’t think it’s crazy, but I certainly understand why you would. Perfectly natural. As the manor becomes your home, I believe you will come to see things as Mr. Galloway has.”

“Well, what if we get sick or something?” Hudson asked.

“There are doctors we can access immediately.” Davenport turned to Hazel, dismissing her brother. “How are you feeling?”

Hazel said nothing. Scott wrapped his arm around her shoulder.

“Well then,” Davenport leaned back and looked at the Dawsons. “If you wouldn’t mind, Hudson and Hazel, I’d like a moment alone with your father. Would that be okay?”

Before either could answer, and as if working from a pre-scripted cue, there came a loud, decisive knock on the door.

“Come in,” Davenport called. The door opened, and a pretty woman, likely in her late forties, entered the library. She had long, straight black hair, a flowing white skirt, a perfectly tailored cream-colored blouse, and a beautiful string of pearls like a halo at her neck. Her smile seemed to warm the room by several degrees.

“Hello. My name is Jacquelyn. My daughter, Mara, and I live and work here at the manor. I oversee the day-to-day stuff and am here to help with whatever you might need. I’d love to show you both around. Give you a tour. Cookies included, of course.”

“Let’s go.” Hudson laughed, already up from his seat. He turned to Scott, said, “Have fun,” then clapped Hazel on her shoulder.

Hazel stayed quiet, and leaned into Scott.

“Don’t be a chicken,” Hudson said.

Scott leaned into Hazel’s ear and whispered, “Please. I need you to do this one more thing for me. Whatever you see — whatever you see or hear, Hazel — I want to hear about it. Just keep it to yourself until I see you, okay?”

Scott pictured Hazel freaking out and told himself that she wouldn’t. He smiled, flush with relief as she smiled back. “Okay, Dad.” She hugged him, stood, then followed her brother and Jacquelyn out of the room.

Davenport waited three beats after the door closed. “There is one other thing.”

“What?”

“If you were to look this house up online, which I’m certain you’ll want to do the moment you’re able, you will see that twenty-nine years ago Alastair’s daughter, Savannah, died in her room. Some of the people in Clovis Point have claimed that they’ve … seen her. Many of the townsfolk like to entertain notions that Galloway Manor is haunted. And of course, you know how rumors spread. This manor is a place of note in the Pacific Northwest, particularly for those seeking things that don’t exist.”

“Things like what?”

“Like ghosts, Mr. Dawson. Of course.”

Scott thought of Hazel. “Is there a blonde girl who lives here now? My daughter said she saw a blonde girl in the upstairs window.”

“No,” Davenport shook his head. “There are no blonde girls here. Our youngest staff member is Mara; she is twenty-four, and a brunette. Might it have been Hazel’s imagination?”

Scott sighed. “Things have been tough since her mother … well, you know. Tell me, would we move in immediately?”

“Yes. You can stay right now. And as long as you’re here, the money is yours, all of it, to do with as you wish. You can order whatever you’d like online and have it delivered to the manor. Unless you’re planning on buying a state, you can never spend it all.”

“So, even if we leave in a year, the money’s ours until then?”

“Correct.”

“Could we buy ourselves a house and move into that, if we wanted? Could we move back into our old house that you bought?”

“Yes, you could do that, but you would forfeit this home and the remaining fortune once you left. And you seem like a smarter man than that, Mr. Dawson.”

“What if the kids want a life, you know, at the same time?” Scott kept laughing — it was all so ridiculous. “What then?”

“Leave when you want,” Davenport said with an air of finality to match his thinning smile. “Enjoy it until you do.”

Scott couldn’t imagine ever wanting — or needing — to leave the manor for anything ever again. But unlike his children, he could go whenever he wanted. He should consult with Hudson and Hazel, but it wasn’t as if they had a choice. The Dawsons had nothing—no home, money, or anyone else to lean on.

Scott looked at Davenport, swallowed, and held out his hand.

“We’ll take it.”

* * * *

HUDSON

The lawyer, Davenport, seemed like a tool, but was still Hudson’s personal Lord and Savior for having pulled them from the gutter where they’d spent the last six months after Mom skipped town for who-knew-why, off to who-knows-where, with —Hudson felt increasingly certain — who-knew-whom.

Dad was still in the room talking to the lawyer while he and Hazel finished their cookies.

“Do you like them?” Jacquelyn asked.

Hudson nodded, grabbed another, and shoved the entire thing past his lips. Her own mouth full, Hazel blurted, “They’re really good.”

The parlor door opened. Dad entered the dining area with the lawyer. They paused on the other side, trading whispers. Dad nodded as he looked toward Hudson and Hazel. The lawyer approached their table as Dad went to Jacquelyn and said something in a low voice that Hudson couldn’t hear. She smiled, nodded, and left the room.

The lawyer spoke as Dad came up behind him. “We’re going to introduce you to Charlie Carter, Galloway Manor’s caretaker. He’ll expect you to call him Carter. He’s been working with the Galloways forever, and has requested that he be the one to show you around.”

“I asked Jacquelyn to get him,” Dad announced.

“Excellent.” The lawyer nodded, then killed minutes with irritating small talk while waiting for Carter to arrive.

After feeling like crap for months, Hudson had to chew his bottom lip to bottle the joyous laughter that kept wanting to burst out. They’d gone from losing their house to rolling in stacks of dough. If this was a movie, Hudson wouldn’t believe it. He kept looking into the room’s corners, up at the ceiling, outside the windows onto the sprawling lawns, and even on the floor, searching carpet seams and everywhere else for any sign of a small red light that might indicate a hidden camera for some prank show or channel on Youtube. This had to be a joke. Someone was watching. They would leap out, yell gotcha, have them sign release papers, pay them a small participation fee, and put their family on a reality show. Real Life Suckers!, or something like that.

Fine with Hudson. At least it was a change. Reality shows were as stupid as the people who stuffed their DVRs full of them, but at least the Dawsons weren’t in Las Orillas waiting for the proverbial shit to hit the fan.

The door opened, and the lawyer sparked to attention. He spun toward the tall old man as Carter entered the dining room. His face was ancient, but he ambled into the room like a kid. His shoulders were strong, rather than sagged with age. His face was lined like a tattered map, but his eyes were bright. His hair was a shock of snowy white, with single strands of black that looked as out of place as the pepper in his beard.

He nodded at Jacquelyn on his way to the cookies, hedged between a macadamia nut and a chocolate chip, then grabbed the macadamia and shoved half of the cookie into his mouth. He showed only slightly more restraint than Hudson, raining crumbs and spittle onto the table. He swallowed, looked up at Dad, and thrust out his hand.

“I’m Carter. Good to meet you.”

Dad held out his hand. “Good to meet you, Mr. Carter.”

“Just Carter. Call me Mr. or Charlie, and I’ll have to poison your food.” After too long a pause, Carter — whom Hudson had decided to like after only a moment — added, “Just kidding,” then laughed loudly as he smacked Dad’s arm playfully.

Wow, this dude is full-on crazy! Now I know this has to be a TV show!

Carter’s laughter seemed to make the lawyer nervous. Davenport mopped his brow and tapped his foot, waiting for the old man to speak. Carter finally clapped the lawyer’s shoulder. “Want me to take it from here?”

He looked relieved. “That would be great, Carter. Thank you.”

Jacquelyn and the lawyer left together. Carter watched them go, then turned back toward the newcomers. “So, did Atticus Finch tell you the house is haunted?”

Hudson and Hazel traded glances, neither knowing who Atticus Finch was.

“Yes, Mr. Davenport informed me about a few of the local rumors, in private, so as not to freak out my children.” Dad looked first at Hazel then accusingly at Carter.

The old man swatted the air and grabbed a chocolate chip cookie. “Dog balls. Davenport’s just scared you’ll see the ghosts and take off!”

“Ghosts?” Hazel asked, eyes wide.

Hudson laughed. “He’s just messing with us.”

Carter met his eyes, and gave him the oddest, most unsettling smile that Hudson had ever seen.

“Right?” Hudson asked.

Carter put a hand on Hazel’s shoulder. “The ghosts have never hurt anyone, sweetie, no need to worry. Less harmless than the vermin on the grounds.”

Hazel shook her head. “I don’t want to stay here.”

Hudson noticed Dad’s uncomfortable expression. A look that said it was too late — he’d already signed.

Dad asked, “Does anyone who lives here not think the manor is haunted?”

Carter laughed, slapped his hand on the table, and said nothing, shaking his head like Dad and his question were equally ridiculous.

“I don’t want to live here,” Hazel said again, pouting.

Hudson had to steer the ship away from the rocks before Hazel screwed this up for everyone. But he had to be diplomatic about it, lest she’d dig her heels in further, and they’d be on the first flight back to California.

“First off, I don’t believe in ghosts, but let’s just say you’re right — why would anyone want to live in a haunted house?” Hudson grabbed a cookie, waiting for an answer, hoping Carter would say something to alleviate Hazel’s skittishness.

The old man shrugged. “Whether you believe is irrelevant to the facts, and besides, ghosts ain’t nothin’ but energy — left by those who lived here before. Some part of us that never dies, stuck here for whatever reason. That’s the best I can describe it. Energy that every now and then gathers enough steam to blow a window wide open, maybe knock something over, but that’s it, really.”

Hudson looked at his sister, trying to gauge her response.

She was staring at Carter with wide eyes, still looking scared. “I saw a ghost in a window upstairs. A blonde girl.”

Hudson rolled his eyes and wanted to say something to shut his sister up, but the way Carter regarded her words seriously changed his mind.

“You saw her?” he asked as if surprised, even though he’d already admitted to seeing them himself.

“Yes,” Hazel said, slowly nodding.

“That was probably Savannah,” he said, a wistful look in his eyes.

“Who is she?” Hazel asked.

“Mr. Galloway’s daughter. A lovely girl who died too young.”

“How did she die?”

“Hazel!” Dad said as if she’d asked a rude question, even though it was the exact question that Hudson had wanted to ask.

“No, no, it’s okay,” Carter said. “It was an accident, a long time ago. But trust me, if you saw her, that means she likes you. She doesn’t show herself to many.”

“She doesn’t?” Hazel asked, almost warming to the idea like the weird little sister she was.

“No, and you should consider yourself lucky to have seen her.”

“Will she come back? Will she hurt us?”

Carter shook his head and laughed. “Hurt you? Heavens no. We just see them every now and then, but that’s it, really. If there was any danger, none of us would be here.”

Hazel looked down at the floor, then back up at Carter. “Do you think I’ll see my mom?”

Sharply, Hudson said, “Don’t even start.”

Dad broke in before they started fighting. “I think you were going to show us the house, Mis … I mean, Carter.”

“Just this way,” Carter said with a smile, leading them through the hallway.

The Dawsons followed. Hudson took the rear, still searching for cameras on his way to the door. Carter led them outside, showing them the guest house, the garage, a garden and gazebo, then pointed to the woods and streams lining the property. It all looked like it was from some remote vacation spot, not someone’s house.

As much as the grounds impressed him, the manor was the main attraction.

It was a freaking castle, at least on the outside, built in the 1800s, then added on to and improved throughout the years by Hudson’s ancestors, who were obviously filthy rich. Hudson made a note to later ask Carter what the Great Great Great or Whatever Galloways did for a living to build such wealth. Had they been pioneers who got lucky during the gold rush? Or were they a powerful political family back in the day? Maybe both?

And now he and his family had inherited all of it.

It was too much to take in. Too much to believe. This was the sort of thing that happened to other people. Not him. He remembered when a good friend of his, Billy Harcourt, found out a rich grandma had left them a ton of money. Billy’s family moved to a nicer town, to a better school, and that was the last Hudson had ever seen him. He’d known at least four kids whose families had come into unexpected wealth, and each and every time they moved away never to be seen again. While Hudson had been happy for his friends, he’d also felt envious.

They were the lucky ones who escaped.

And now he was one of them — assuming this wasn’t all an elaborate prank or wouldn’t get somehow screwed up. If there was a way to ruin this, Hudson had no doubt that either his father or Hazel would find a way to do it.

They continued the house tour, through the ground floor until they reached a set of stairs leading down to the cellar.

Carter paused, as if for dramatic effect, and his old crazy nice guy persona shifted to that of an overly serious parent about to warn their child not to do anything stupid.

“Okay, folks, I want you to pay attention because I’m only gonna say this once, and I need you to remember, got it?”

Hudson and Hazel both nodded.

“See that door down there? That’s the cellar, one of two places off-limits in the house. It’s the oldest part of the house, and not safe for kids to be playing around in, okay?”

Hudson looked down at the door and ignored his chill. It was a big, ancient-looking wooden door, dark, with iron bands and bolts. The doorknob was surrounded by a metal plate with a circular depression above the knob rather than a keyhole. Hudson thought it looked like something out of an actual castle.

What kind of lock is that?

Hudson looked at his father, wondering if he was going to ask questions such as: off-limits to whom? What about it isn’t safe? Do we need to worry about a fire or something?

But Dad didn’t say a word, seemingly lost in thought.

Hudson was about to ask some questions, but then Carter immediately put on his Friendly Face, pointed at Hudson and Hazel, then said, “Now, here comes the part of the tour I think you two are gonna love the most. The media room.”

“Yeah!” Hazel said, then they turned and headed away from the cellar.

Carter beamed as he ushered them into a sprawling and shockingly modern media room. It wasn’t a media room so much as an in-home theater, complete with a giant flat screen TV on the wall, four rows of movie theater-styled oversized seats, and, under the TV, a giant white bookcase which looked ready to house any number of games, movies, and video game consoles.

The old man winked at Hudson. “I bet you thought the old place would feel stuffy with nothing but board games from the eighteen hundreds.”

Hudson nodded, unable to keep the stupid grin off his face.

“Nope,” Carter explained, “The Galloways have always insisted that the manor remain state of the art. Since always. We were first to get the Internet around here, same with TV and radio. This room has everything you need. Your being stuck might not be much of a choice, but at least you’re stuck in luxury.”

“Is there a PS4?” Hudson asked, hopeful for the latest console.

“A what?”

“A PS—”

“Ha,” Carter waved a hand. “I’m yanking your chain, kid. I’m old, not stupid. No, there aren’t any PS4s or Xboxes or Wiis or any of that because Mr. Galloway never indulged, and most of the people here just play stuff on their phones or iPads. But we can order whatever you want, kid. Blippity-bee-bop all you want.”

Hudson said the only thing he could think of. “Wow.”

Carter cleared his throat. “Ready to see your rooms?”

The Dawsons nodded — each too lost in looking around to say much of anything — then left the media room, crossed a short hallway, and ascended a winding flight of stairs. On the way, the old man explained more.

All of the families working and living in Galloway Manor were multi-generational, and took tremendous pride in their service to the family. Carter said that one of his life’s great joys was getting old enough to know he’d die in the place where he’d been born. His biggest failure, he admitted with a cracking voice, was not having a child to claim his place in the universe after his passing. He fell into a silence that made Hudson want to ask more, but questions felt like intrusions.

Hudson thought that Carter’s stories of multi-generation live-ins was like the manor itself: creepy but cool. Almost inspiring, in a way Hudson couldn’t relate to.

He’d never had much extended family, or known his grandparents, both sets having died before he was born. Hudson thought it was amazing that someone could devote their life to a single thing, knowing it was who they were from birth, passing that tradition down to the next generation, then the one after that. But what about choice? What if you wanted to do something else with your life, or be something different than your father?

“Okay, kids, we’re here.” The old man pointed down both sides of the long second-story hallway. “You can pick any door on either side, except the one with the silver knob. I’ll ask you all please not to go in there. The rooms are all empty, and it doesn’t matter which you choose. Each is wired for Wi-Fi and all that, plus they’re the same approximate size. So, have at it, no fighting.” Hazel and Hudson stood in frozen indecision. “Wink, wink — I’d like to talk to your father alone.”

“Sure.” Hudson opened the first door to his right. Hazel kept walking. Carter and Dad turned toward the stairs.

Hudson dipped his head into the room, looked around, then ducked back out. “You should have fun here,” he muttered to Hazel. “It’s like the lawyer and the crazy guy both gave you permission to be a crappy little drama queen.”

“I’m telling Dad you said ‘crappy.’”

“So what. He’s heard it before.”

Hazel turned from her brother, opened the closest door, and disappeared behind it. Hudson went to the one immediately across from hers.

The room was large but not giant, about the size of his room at their old house, but with an attached bathroom. The door opened to gleaming white tile. Hudson closed the bedroom and went into the bathroom. It had two sinks, a separate shower and bath, and many built-in cabinets along the wall. Like much of what Hudson had seen inside the manor, the bathroom was a blend of old and new. The tile floor and claw foot tub looked vintage, but the shower and fixtures looked recently installed. The faucets were motion sensitive. Hudson ran his fingers under the stream, several times in every direction, turning the water on and off over and over.

He laughed, shaking his head as he left the bathroom and returned to investigate his potential bedroom. The bed was a king, and the room’s empty desk was massive without being ugly. It had a newish Mac with an iPad resting beside it. The room’s flat screen TV was large — maybe forty-two inches — and built into the wall. The carpet was deep and creamy.

Hudson went to the bed, collapsed on the top, and hugged a pillow to his chest. He turned toward the window, stared out at the white gazebos near the garage, and thought about the impossible turn their lives had taken, and how it was only a matter of time before Hazel would surely ruin it all.

It had taken years for the two of them to finally get along. Hudson didn’t exactly welcome his infant sister’s arrival. The following years were — Mom and Dad both said — a bit like the Cold War. Ever since Mom disappeared, Hazel had become impossible. Why couldn’t she just accept that Mom was never coming back? Why torture herself — and them — by making stuff up?

The longer Hudson stayed sprawled on the bed, the more irritated he became. He could only imagine his sister’s bullshit in a supposedly haunted house. No doubt, she’d start seeing Mom’s “ghost.” And seeing how she had Dad wrapped around her finger, she’d probably get him to abandon the manor, and their unlikely inheritance.

He couldn’t let that happen. Hudson wasn’t thrilled with one of them always having to be at the manor, but it wasn’t like he left their old home all that often, other than for school and stuff he had to do. And besides, Hazel was younger, and had to be in bed earlier than him. Assuming he made a few friends, Hudson could hang out at night away from the house while she stayed home in bed.

The manor, and the money, were the best things that had ever happened to them — and couldn’t have come at a better time.

Hudson hoped his sister wouldn’t screw things up. He’d have to find a way to make her look ridiculous and damage her credibility before she dreamed up some way to ruin their new lives.

Hudson smiled as he rolled off of the bed.

He looked around the room, hunting for something without knowing what. He opened desk drawers to find notebooks, reams of paper, and random office supplies like paperclips and staples. The bookshelves were bare, just like the closet. Every surface was cleared except for necessaries. Hudson had a sudden idea, and cursed himself for being stupid. He only needed himself.

He quietly made the bed, smoothing it back to its earlier condition, then crept to the door. He opened it slowly, then closed it with equal care. He repeated the action, over and over. Each time the door would click closed, Hudson would let it settle for a few seconds, then send a long creak from his throat.

Come on, crybaby.

I know you can hear it.

Finally, he heard Hazel’s patter outside the door.

He dared to open and shut the door again, then leaped through the room, crossing the carpet in three strides before ducking into the bathroom. He slipped behind the door, pressed his back to the wall, and waited, tucked in a shadow away from the mirror.

The door opened. Hudson heard nothing.

A long thirty seconds, then light footsteps in the room — surely Hazel’s. She took forever. By the time she stepped onto the tile, Hudson could practically hear her pounding heart. He felt bad, and in that final second decided not to scare her. He’d let her leave, and think of something for later.

He was too late; Hazel looked behind the door.

Hudson, either because he was startled into it, or because he was a big brother jerk to the core — he wasn’t sure which — roared when he saw her.

Hazel screamed and ran from the room.

Hudson scrambled out from behind the door, laughing behind his still-screaming sister as he chased her through the bedroom and out into the hallway. He probably had seconds before Dad would find them, and Hudson — like always — would be in trouble, even though Hazel was the one being dramatic.

He caught up and put a hand over her mouth, trying to shush her as Carter and Dad surfaced at the stairway.

“Stop it, stop it, stop it!” She slapped at Hudson. “You are such a jerk!”

“I’m sorry!” he whispered, kneeling to Hazel. “Just cool it, though, okay? You’ll get us both in trouble. I shouldn’t have done that, but now you’re all drama, and Dad’s not gonna like it. I’m sorry, okay. Let’s both of us cool it.”

Hazel shoved him, yelled, “Don’t talk to me!” then ran toward Dad.

“What is it?” Dad crouched as he met her, hooked his hands under her armpits, and hefted Hazel up to his eyes. He gave her a hug, then set her back down.

“Hudson tried to scare me. I mean, he did scare me.”

“What did he do?”

“He made ghost noises like a jerk, trying to get me into one of the bedrooms, then he hid in the bathroom and jumped out at me when I went in to look. He was trying to make me cry.”

“I never want you to cry but you always do anyway. That’s why I did it: Because you’re a little crybaby who’s always whining for attention. You need to grow up.” Hudson knew he’d pay, but couldn’t stop, or even slow, his words.

The old man stood a few steps behind Dad, thumbs hooked into his pockets, assessing.

“What’s wrong with you?” Dad’s eyes bored into Hudson. “This is exactly what we’re trying to work through — exactly what we’ve been talking about for months. If you know your sister’s unsettled, why grease the fire?”

“Because she’s not unsettled, Dad. She’s faking it.”

Dad gritted his teeth, turned to Carter, gave the old man an apologetic look, then turned back to his son and snarled, “Go find a room, Hudson. Now.”

“We’re going to live here?”

“Yes, now go, before I change my mind.”

Dad took Hazel’s hand, and led her down the hallway behind Carter, leaving him alone, probably trying to convince his sister why living here would be good for them all.

Hudson looked up and down the hall, hardly able to believe that their entire lives were about to change for the better. He could feel his stupid grin, and didn’t bother to hide it.

He turned back around, and returned to what was now his new bedroom. But as he went, he looked back at the door with the silver doorknob and wondered why they could claim or explore any room except that one.

* * * *

HAZEL

Hudson could be such a jerk.

It wasn’t like she didn’t try to get along with him. She did plenty to prevent them from fighting. But Hazel couldn’t change who she was, and Hudson was always on her about everything.

It wasn’t her fault that he was born first, or that Mom was a girl and that had always given them more stuff to talk about. It wasn’t her fault that Mom left, or was taken, or whatever had happened. And it wasn’t her fault that she could sometimes hear Mom at night even though he couldn’t.

It wasn’t Hazel’s fault, and she wasn’t a liar, but those were the two things Hudson said about her all the time.

It’s your fault, Hazel. All of it.

Stop lying about everything, all the time!

She’s only doing it for attention, Dad. You’re stupid for believing her.

Hazel wished Hudson would believe her.

It was her third-biggest wish, right behind wanting Mom to come home, and wanting her father to be like he used to be — fun, and happy, instead of walking around on the verge of mad all the time.

She was lying on Dad’s bed, staring up at rolling waves on the plastered ceiling. Hazel felt as if she, and her family, were on a boat in those waves, lost at sea while searching for Mom.

At first, Hazel hated the idea of leaving their old home. But Dad had explained that they needed this fresh start, and that things would get better. He couldn’t promise when Mom would come home, but if they didn’t move into the manor they’d have no home for her to come back to. Then he said that maybe this was a blessing, a sign that things were about to improve.

Maybe, she’d agreed before he left to sign a stack of paperwork. Plus, if the place really had ghosts, Mom’s might come.

Hazel heard footsteps outside Dad’s open door, and looked up. It was the old man, who asked to be called Carter rather than Mr. Carter. It felt odd to call an adult by just one name, but Hazel didn’t want to offend him.

“Hungry?”

She was hungry — Hazel hadn’t had a bite to eat since the wrapped sandwiches that the driver, Johnston, had given them after they climbed into the back of his car.

“Yes,” she nodded, hand on her stomach.

Mr. Carter looked at his watch. “Looks like your tummy knows what time it is. Lunch will be ready in a few. How do you feel about picking out your room? Jacquelyn can come and get you when lunch is ready.”

Hazel nodded. “Can I look around the house?”

“Certainly, Miss Hazel. It’s your house now. Feel free, explore.”

Mr. Carter left. She stood from Dad’s giant bed, stepped out into the hallway, and walked the corridor, gliding her fingers over the richly textured walls. They felt so thick and old compared to those back home. Like the rest of the manor, the tall, wide walls made her feel small. The manor was massive, almost magical, with all its unknown nooks and long walls covered with ancient photos and paintings of people long since dead.

Hazel wondered how many people had lived in the manor, how many secrets it held. She wondered what lay in wait behind every closed door, particularly the one they were forbidden to open.

Even though she’d only just met Mr. Carter, he seemed weirdly familiar. He reminded her of someone, though she couldn’t imagine who. Maybe an actor she’d seen in some movie. He seemed like some of the older people in the nursing home her mom used to bring her to at the holidays, someone you instantly liked, and who liked having kids around because it had been so long since they’d been with any.

Hazel loved that everything in the house felt so big and wonderful: Tables and chairs were so large, and the wood shiny; cushions were fat; drapes were rich in color, thick fabrics with multiple layers. But more than anything, Hazel loved that the manor reminded her of Mom. Amid the antiques, much of the manor seemed new, with built-in wall screens and paper-thin computers. There was an odd scent that Hazel couldn’t place — not necessarily unpleasant, but something under the surface of the home’s mostly pleasant odors. The scent, like Mr. Carter, seemed somehow familiar.

Hazel opened a door at the end of the hall, swallowing hard as she planted her foot onto the deep burgundy carpet.

No.

She felt it immediately. Like someone was in the room with her, watching.

Is it Savannah? Is she showing herself to me again?

Hazel stood in the room’s center, arms tingling like the back of her neck.

She looked around the room, trying to see the unseeable.

“I see you,” she said softly, holding her breath, hoping to provoke a response and prove the feeling wasn’t in her head. But at the same time, if something had responded, Hazel might have screamed. And if she did, Dad might change his mind, and make them leave the house.

And for some reason, the longer Hazel stayed in the house, the more of a connection she felt with her mom.

She waited for any sign.

Nothing.

Hazel exhaled.

It’s just my imagination.

She waited for the feeling of being watched to subside, replaced by one of stupidity for being so dramatic.

She went to the poster bed, sat on its edge, then fell back against the pistachio-colored sheets. This room was pretty. Maybe the prettiest she’d been in, though smaller, and one of only two she’d seen without a built-in wall screen. The room felt slightly warmer than the hallway. A few degrees but noticeable. She tried to focus, but her eyes began to water and blur. Hazel felt exhausted.

She rolled to her side and closed her eyes. She was so tired of feeling like she might be going crazy and having what was left of her family wondering if she was. It was awful, wondering if the things in your head were real and being afraid to say anything out loud.

Maybe the manor would change things. For one, even Mr. Carter said the house was haunted. So if a grown-up as smart and old as him believed in ghosts, maybe Hudson and Dad would finally believe her, at least a little when she said she heard Mom’s voice. Not that she thought her mom was a ghost, but maybe they’d believe that she was still out there alive, and somehow visiting Hazel in her dreams — even if she couldn’t tell Hazel where she was or why she left. The visitations were like regular dreams in many ways, with Mom not really acting like anything was wrong. But, at the same time, they felt different, more real than dreams felt.

Maybe now that they had a place to live, and the money to live like they wanted, Dad wouldn’t spend every second so stressed. Maybe if he wasn’t always worried, he and Hudson would get along. And maybe if Hudson was getting along with Dad, he wouldn’t be such a jerk.

Maybe if everyone was happy, they could try harder to find Mom, or find out what happened to her.

Hazel began to drift off until she felt a chill at her neck, and heard a whisper. “Hazel.”

She wanted to turn around and see if someone was behind her, but didn’t dare. If she did turn, then saw someone, she’d probably die on the spot.

No, it’s just my imagination.

Hazel listened, waiting to see if she’d hear it again. Often, as she fell into sleep, Hazel heard her mother in whispers like this one.

But this whisper didn’t seem like Mom’s; this was different.

Hazel waited.

A soft knock on the door sent her upright in bed.

When did the door close?

“Yes?” Hazel barely managed before clearing her throat and trying again. “Yes, who is it?”

The door opened to a pretty brunette girl. “Hi. Can I come in?”

“Sure.”

The girl, who looked to be in her early twenties or younger, opened the door all the way, walked over to Hazel, and stood at the bed’s edge, holding an iPad.

“I’m Mara. It’s great to meet you.” She held out her hand.

Hazel took it. “Time for lunch?”

“Sure is. Wanna follow me?”

“Okay.” Hazel added “Sorry” on her way to the door.

“Why?” Mara asked as she stepped into the hallway.

“There are so many doors. You must’ve had to open a lot, or you were really lucky to find me.” Hazel laughed.

“Na,” Mara waved her hand. “It was easy. See.”

She showed Hazel the iPad screen, and the readout displaying the manor’s many rooms, with a pair of red dots in their occupied square.

“What’s this?”

“We have infrared security cameras all over the estate.”

Hazel looked around the room for hidden cameras, but saw nothing.

“I don’t see any cameras.”

“Don’t worry, they’re only sensors, not actual cameras, so you don’t have to worry about anyone spying.”

“Okay.”

Hazel followed Mara down the hallway, wondering if there had been a third dot in the room a few minutes before.

* * * *

SCOTT

Scott was hoping he’d have Carter figured out soon.

The caretaker either wanted to make himself a permanent part of the Dawson clan or was the friendliest old man Scott had ever met. With the exception of his own father, who was as big of an asshole at fifty-nine when he died as he had been at forty-one when his only son had been born, the old guys Scott had known seemed to soften with age. Carter must’ve been a lamb in his prime. He had yet to leave their side since Davenport’s departure, and was now joining them for dinner, served by Jacquelyn and her daughter, Mara.

“So whaddya think of the manor?” Carter chewed on a grilled cheese sandwich. They were sitting in a large room that wasn’t a dining room even though the caretaker had said it was “only for eating.”

“I volunteer to never leave.” Hudson turned to his sister. “You can go whenever you want.”

Scott was uncomfortable, not because Hudson was piling on Hazel like always, but because Scott was reminded of his devil’s bargain: agreeing that they would all stay at the manor as conditional prisoners.

It was a ridiculous stipulation, with no way to change it. Looking around, what right did he have to feel guilty? The place was a palace, with everything they needed. They were no longer in financial jeopardy, and could leave the house and money behind if (and whenever) they wanted. Scott kept that rationale on the tip of his tongue in case either child raised an objection.

“You mean we’ll have opposite schedules, and I won’t ever have to see you?” Hazel said. “Sounds like a good deal to me.”

Hudson grunted, and the children traded glares.

Scott looked from one to the other.

“Either of you have any questions about the house, or anything at all? I’m sure Carter would be happy to answer.”

“Got that right.” He nodded and reached for another sandwich. “Ask away.”

Hazel’s words collided with her brother’s.

“Hold on! One at a time or none at all.” Carter pointed at Hudson. “I think you beat your sister by a hair, thin as it was, and you’re the eldest, so you go first.” He winked at Hazel. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. You can take longer when it’s your turn.”

Hudson smirked and turned to Carter.

“Did you ever know my mom?”

“Well, I can’t say I ever really knew her, but yes, I met your mother, back when she was small.”

“When did you know her?” Scott blurted.

Carter looked at his watch, paused in thought, looked back at the face as if it displayed years rather than hours, and laughed. “Hell, I don’t know. I can’t tell you when unless I figure your mom’s age now to her maybe age then. You probably want to know how old she was when I saw her, right?”

The Dawsons nodded.

“Well, and hold me to none of this — I’m sharp, but not like I used to be — I think I saw your mother here three different times, and I’ll say those times were when she was around seven, nine, and ten, or maybe eleven.” Carter turned to Hazel. “She looked an awful lot like you do now.” He pointed to Hazel’s head. “Thick brown hair, big pretty eyes, even browner. Nothing but cheeks and eyes!”

“Thanks,” Hazel said, looking down at the table, embarrassed. “Do you have any pictures?” she asked, looking back up.

Carter broke into a smile and nodded. “Yup. I’m sure I do. Nothing digital unfortunately, but we have plenty of archives in the record room, pictures, documents, and whatnots. The Galloways have always been fussy enough with their labels and filing, especially Alastair. He had to be, before computers started making everything easy. Give me a bit, maybe less. I’ll be back with some pictures. Your mom might be in one or two, assuming I can get this old manual computer to remember an approximate date.” He tapped the side of his head as he stood, then left the room.

Scott looked at Hudson and Hazel. “So, who wants to tell me what they really think of all this?”

“I think it’s awesome. Hazel thinks it’s boo-hoo-baby-cry.”

“Your sister hasn’t done anything to deserve that.”

“She will.”

Hazel gave her brother a dirty look. “I’m glad we’re here, Dad. I think it’s awesome. And I love my room!”

“Why are you glad?”

“Because it feels like Mom.”

Hudson laughed. “You mean it’s haunted?”

Hazel turned to her brother. “No, I can’t explain. It just feels like she’s with us.”

Hudson rolled his eyes but (mercifully) said nothing. He turned to Scott. “What do you think, Dad?”

“I think this is an amazing opportunity. Other than that, I don’t know what to think. I keep feeling like I should be searching for hidden cameras.”

Hudson laughed. “I have been looking for cameras! I saw a bunch of sensors, maybe an alarm system. Those could have cameras in them I guess.”

Hazel said, “Better not pick your nose, then.”

At first Hudson looked like he might fire back, but then he broke into a laugh.

Then they all laughed with him.

The Dawsons kept going: Joking, laughing, and voicing doubts out loud. Their collective mood improved as they debated life’s newest impossibility. Scott managed to get each child to say their favorite thing so far. Hudson said space and privacy — he was glad to be away from the jerks (Scott knew he meant assholes) in Las Orillas. Hazel said she was grateful for a place to start over where Mom could find them, and the chance to be happy again. Scott said his favorite thing was the feeling that everything might finally be fine, and to put the past year behind them and leave it where it belonged.

Things felt almost natural, better than they had in a while. Enough so that when Carter returned with the photos, Scott wished that the old man had taken longer, so the moment wouldn’t end.

Carter hefted a large wooden box, about the size of five coffee table books stacked together, onto the tabletop. “Sorry it took so long.”

The Dawsons dug through the box as if sifting for treasure. Hazel found something first. “I found one!” Then a second later, “This whole stack is hers! She’s in a bunch!”

Carter passed the stacks around, scattering photos across the table. Most were of Holly alone, playing in the gardens, reading in the gazebo, and splashing around in what looked like a temporary pool.

Seeing her in this place, a place she’d never told him about, with a family she’d never mentioned, made Scott feel like he was peeking into a secret past. And it made him wonder what other secrets she might have been keeping. Maybe she had a secret family out there now, another husband, other kids, whom she was settled down with.

He was about to stop looking before the feelings of betrayal surged even stronger, when two photos caught his attention.

The first was Holly in bed, reading a book. From the ceiling’s slant and the window in the background, Scott could see she was staying in Hazel’s chosen room.

“That’s my room!” Hazel pointed at the photo. “Is that where Mommy stayed?”

“Why yes, it was,” Carter said. “How interesting.”

Hazel held the photo, staring at it, smiling.

The second photo was of a much younger Carter holding Holly in his arms. The caretaker stared down into the girl’s eyes. She looked up at him, smiling.

“Hey, that’s me!” Carter yelled, jabbing the photo. “I remember that picture. Heck, I remember that day!”

“Why isn’t there anyone else?” Scott asked. “Where are Holly’s parents? Weren’t there any cousins? Why is she the only one in these pictures?”

“Because that was taken on Holly’s solo trip to Clovis Point. Usually, Alastair invited the whole family, but he also wanted to make sure that every child had the chance to visit the manor themselves, and experience it ‘as if they were the only heir.’ That was Holly’s week.”

“There are other heirs? I thought you said Holly was the last.”

“There were, three others, all unfortunately passed.” Carter looked away as if to say he didn’t want to discuss it.

Scott wondered if his reticence was not wanting to open old wounds, or if it was something else — something more secretive.

Hudson, still flipping through photos, asked, “Where’s Uncle Alastair?”

Carter laughed. “Ha! You might find a picture or two in one of those piles, but I doubt it. Alastair was a very private man, except around family. Even then he hated having his picture taken.”

Hazel asked, “I know you didn’t know her well, but do you remember what my mom was like?”

“Of course. It’s the dates that give me trouble.”

“Well … what was she like?”

“A natural sweetheart like yourself, but a total chatterbox. Unlike you, your mother never stopped talking. Still, it was impossible not to adore her. She was about the happiest child I’d ever met. Alastair was smitten.”

Scott imagined the girl from Carter’s description, and wondered what he’d done to drive her grown version away.

“The first weekend Holly was here, she spent most of her time in the kitchen with Jacquelyn and her mom, Angelica, the three of them making preserves. Holly didn’t want to go anywhere else. The girls made plum, peach, fig, apricot, and grape. Instead of lining them straight in the pantry like Angelica always did, Holly set up sample stations and made us all try her ‘Holly’s Sweet Preserves.’ She made labels, with her name and a logo, all drawn with colored pencils.”

Carter paused, and leaned toward Hazel. “Sorry, dear. Looks like I’ve gone and got you thinking about your mother.”

“It’s okay. I think about Mom all the time, anyway. It’s nice to hear stories.” She looked up. Scott knew what she was going to say before she did. “Sometimes Mom still talks to me.”

“Really?” Carter’s eyebrows and voice said he was surprised, but Scott’s instincts said otherwise. He wondered if the old man had overheard them talking about Holly. He couldn’t remember if Carter had been present during any of the times when Hudson had hazed his sister over supposedly hearing their mother.

Hudson pointed an accusing finger at Hazel. “That’s not true. She’s either a liar or crazy, I happen to think it’s the first.”

Ignoring Hudson, and eyes still on Carter she said, “My brother’s not stupid, he just can’t see what’s right in front of him.”

“You are so stupid. Mom’s not talking to you. You act like she’s a ghost coming back to make sure you brushed your teeth.”

“I didn’t say she was a ghost.”

“Oh yeah, then what is she?”

Scott watched his children, unsure (like usual) whether he should cut in.

“I don’t know. But that doesn’t make me a liar. You’re just mad that Mom doesn’t want to talk to a jerkface.”

Hudson was a blink from explosion. He turned toward his sister, using his size to bear down on her. Scott stepped between them and spread the siblings apart with his arms.

“What is wrong with you two? Both of you, stop it!”

His heart was pounding. Hudson’s quiet but physical threat to Hazel made Scott want to pick up his son and drag him through the room like an old roll of carpet, then pound the dust from his body like Scott’s old man used to pound it from his. He had a hand around each of his children’s arms, just above the elbow. He let go of both, shaking his head.

Carter stayed quiet through their discord. When he spoke, his voice was softer, almost like a different man. “It’s quite all right. Tensions will be high. The manor is new to you, but full of old memories that may stir something inside you. You’ll have to acclimate, to this place, and to one another while living inside it.”

Carter turned to Hazel and, as if it were a perfectly serious question, asked, “How do you know your mother is actually speaking to you? Have you considered that it might all be in your head?”

Galloway Manor’s caretaker asked Hazel what Scott hadn’t been able to — though Hudson had accused her plenty — in the six months since she’d started hearing the voice.

“Because Mom wouldn’t just leave us. She isn’t like that. She said she couldn’t come back from where she was, but that she was trying. She wanted me to know, and asked if I would tell Dad and Hudson. I did, but they don’t believe me.”

“Hazel …” Scott started.

Hudson growled, “Oh, yeah, if Mom’s really talking to you, why doesn’t she tell you where she is, or why she left in the first place?”

“I don’t know,” Hazel said. “I’m not sure if she knows.”

“How convenient! I’m so sick of this, it actually makes me miss your second-grade baby talk. And you,” he turned on Scott, “what’s wrong with you? Why are you such a quitter? There’s no way I would have given up on Mom … not like you did.”

“I didn’t give up on—”

“Yes, you did,” Hudson said, resentment rolling from his throat. “Why aren’t we looking for her? Why aren’t we searching for Mom right now? Why haven’t we hired a private investigator?”

Scott was surprised. He thought Hudson believed that Holly was dead. Had he changed his mind? Did he now suspect what Scott did — that she’d simply left them? If so, did Hudson blame him?

“I did hire a private investigator. But after two months, I ran out of money. We couldn’t make our mortgage. We were living on credit cards. Do you know how much a decent PI costs? We could barely afford food, Hudson. Get outside of your head for a second and ask yourself what you would really do.”

“Why didn’t you tell us you hired someone?”

“Because I didn’t want to raise anyone’s hopes.”

“You should’ve told us when you couldn’t pay him anymore. Or better yet, you should’ve found a way. I wouldn’t have given up. I would’ve found a way, no matter what. That’s what Mom would’ve done, and you know it. You just better hope that when she eventually finds us here at Casa Giganta she’ll be able to forget that you quit on her.”

“I did not give up, Hudson. Until now, we haven’t had any resources. Now, we can do something, now we can hire someone again to find your mother — to find my wife. But this is exactly what I don’t need. None of us does. Get a hold on your emotions.” Scott turned to Carter. “We can use the money for whatever we want, right? Including searching for Holly?”

“Of course. As Mr. Davenport said, the money is yours so long as you’re here.”

“Well, let’s hope it’s still better late than never,” Hudson said, then stormed from the room.

Scott waited for the door to slam, then smiled awkwardly. “I’m very sorry.”

“Think nothing of it, Mr. Dawson. I can’t imagine many better ways of spending your money than an attempt to locate Holly, though I must warn you not to get your hopes too high. Alastair conducted a very thorough search with some of the country’s finest investigators and found nothing. Of course, things change, but I’d hate to raise your hopes, or theirs.”

Carter’s words were bullets leaving exit wounds in his hope. Scott couldn’t bear to look at Hazel, certain she was crying, and was startled when her hand found his.

“Don’t worry, Daddy. We’ll find her.”

He met her eyes, and thought how damned lucky he was to have such a sweet, compassionate daughter. He loved her faith and admired her confidence, but hated how both swore to her that Mom was coming home. The more certain she felt, the harder it would be when she finally realized that Holly was gone and never coming back.

It was all Scott could do not to burst into tears.

“I need to use the restroom.” He stood. “I’ll be right back.”

Then Scott left the room and went down the hall, holding his tears until no one could see them.

* * * *

SCOTT

Scott returned and found Carter with his daughter in happy hysterics. She was doubled over, arm clutched under her stomach, gasping for breath. Carter, also, laughing, slapped his knee and said, “Then the pig, who also had four spots — like the cow and Mrs. Jennings — well, he starts peeing down his leg. Mrs. Jennings says, ‘Well, looks like the choice is made for me. I’ll have to stop drinking!’”

Carter barely managed to crack the last few words before a rattle of laughter stripped his breath and left him wheezing.

Hazel seemed relaxed around the old man. She’d never had a grandfather, and while Carter could never be a substitute for the real thing, if Galloway Manor was to be their home and the old man was a part of that home forever (which Davenport had made clear that he was), then Carter was cast into their lives for the foreseeable future. In that light, perhaps he’d be a good influence on Hazel.

Scott took a seat across from his daughter.

“Sounds like I missed some funny stuff.”

“I told Hazel she could have all the Holly pictures.”

“Thank you,” Scott said. “That’s very kind.”

“Nothing of it. Everything here in the manor is yours, including pictures. I might as well help you find the ones you’d want.” He turned to Hazel. “Would you like to ask your father?”

“Ask me what?”

Hazel smiled. “Carter said I could paint, and that there was a studio out back, with glass walls and a bamboo floor, all the canvases I want, and cabinets filled with every color!”

Carter winked. “I bet there are forty-seven shades of red.”

“That sounds wonderful, Hazel. I’m sure you’ll have fun.” Scott paused, unsure of what he was being asked. “Do you know your way to the studio?”

“I’m going with Mara. If it’s okay with you.”

“Of course it is. Have fun.”

He looked at Hazel’s smile, and wanted to enjoy it, but couldn’t help wondering how long he could keep her happy. How long before she “saw” her mom again and everything came crashing down?

Scott heard Holly in his head, telling him to accept what the universe offered and stop suspecting everything. But he found it hard to accept — or understand — what the universe wanted for him. Unless it was something bad, which Scott somehow felt he’d always deserved. He thought of Holly telling him to let go of his father’s shitty programming.

Your father made you, but you control the shape.

Holly would have believed that all of this was supposed to happen, whatever it was. Scott kept telling himself that if he’d done more of what she suggested, believed in the things that Holly had, then maybe she’d still be with him.

Mara appeared, and Hazel hugged him goodbye. He watched his daughter disappear then turned to Carter. “How straight do you shoot?”

“I assure you, Mr. Dawson, I never miss.” He smiled. “What are you asking?”

“What’s with the ‘haunted’ thing? Is it a game? Are we being messed with?”

“No, I assure you, there are no games here.”

“Is the house haunted? What do you think?”

“This house is old, and every room seems to have its stories. Some I believe, some I do not. Some I’ve seen, many I’ve merely heard. What exactly are you asking?”

Carter wasn’t threatening, nor did he sound defensive. His words were friendly, his tone matter-of-fact.

“Tell me about the girl Hazel said she saw, the blonde in the window. You said it was an accident, but I don’t think that’s all there is to the story.”

Something ugly swallowed Carter’s face. He seemed to fight a bitterness, twitching his mouth at the corners and tightening his expression. His folksy accent faded.

“I said I’d shoot straight and meant it, but that might be this manor’s darkest story. Speaking of Savannah makes me … uncomfortable.”

Scott waited for the man to continue.

Carter looked down at folded hands. “Savannah was Alastair’s daughter, the most delightful girl you could’ve ever known. Until she wasn’t. This sweet, sweet girl, who had never given her tutors a speck of trouble, was suddenly acting possessed.”

“Possessed?”

“There’s no other word for it, Mr. Dawson. Savannah had tics like you can’t imagine. She started punching and kicking, half the time screaming that her skin was alive and crawling. Alastair thought it was hormones, because love made him blind.”

“What was it?”

“Something much, much worse, Mr. Dawson. I think she had mental issues that Alastair couldn’t, or refused, to see. We all tried to help, but by the time Alastair came around to realizing what it was, Savannah’s mood was black enough to block the sun. Stayed that way for six months.”

Scott somehow knew already, but asked anyway. “What happened after six months?”

“Savannah took her own life. In the tub, with a razor.”

“Why?”

Carter shook his head, looking withered. Scott reached out and set his hand on the old man’s trembling shoulder. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pushed you.”

“It’s okay, really.” He shrugged. “It hurts less each time.”

“Is that true? That it hurts less?”

“No.” Carter gave Scott an ugly smile.

“And have you ... seen her?” He couldn’t help himself. “Savannah’s … ghost?”

Carter took a while to answer, and seemed ancient once he did.

“Who hasn’t thought they might’ve seen something when alone with the night? Love and sorrow do make for easy ghosts. What I really hear you asking, Mr. Dawson, is if Galloway Manor is safe for your family. To that, I say yes, this is the safest place in the world.” Carter turned the tables: “Do you believe Hazel’s really seeing Holly?”

“Like you said, Carter,” Scott stared out the window, “love and sorrow make for easy ghosts.”

* * * *

HAZEL

“Good night.”

“No!” Hazel cried out, trying to pout but giggling instead, just like she had through the last ten minutes invested to keep Dad in the room. She’d run out of reasons a while before, and his patience was officially thin.

“Come on, Hazel. I’m exhausted, and it’s late. We have one week of summer left. Time to start getting ready for a school schedule.”

“Why? We’re not going to school.”

“You are going to school, you’re just going here. You still need to get up early and stay alert through the day.”

“I’m sure I’ll be fine, Dad. A few more minutes together before bed won’t hurt.” She patted the comforter. “Come on. Tell me a story. How about Lucky Dragon? I like that one.”

“Good night, Hazel.”

“Dad!”

“Hazel?”

“Say goodnight to Rawhide Strawberry.”

“I already said goodnight to Rawhide Strawberry.”

In addition to Hazel’s cowgirl doll with the reddish-blonde hair that she’d brought to the manor from Las Orillas, Dad had also said goodnight to Dusty Pillowbox and Jenny Lemontree, two times each already.

“One more time.”

“No, Hazel.”

Dad stood with his back three inches from the thinly parted door. He slipped through the opening, closed it, and sealed Hazel in darkness that wasn’t really all that dark because of the full moon sitting fat outside her second-story window. Moonlight pouring through the thin white drapes bathed the room in blue.

After Dad left, Hazel closed her eyes, wanting to sleep despite not feeling particularly tired.

Suddenly the room grew cold, sending goosebumps up her arms. She pulled the blanket tighter around her, but after a few minutes, the blanket felt like ice.

Hazel sat up and opened her eyes, figuring she’d get out of bed and grab another blanket from the closet. But instead she was frozen in place, no longer alone in the room.

Savannah was sitting on the floor, with two other girls.

Hazel’s heart beat like a drum in the silent night.

No, no, no, no. You’re not here.

The girls didn’t seem to notice Hazel, all gathered around something just below her field of vision. Maybe they were playing with dolls, or a board game. They were talking and laughing, though Hazel couldn’t hear what the girls were saying.

They were fading in and out, as if unsure whether they were going to stay. As she continued to stare, Hazel got the distinct impression that she wasn’t seeing ghosts so much as memories of something that had happened in the room. Memories like stains of the past making themselves visible.

The girls vanished the moment she thought it.

She swallowed, waiting for her heartbeat to slow.

Suddenly, movement to her right.

She leapt, and fell off the bed.

Hazel scrambled to her knees and peeked over her bed to see Savannah, slightly younger than the prior version she’d already seen, staring at the wall, again not seeming to notice Hazel.

What is she looking at?

In the present, there was nothing on the wall behind Hazel’s bed, but maybe in the past there had been something there, perhaps a painting or mirror.

The girl leaned in to get a closer look at whatever was hanging on the wall.

Hazel watched, lifting her head a bit higher over the edge of her bed.

Savannah leaned closer, then reached out to touch the wall. Instead of the white paint that coated it now, wallpaper lined the walls in blue and pink florals.

Hazel was spellbound, watching, waiting to see something that would reveal whatever had drawn the girl’s attention.

Savannah leaned even closer, practically putting her eye against the wall, as if peering through a peephole.

Dread worked its way through her gut. Hazel couldn’t help but feel something terrible was about to happen. Or she was about to witness something bad from the past.

Savannah froze, hair draping her face, so Hazel couldn’t see what she was doing.

Hazel stood to get a closer look.

Savannah flickered out of existence.

Hazel was paralyzed, afraid to move, terrified that if she turned around another version of the girl would be right behind her.

Savannah reappeared, face against the wall, again. This time she also had her hands on the wall.

She must be looking through a hole or something.

Hazel slowly moved around the bed, drawing closer to Savannah — if she could get close enough, she might be able to see what the girl was looking at.

Hazel was five feet behind Savannah when the girl’s head turned slowly back and forth as if she were telling someone no.

Hazel fell a step back, fear piercing her like a blade.

Savannah stopped moving.

Hazel could only stare.

Savannah suddenly flew backwards, straight into Hazel.

She dropped to the bed as Savannah sailed through her and fell to the floor. Hazel hadn’t felt the girl’s body, but she felt something — like an icy wave crashing into her.

Hazel’s heart raced faster as she looked at the floor and Savannah’s still body laying facedown, then turned to the wall.

And there she saw it — a tiny hole with green light bleeding through from the other side.

Hazel edged towards it, eager to see what Savannah had seen, heartbeat pounding in her ears as she inched forward, her every fiber ordering Hazel to turn away or else end wind up on the floor as well.

But the hole called, and Hazel couldn’t resist.

She took another step until she was two feet away, close enough to reach out and touch the hole, but not close enough to see through it.

She was desperate to spy the other side, and had to put her eye to the hole.

A voice in her head repeated:

Don’t do it.

Don’t do it.

Don’t do it.

Don’t do it.

But Hazel did it anyway.

She saw a cavernous stone room where there was none in the actual house. An emerald light seemed to bleed from the stone, perhaps reflecting light from something she couldn’t see. The only thing Hazel could see was a stone fountain with a large stone crow rising from its center, dark liquid spilling from its mouth and into the basin below.

Blood.

Suddenly something small and dark started to crawl out of the basin, drenched in sticky, clotted crimson.

She squinted to look closer as the dark shape clawed its way to the edge, then shook the blood away.

The raven lifted its head towards Hazel and opened its bright yellow eyes, glowing like searchlights as they fixed on her.

Its beak opened. A horrible shriek cut through the room.

Hazel gasped and stumbled back, barely managing to stay upright.

And then the hole was gone, along with the wallpaper, replaced by white walls in the present.

She turned around to find Savannah gone as well, then waited for more stains of the past to appear.

But after a while of nothingness, Hazel went to the closet, grabbed a thick quilt from inside a cedar trunk, and returned to bed.

She pulled the blanket over her head, trying to calm herself. It took all she had not to go find her father and report all that she’d seen. But Hazel knew it would only anger him, and likely get another jerky response from Hudson.

She stayed put, hiding under the blanket, trying to bar the ghosts, stains, or whatever they were from her head.

Failing that, Hazel reminded herself of what Carter had said — ghosts don’t hurt anyone.

Besides, if she could see ghosts and memories, maybe she’d see her mother again, in either ghost form, or memories of when she’d stayed here.

Hazel loved that idea a lot.

As her eyelids gained weight, she turned onto her side and stared at the big moon through the window. She smiled as she remembered back several years, sitting in Mom’s lap at the old house in the big comfy chair as she read Goodnight Moon out loud.

Hazel drifted off to sleep remembering the picture book with all its reds and greens.

**

Hazel woke to a whisper.

She opened her eyes and heard it again.

“Hazel …”

She had to be dreaming, because the carpet was sand, and her ceiling was sky. Mom’s call was far off, somewhere that Hazel couldn’t see. She climbed from bed and trudged through the sand. It warmed her ankles on her way to the door. She opened it and stepped out into the perfectly normal hallway.

She looked left, then right, and started toward the stairs.

“Hazel …” Mom whispered again, seemingly from downstairs.

Though she’d heard her mother’s voice many nights since she’d vanished, Hazel had yet to see her — even in dreams. Another whisper, same direction.

“Hazel …”

She crept down the hallway, floor creaking beneath her timid steps. She followed the whisper and crept toward the stairs, ignoring her body’s chill as she found the first step. Her mind flared: X-rays of Savannah, not her playing, but as she’d seen the girl that first day, staring through the window, this time as bright-white bones under gnarled shadows.

“Hazel!”

The whisper turned insistent as she stepped down from the stairs. Hazel ran out the French doors, onto the back porch, then across the lawn to the white gazebo.

The whisper rang again — a trill in the wind.

“Hazel!”

She chased her mother’s music to the gazebo, until she saw her standing in the gazebo’s belly, a glowing goddess under the moon.

“Mom!” Hazel cried out as she raced into her arms.

* * * *

SCOTT

Scott sat straight up in bed.

Something was wrong.

With no tangible thought to drive it, he rolled over, swung his feet from the bed, and planted them on the carpet. Exhausted, he’d expected to fall asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. But something was bothering him.

Not knowing why, he walked to the door, opened it, and peered out into the hallway. A chill ran through him at seeing his daughter’s door ajar. He crossed the hallway and entered her room. The bed was empty except for Rawhide Strawberry, Jenny Lemontree, and Dusty Pillbox, all staring up dumbly — the dolls Scott had been cajoled into kissing goodnight again, after a two-year hiatus.

He didn’t know if Hazel was sleepwalking, a habit he thought she’d grown out of. Maybe she couldn’t sleep and was exploring the house. A tremor ran through him, a father’s certainty that she was in danger.

“Hazel!” Scott walked the hall, his heart thumping. “Hazel, Hazel, Hazel!”

Scott shouted louder as he approached the stairs. He’d hit the kitchen first, see if she was looking for something to eat. As his foot hit the top stair, he heard a squeak behind him. Scott turned, hoping to see Hazel peeking out from a parted door, but saw Hudson instead.

“What’s going on? More drama from Hazel?”

“Do you know where your sister is?”

“Sure thing. She’s right here in my pocket.” Hudson patted his navy blue gym shorts and waited for Dad’s order to quit being a jerk.

“I’m serious. She’s not in her room.”

“Okay, Dad. Let’s go find her.”

Hudson closed his door, went to the stairs, and followed Scott down as they both called loudly for Hazel. At the landing, he asked, “How do we know she’s not upstairs in one of those rooms? She was up there for a long time earlier today. Maybe she found something.”

“No.” Scott felt stupid. “I don’t know. She could be up there. I didn’t see her and panicked like an idiot. I didn’t even look in your room. I went straight for the stairs. Why don’t you check up there while I search down here? Hopefully, one of us finds her in the next few minutes. If not, we’ll figure out what’s next.”

“Okay.” Hudson turned back toward the stairs.

The manor’s creaks and groans were louder at night, more ominous, as if the house had somehow swallowed his daughter.

Scott’s heart beat faster as he went from one room to the next, finding only more darkness.

A sudden sound cut to his core. A small girl’s giggle — his small girl’s giggle — seemingly coming from outside.

He crossed through the parlor, set his hand on the long curved knobs leading toward the sun porch, pushed the doors open, and saw Hazel outside, sitting in the gazebo.

She was staring up at nothing, babbling to herself.

Scott ran down the steps, across a small swath of wet lawn, and into the gazebo. Relieved, he was about to reach out for her when he remembered the first time they found her sleepwalking, and how she hadn’t responded to him at all, even though her eyes were wide open. And how when he did manage to wake her, she was terrified, screaming for more than twenty minutes. After that, they managed to coax her back to bed without waking her.

He stopped short of touching her, trying to determine if Hazel was awake. She was looking up, as if someone were standing beside him. But Scott saw nothing.

“Close?” she said to the no one beside him. “Close where?”

Is she dreaming?

Hazel stared open-mouthed at that invisible something, eyes glazed as she swayed in some invisible breeze.

He reached for her gently, but Hazel anchored herself, refusing to budge, her eyes never acknowledging that she could see him.

His heart hammered harder.

“Hazel?” he said softly, touching her shoulder.

She stiffened more, still not meeting his eyes.

He’d never seen her like this. In the past he’d been able to maneuver her back to bed without resistance.

He reached around to try to pick her up, but she slipped away, eyes still not acknowledging his presence.

He tried to grab her again, but still she slipped away.

Each time she eased out of his grasp, she moved a bit farther away. His fear was that she’d take off — sleep running. And hell if he could catch her on his aging knees.

Scott had no choice but to wake her.

He grabbed her shoulders and shook her, preparing for the worst. “Hazel!”

She blinked until her exterior cracked and she met his eyes. His heart froze; he wasn’t sure what Hazel would do when she woke.

She smiled.

He smiled back, relieved not to have scared her. But her giddy expression was more unsettling than terror.

“Hi, Daddy.”

Hazel giggled, clearly happy, like she’d not yet realized she was in the gazebo at midnight, babbling into space.

“Are you okay, Hazel?”

She looked at him like he had asked an idiot’s question and blinked three times. “Of course, Daddy. Why wouldn’t I be? We’re all together again.”

He looked down at Hazel. “Who’s all together?”

“Mommy,” she said, tilting her head to look behind Scott, presumably at the same nothing from before. “Can’t you see her?”

She’d finally snapped.

Hazel was broken, with a heart and soul in desperate need of mending. Fortunately, they were in a place where Scott could finally find help. But tonight the things he could do were of little comfort.

“Your mom isn’t here.” He measured his words to keep her from freaking.

“Yes, she is. Can’t you see her?”

His heart broke as he shook his head no.

“Aw, I’m sorry you can’t see her, Daddy. She looks beautiful.”

Scott said nothing. What was there to say as he stared into the eyes of the madness claiming his daughter? What could he possibly do, what magic words could he conjure to cure her delusions?

She needed help — real help.

“Hey, drama queen!” Hudson yelled as he stepped through the doors and out onto the lawn. “You scared the holy crap out of us.”

“Hudson,” Scott barked, gritting teeth to keep his volume in check.

She turned to her brother, smiling.

“Do you see her, Hudson? Can you see Mommy?”

Hudson reeled on Hazel. He grabbed her by the arms, shook her, and rained her face with spittle. “She’s not here!”

Scott pulled Hudson away.

“Back off, Dad. She needs to hear this!”

Hudson turned back to an impossibly calm Hazel, kneeled in front of his sister, and met her eyes. “Mom’s not here, Hazel. You can’t see her. She can’t see you. She’s gone. Maybe she’ll come back. Maybe she won’t. But you need to stop lying to us, and to yourself.”

Something horrible happened inside Hazel’s eyes, as if someone had shattered the rose-colored glasses she’d been peering through, the ones that allowed her to see a mother who was no longer there.

She turned from Hudson to Dad, tried to say something, failed to do anything but tremble her lips, then finally cracked.

She collapsed into Scott, wailing.

He petted the back of his baby girl’s head, soothing her whimpers against him. He turned to Hudson. “Thank you for helping me find your sister. Please go to your room so she and I can speak alone.”

“Sure thing,” Hudson said. “Oh, and I think I saw a Barney DVD in the media room, if baby-cry-cry needs something else to help her fah ta sweep.”

“Please, Hudson. I don’t want to fight. Not here, and not anymore. Let’s leave the old crap in Las Orillas, okay? Can you help me, help me with Hazel? With all of this? I need you to.”

“Okay, Dad. Sure.” Hudson seemed to soften. “What do you need me to do?”

“Go back in the house and up to your room. Please. Let me figure this out.”

Hudson saluted — it only seemed half sarcastic — then left the gazebo and crossed the lawn toward the back stairs.

Scott led Hazel to a bench and sat with her, hugging his daughter tight, inhaling her silence along with the cool night air. Being with Hazel was different than being with Hudson. He was most comfortable around her, though lately that comfort had seemed harder to find. His moments with Hudson were rarely silent. The kid was like his mother, always saying something. Hazel, however, often sat next to her father, or hugged him, content in their quiet.

As he hugged her, finding serenity in the moment, she said something to shatter it.

“Who’s Karla?”

His stomach lurched, certain he’d misheard her.

“What?” he asked, trying to disguise the alarm bells screaming in his head.

How does she know about Karla?

“Mommy told me to ask you about Karla. Who is she?”

Holly would never have told Hazel about Karla. Hazel had to have found something … somewhere. Had Holly written something somewhere, something Hazel found while snooping?

Scott tapped his foot and chewed his bottom lip. “What are you talking about, Hazel? Are you saying your mother told you about Karla before she ... left?”

“No ... just now. And she didn’t tell me anything. She just told me to ask you about her.”

He tried to keep calm as anxiety stirred like a storm in his gut. Was Hazel messing with him? Did Holly put her up to this before she left? As impossible as it seemed, he couldn’t imagine how else Hazel could know about Karla.

He breathed in and out slowly.

One … two … three … four … five … six …

“Dad?”

“This isn’t funny, Hazel.”

“What?” She looked up at her father.

Checking his temper: “I need you to stop lying.”

Hazel stared at him, wide-eyed and wounded by the accusation.

“I’m not lying.”

“You can’t bring that stuff here. This is a new place, and a new chance for our family.”

“But I’m not doing anything, Daddy. I’m not lying. Mommy told me to ask you about Karla, so I am.” She clenched her jaw. “It’s not fair to get mad at me for doing what I’m supposed to do.”

“Hazel.” Scott felt suddenly exposed in the gazebo, wondering if they had roused any manor staff, watching from behind dark windows. “You can’t lie anymore, not to me or your brother. The stuff you say about your mom … it’s hurtful.” He drew a breath and held it, hoping things weren’t about to go from bad to worse. “What do you think you know about Karla?”

Hazel’s face was wet with a single line on each side. “I told you,” her shoulders bunched together. “I don’t know anything about Karla, except that Mom said to ask you.”

How can she know about Karla?

Holly must’ve told her before she left.

No ... Holly would NEVER have done that.

“Daddy? Who’s Karla? You have to tell me. Mom said so.”

Scott wanted to scream, but that would fix nothing. He had to find out what Hazel knew, and how she knew it. He also had to answer as honestly as possible. Old mistakes didn’t have to be new ones. He sighed. “An old friend.”

“Was she friends with Mom, too?”

“No, Karla and your mother were never friends. She was someone I worked with.”

“When you used to build houses?”

“Yes, when I used to build houses. She was a landscape architect. She made houses prettier on the outside.”

“Why did Mom tell me to ask you about her?”

Scott’s anger flared again. He tightened his fist hard enough to feel nails biting flesh.

“This isn’t funny, sweetheart. I need you to be honest with me. This is your last chance.” Through gritted teeth Scott growled, “Tell. The. Truth.”

“I am!” Hazel leaped up, tiny fists balled up and resting on each hip defiantly as she glared at him.

He wanted to stand, tower over his daughter, and take the wind out of her sails. Instead, he stayed sitting.

He met her eyes. “So, you’re saying Mommy was here, tonight? And that she spoke to you? You saw her … and she told you to ask me about Karla?”

“Yes,” she cried harder. “Why don’t you believe me?”

“Have you seen your mother before tonight? I thought you only heard her.” Scott studied Hazel in the moonlight, torn between anger at her lies and wanting to hear more. “What did she look like?”

“She was wearing her blue dress, the one with the red flowers, my favorite. And ... she looked blurry.”

Scott felt another horrible twist to his insides. The blue dress with the yellow flowers had been in Holly’s suitcase when she left for her high school reunion — alone as she insisted. He’d seen it when he went into their bedroom and pulled her away from packing long enough to tell her to miss him while she was visiting an old life from long before.

“Blurry?”

“Yeah, like out of focus.”

Scott swallowed. “What else did she say?”

“She asked me how I was. And Hudson.”

“Did she say where she was?”

Hazel shook her head. “She said she was close, but couldn’t say where.”

“Close?”

“Yeah. I wanted to know more, but then you came. She might have come back, but I think Hudson scared her.” Hazel’s voice cracked. “Do you believe me, Dad?”

She seemed to need him to believe her more than he needed her to stop acting crazy. What harm was a little white lie to get through this night?

“Yes, I believe you.” Scott ignored the voice that said he was enabling her madness and making things worse.

“Thank you.” Hazel threw her arms around him. From the corner of his eye, Scott thought he saw something flutter through shadows.

Great, now I’m seeing things!

Whatever he thought he saw was gone as he stared at the shadows.

“Let’s go back inside.” Scott scooped Hazel into his arms without thinking, carrying her like he hadn’t — like she hadn’t let him — in months, through the garden, into the house, up the stairs. Then he rested on her bed and pulled her covers up until she looked cozy.

Scott stayed with Hazel, lying beside her like he used to when she had trouble falling asleep. He watched as Hazel rolled over, her back to him, and waited for her breaths to become slow and deep.

Though she’d grown so much and so fast, Hazel looked so small and fragile, her emotional state tenuous at best. Tears welled in his eyes as he softly kissed the back of her head and whispered, “I love you, Hazel.”

* * * *

HUDSON

Everyone sat in the small breakfast nook, quietly eating and — Hudson figured — doing their best to ignore what had happened the night before.

He looked down at his plate, surprised to see it nearly empty. The food was amazing, all prepared by Garza, the manor’s full-time chef. The Dawsons had all sat together their first night, making long lists of everything they liked to eat most. Garza stocked the pantries and seemed to know the family’s preferences by heart in a day. Hudson was already looking forward to lunch, then dinner after that, all the while thinking about ways he could get away from the manor, and Hazel.

Something strange was happening between her and Dad, probably him feeling sorry for her like always. Hudson was sick of it, sick of Hazel, sick of everything, really, but was still glad to be away from Las Orillas. He swallowed his final bite of egg and set down his fork.

“I’m going to the movies.” He didn’t ask.

No one said anything.

Hazel gave Hudson a dirty look. Dad looked over at him, assessing, as if trying to figure out whether it was worth a fight. The old man, Carter, who seemed to join the Dawsons for every meal and conversation, invited or not, was mercifully missing.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

“There’s nothing to worry about, Dad. I checked with Johnston this morning. He said he was ‘at our disposal,’ and that we only had to tell him where we wanted to go and when. I already checked movie times. Dry Heat is playing at one o’clock, twenty minutes away in town.”

Hazel whined. “But I wanted to go down to Briar Creek. It’s not far, and Hudson’s not the only one who can ask Johnston for a ride. The creek is ten minutes from here, and I’ve been reading all about it. Seems like a great place to draw. There are lots of birds.”

“I called going to the movies first. You can skip in the meadow later.”

Dad looked at each of them, probably trying to figure out which answer would give him the least headache. Hazel glared at Hudson, surely working up some crybaby thing to get Dad changing his mind.

Carter was suddenly in the nook, pulling a chair from the table. He sat and looked at the Dawsons, one at a time starting with Hazel. “Maybe we’re all being a little silly.”

Dad looked at the old man. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I’m not sure Johnston offered alternatives when you were asking for a ride, but he certainly should’ve.” Carter crossed his legs. “Look, you can leave whenever you want, but you heard it from Davenport: If Hudson and Hazel are gone at the same time, you forfeit everything. If that was my reality, I’d leave nothing to chance. Know what I’m saying?”

Dad said, “No, I’m not sure I do.”

“I’m reminding you that caution means everything. You three’ve been through a lot, and it makes sense you’d want to find some peace and quiet to put yourselves back together. You’ve been fortunate enough to land in a place where you can do just that. And I’m thinking that’s not something you should squander.”

Hudson argued, “These rules are totally stupid. Who ever heard of a will where the winners are prisoners?”

Carter turned to Hudson. “If it seems like a sentence, then change your perception and see that living behind these walls is a gift. Alastair was a smart man, and knew just what he was doing. What seems like an exercise in misplaced obsession is perhaps a reasonable hope that your great-uncle can protect you from the outside world, even if it’s from the grave.”

Hudson shook his head. “Better to be free out there, than a prisoner here forever.”

“Again,” the old man gave Hudson an overly patient smile, “none of you is a prisoner any more than the rest of us. We live here, and we’ve been out there, and down to the last of us, we’re all smart enough to appreciate the difference. You want to go to the movies?”

Hudson nodded.

“Why?”

“Because I want to see a movie.” Hudson almost snarled, irritated at having to explain himself to someone who wasn’t even part of his family.

“And what is it you want to see?”

“Dry Heat.”

“Dry Heat?” He cackled, then said it again while slapping his knee. “Dry Heat?”

“What’s wrong with Dry Heat?”

“That the one where the special agent loses his partner while investigating some counterfeiting something or other, like an hour and a half before the guy’s about to retire — then the agent gets obsessed with bringing down the man responsible for his partner’s death, thereby risking his career?”

Hudson rolled his eyes. “Yeah.”

“No, it’s not. It’s the plot of To Live and Die in L.A., and a hundred other films better than that one. Know your history, son. And guess what?”

“What?”

“They’re all here. Every one of them. If it’s not in theaters now, you can get it at any one of the manor’s terminals. Roku, Apple TV, PSWhatever. And you—” he turned to Hazel.

She looked up.

“Why go to Briar Creek? The best land around here is on Galloway grounds. This place goes on forever, and there’s another creek running right through your property.” The old man jerked a thumb behind him. “We have everything you could want: Forest, creeks, and if you go far enough, you’ll eventually find ocean. There are markers that’ll tell you when you’ve left Galloway acreage. Stay between ‘em, and you’ve plenty of places to draw or think on the past.”

“That’s not the point.” Hudson grimaced. “Sometimes it’s nice to just get away.”

“That’s just conditioning, son. How many thousands of years did folks never leave the few square miles from where they were born? If you have everything you could possibly want, why leave? Habit? If so, why not break it now by building a new one? Of course, you’ll want to go, and of course you can. Each of us leaves every once in a while. But respect the rules, and there aren’t limits to the life you can live.”

“Here,” Hudson corrected. “The life we can live here.”

“Yes,” he smiled. “The life you can live here.”

Hudson didn’t want to argue, but was surprised to see Dad so silent. He expected him to argue for them, to ask the old man about the future, to wonder out loud what they would do if one of them wanted to trek through Europe while the other went to some stupid art school. What if they wanted to date, or get married? There was no way in hell Hudson was willing to stay a virgin any longer than he had to, especially now that he had money. People not leaving their homes for thousands of years was irrelevant. The world had moved on.

“Yeah, I’m still going to the movies.” He turned to Dad. “Wanna come?”

“We’ll discuss this later. As a family.”

Carter cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. “Well then, how’s everything else. We’re continuing to settle in nicely?”

The Dawsons exchanged nervous glances, the longest between Dad and Hazel. “It sounded like there was some commotion last night. Everything fine?”

Dad nodded. “Yes, everything is fine.”

The old man seemed to intentionally stretch their awkward silence, for maybe a full minute before finally slapping his hands on the table and standing. “Well, whether it’s the movies or the Creek, or a happily ever afternoon here, I wish y’all well.”

He smiled then stepped away from the nook, trading places with Mara, as if she’d been waiting for his exit to equal her entrance. She entered the nook, poured Dad more hot coffee, and cleared their dishes. She asked the Dawsons if they needed anything, got three no thank-yous, then left.

Hudson nodded at his sister, then asked his dad, “Why not tell Cooter about Freakshow’s oogey-boogey last night?”

“Because.”

Dad was on edge. Hudson pushed on anyway. Hell, he didn’t even know why he pushed so hard sometimes, it was as if some primal thing inside him was pulling the strings, forcing him to be a jerk.

And even in moments like this, where he recognized he might be going too far, he couldn’t stop. Didn’t want to stop.

“Because why?”

“Because I think that, for now, it’s best to observe.”

Hudson tipped back in his chair, holding his balance with a toe to the table top. Dad rubbed his arms, looking like he was using every ounce of self-control to keep himself seated, rather than knocking Hudson from the chair.

“So,” Hudson said, looking from Hazel to Dad, “how long are we really staying?”

“Forever,” Hazel said.

“I’m not staying anywhere forever.”

Dad said, “We’re not staying forever.”

Hudson pressed: “So, how long?”

“A while. I don’t know anything more than you do, Hudson. What do you want me to do?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Hudson shrugged, tipping forward and tucking hair behind his ear. “Maybe get some answers since you’re the leader of the family and that’s your job.”

“We have everything we need here, Hudson, but by all means we don’t want you to feel like a prisoner. Would you like to go? I’m happy putting this to a family vote. Who wants to stay?”

Hazel raised her hand, smiling her smug, stupid smile. “I vote yes.”

Dad raised his. “I vote yes. And Hudson, are you going to vote yes like I know you want to, or are you going to keep being a pain in the ass?”

“Excuse me for wanting to know the terms of my sentence.”

“You’re not a prisoner, Hudson. Don’t be so melodramatic.”

“Um … if I can’t leave, I’m a prisoner.”

“No, Hudson. You’re my son. That means that until you turn eighteen you’re in my legal custody. You’re no more a prisoner here than you were in Las Orillas.”

“Exactly.” Hudson plopped in his chair so that all four legs scraped the hardwood floor.

“Christ, Hudson. And you call Hazel a drama queen? Why are you being so difficult? I thought you liked this place. I thought you wanted to be here. I thought you wanted us to use the money we now have and start looking for Mom. I have Davenport reaching out to some people, and am doing the very best that I can. What’s with the attitude? What’s your actual problem?”

“Fine, Dad. You wanna know why I’m pissed?”

“Yes, please enlighten me,” Dad said, ignoring Hudson’s curse word.

Hazel’s eyes darted between them.

“If we’re a part of this family, why weren’t we consulted? You’re offering a vote now, sure, but why didn’t we get one when that lawyer pitched the deal? Why did you decide for all of us?”

“What would you have me do, Hudson? If I had asked for a vote, it would’ve been unanimous: three in favor of trading misery for a mansion. I didn’t have a choice. We were going to lose the house.”

“No, Dad. You were going to lose the house. I know, totally shocking after not paying crap for like half a year. You lost your business in 2011, maybe you should’ve looked for a job sooner, maybe tried to provide for your family.”

Hudson knew he should exercise caution — Dad’s face was already crimson — but he felt like a wolf smelling wounded prey and wanted to finish the hunt. He leaned forward. “Maybe you shouldn’t have mooched off the Woman of the House for so long that when she finally left, you didn’t know what to do.”

Hudson knew he’d gone too far. His jaw detonated with pain as Dad’s open palm smacked him hard.

Hudson flew from his chair to the ground.

Though his jaw was throbbing, he was more shocked than hurt. Hudson looked up to see his father standing over him, fists shaking, eyes full of rage — like he wasn’t done.

Hudson swallowed, frozen, wondering if Dad was actually going to hit him again.

Hudson looked at Hazel, his face and eyes stinging with rage and embarrassment. He was moments from crying, but damn it if he was going to surrender and give either of them the satisfaction of his tears.

Hudson scrambled to his feet and raced from the nook, refusing to look back, even as Dad called, “Get back here!” loudly behind him.

He tore into the kitchen. Jacquelyn and Mara, standing side by side and staring down into a large open book, both looked up. A tiny smile cracked through his rage as he stopped. He gave it to Mara. Dad’s hand fell on his shoulder and spun him around.

“What?” Hudson scowled.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

“For a walk.” He shrugged Dad from his shoulder, posturing for Mara. “I’m leaving the manor. Hazel can wait. I’ll be back before dark.”

“We’re not done here!”

Hudson met Dad’s eyes, still swallowing tears. “Yes. We are.”

Hudson turned, anticipating that Dad would grab him. But he walked away without resistance.

Hudson marched from the kitchen, through the hallway, and out of the house until he was descending the long driveway. He didn’t see Johnston, and didn’t care. A movie was merely a reason to leave. Dry Heat looked stupid, but it was the only thing playing in town that anyone would believe he wanted to see. He passed through the iron gate leading to the walkway and stepped onto the road, eager to put his family behind him.

Sure, Galloway Manor was a palace, but that didn’t mean it should be a prison. Hudson wasn’t pissed that Dad had agreed to keep them there. His decision was temporary and made sense. And he wasn’t just mad that his father didn’t consult with his kids. That was the tip of the list of what pissed Hudson off.

Under that was the fact that it was his father’s fault that they lost their old house.

And just under those two things were a lot of feelings that Hudson couldn’t quite organize. He’d had the growing feeling that his mother didn’t just vanish. She left them, because of Dad. While he’d been softer in recent years, Hudson could still remember how angry he was before Hazel was born. Violent and scary, always on edge — like he’d become recently. Or not just recently, if Hudson was being honest. There were moments of tension in the house before Mom disappeared. Small battles fought when they thought the children were sleeping. Something had happened, and Mom wasn’t happy. Maybe she’d discovered that the monster in Dad was only napping. While he hadn’t been violent with his children, he could have been with her. Maybe she knew a side of Dad that scared her into leaving.

Maybe she couldn’t take any more, and had to escape.

No, she wouldn’t leave us with a psychopath. That doesn’t make sense.

As he kept walking the road away from the manor, Hudson surprised himself with a pitch-black thought:

What if Dad killed her?

No, no way.

He might be a jerk, but he would not, could not, kill her.

Hudson remembered how Dad had looked when the police showed up, saying Mom’s rental was found on the side of the road, without any physical trace. He’d crumpled like paper.

No, he didn’t do anything. Someone took, and likely killed, her.

Hudson suddenly felt like crap for pushing Dad so far, but wasn’t willing to about-face back to the manor for an apology. He needed someone to be angry at for his mother’s disappearance; if he couldn’t direct it at Dad or Hazel, a long walk might help him blow off enough steam so he could be around people again later.

He tried to focus on the positive, like Mom would have suggested. They were in a new place, with a fresh life, and enough money to get whatever they wanted, or at least whatever Dad would allow. Finances weren’t the crushing worry they’d been. They had a place to live and full pantries. That was something. And the manor was awesome, the sort of place you dreamed of living. Hudson was acting like the spoiled brat he accused Hazel of being.

Even thinking of good things, Hudson couldn’t help but consider the bad. Not being allowed to leave meant home schooling once summer ended. School was the one thing that could have normalized their lives, and they couldn’t even go.

Who would’ve thought I’d want to go to school?

After walking for nearly half an hour and turning down a few side roads along the heavily wooded countryside, Hudson felt a deep and almost aching chill.

What if I get lost?

With their new fortune, Hudson was sure they’d all have smartphones, GPS, and whatnots in no time. For now, he felt slightly uncertain, and potentially lost. He knew how to reach Galloway Manor from where he was, but didn’t know how long that feeling would last.

About a mile, or maybe three, down the road, Hudson finally started seeing spots of life. He would walk for fifteen minutes between sightings, but had so far passed three large estates, all sprawling but none a quarter of the Galloway Manor’s size, two much smaller houses, a tiny stone church, and an ancient graveyard — the only place he stopped for more than a pause. Hudson studied headstones for twenty minutes or so, hoping to see something with his family name. He found nothing, and even being no later than noon, Hudson was too creeped out to stay long.

Eventually, Hudson had walked far enough that he reached what looked like a main street in town. There were children playing, and a group of older kids milling by what looked like an old-fashioned general store with a red circular sign painted on the front window with white letters that read: Joe’s Shoppe.

Hudson looked both ways, stepped into the street, then crossed. He surveyed the cluster — two dudes and a hot girl around his age — meeting the eyes of no one as he passed them on his way inside.

As he opened the door, Hudson realized that he’d have to circulate through the store, but buy nothing. He’d huffed from the manor wearing the same empty pockets he’d fallen asleep in the night before.

He pretended to look through the dairy section, the cleaning supplies, and finally the scant cereal aisle before the thin, balding man behind the counter asked him if he needed help with anything in a thinly disguised request that he leave.

“No,” Hudson said, heading for the exit. “But thanks!”

He opened the door and stepped outside, starving for a reason to stay and linger with his fellow prisoners of youth out front, but not wanting to seem desperate or dorky. They were dressed like they had money, but still approachable.

“Hey,” Hudson said with a nod at what looked like the oldest of the three, a tall kid with shiny black hair, maybe sixteen or seventeen, sitting on his bike and leaning over the handlebars at his two friends on foot.

The kid looked him up and down, then turned to the other guy and girl. The girl, pale with jet-black hair with blue highlights, stopped sucking on her slushie, and all three kids started to laugh. Hudson knew the chuckle: They’d been talking about him while he was inside.

Hudson wanted to disappear.

But then the guy on the bike extended his hand. “I’m Brian. This is my sister, Iris.” Hudson nodded at the pretty girl and felt his stomach churn as he met her piercing-blue eyes. “And this is my idiot friend, Josh.”

Josh, who had long brown hair that fell over half his long almost horse-like face, laughed.

Hudson took Brian’s hand and shook it, then moved to Iris and Josh.

“So, what are you doing in Clovis Point?” Brian asked.

“We just moved here. Me, my dad, and my little sister.”

Brian nodded. “Oh yeah? Cool. Where’re you living?”

“You know Galloway Manor?” Hudson glanced behind him as if the castle loomed over his shoulder, even though there was a forest of trees between them and the town. Everyone in Clovis Point surely knew about the manor — Hudson was hoping his potential friends would be suitably impressed.

By the look in everyone’s eyes, Hudson was suddenly interesting.

Brian asked, “You’re a Galloway?”

“I guess. Or at least my mom was.”

Iris pulled the slushie straw from her mouth. “Was?”

“Yeah,” he said as he mulled over how to best explain his situation. Telling people your mom vanished opened up a whole can of worms he didn’t feel like dealing with. “She’s dead.”

“Oh shit …” Josh fell a step back.

Iris said, “I’m so sorry.”

Brian rolled his bike a bit closer and half-whispered. “Seen any ghosts there?”

Hudson felt cautious. “What makes you ask that?” His hands clenched into involuntary fists which he hid in his pockets.

Iris said, “You mean … you don’t know?”

“I’ve heard some stuff, I guess,” Hudson shrugged. “But I’d love to know what I don’t.”

Iris smiled. “Where you going now? Have any plans?”

“Nope. Just had to get away.”

Iris looked at her brother, then at Josh. Both boys nodded. She turned to Hudson. “Come on, we’ll tell you all about Galloway Manor.”

Josh dropped his empty cup in the trash, and Iris did the same. They left the storefront, Hudson thinking about the kids back home, and how they would’ve tried to act cool by dropping their cups on the ground rather than the garbage cans. These kids were either more cultured, or didn’t feel the need to front. Brian pedaled ahead, making lazy circles around them as they followed.

Hudson walked beside Iris, trying not to be too obvious while sneaking peeks at her. From what he could tell, Josh and Iris weren’t an item, which meant he might have a chance with the prettiest girl he’d seen in a year or longer.

* * * *

SCOTT

“What?” Scott said, staring back at Hazel.

She’d been glaring at him from across the table ever since Hudson stormed off on his tantrum.

“Nothing.”

“If it’s nothing, then why are you looking at me like that?”

“Dunno,” Hazel shrugged. “I guess I just feel bad … about Hudson. It’s not your fault, though. He was being kind of a wiener.”

Scott raised his eyebrows and laughed. “A wiener?”

Hazel laughed back. “Yeah, a wiener. I’m not allowed to say the other word for it, am I?”

“No,” Scott shook his head. “Certainly not.”

He shifted in his seat, loathing the silence.

After a minute Hazel said, “I’m glad we’re here …”

He tapped his foot, imagining that Hazel would want to talk about the night before — about the gazebo, Holly, and things she insisted were there when they weren’t. Hazel would want to feed the something inside her that Scott could not understand.

“I just want to say thanks, Dad. Hudson’s being a jerk like always, but I’m glad we’re here.”

Scott smiled. “You already said that.”

Hazel still looked like she wanted to say more but kept her mouth closed.

“So, what do you think about finding one of the creeks on our property? Do you think it sounds as good as Briar Creek?”

“Probably,” she said. “Want to come with me?”

Scott thought about what he wanted, and what he should say. Hazel wanted him to go with her, and it would be good for them both if he did. If she could guarantee no mentions of Holly’s supposed ghost, he’d be thrilled to leave the house and explore the grounds, but he didn’t feel equipped to deal with her attention-seeking lies.

“Yes, I’d love to, but—”

“You have to look for Hudson.”

“Well, yes, but that wasn’t what I was going to say. I think he needs to blow off some steam. That’s fine. We’ll let him. But you’re right, I don’t really want to go exploring until after that’s settled. If that’s all right with you.”

“Okay.”

“Come on.” Scott rapped his knuckles on the table. “Let’s go and find something to read.”

He stood and held out his hand for Hazel. She looked, considering the offer.

There was a time that she’d never leave him open-palmed. But she’d withdrawn in the last six months, and he felt rejected. It was as if whatever had frosted between himself and Holly had spread to his relationship with his children. He flashed back to one of many occasions when Holly had said he was broken, and after one particular argument when she said he wasn’t worth fixing.

He wondered if he could be fixed. Or, more importantly, if he could fix the broken relationships with his children. If ever there was a time to try, it was now. But he had to be patient and not surrender to his worst urges, as he’d done with Hudson just moments before.

Hazel had been looking at his hand for no more than a few seconds, but it felt like forever. Then she finally took it and smiled. Scott’s heart swelled as they began walking.

“What do you think of the manor?” he asked as they entered the library.

“I told you, I’m glad we’re here.”

“No, I don’t mean that. I mean the manor itself.”

She stopped walking and looked up at Scott. “What are you asking, Dad?”

He was trying to ask Hazel about the house without her bringing up Holly.

“I’m just … surprised by how natural it feels here. It’s weird to say, but it’s almost like we belong.”

“I think it’s because of Mom.”

And there it is.

Stupidly, Scott said, “What do you mean?”

“I think you can feel Mom because she spent time at the manor. It’s like how you leave your fingerprints on stuff even if you don’t mean to. I think feelings are probably like that.”

“What else do you think?” Scott swallowed, almost afraid of Hazel’s answer. But if he was going to fix things, he needed to listen to her, no matter what she had to say.

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know, or you don’t want me to think you’re making things up?”

“I don’t want you to think I’m making things up.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t lie and say I believe something I don’t. That’s not fair to either of us. But I want to be open-minded, and for you to know it’s fine if you’re making things up and don’t even know that’s what you’re doing. We all do stuff like that. We all have our own ways of coping with Mom being gone.”

Scott could feel her need for him to believe her. He kneeled, squeezed her hands tighter, and looked into her eyes. “You know what, honey?”

“What?”

“I want to hear what you have to say, Hazel. Please, tell me what you’re thinking.”

After a long silence Scott felt her fingers flex inside his, hoping after he offered to hear whatever she had to say that she wouldn’t bring up Karla again.

Anything but that.

She cleared her throat. “I think that when we leave feelings behind, parts of ourselves can go back to those places. Like we leave stains, and our souls can go from stain to stain, like they’re jumping from puddle to puddle. That’s why I think it’s good that we’re here.”

“What do you mean?”

“I think Mommy might have left stains behind while she was here, and can use them to come back. Even if she’s dead, I think here, in the manor, that doesn’t matter.”

Scott didn’t know what to say. Did she really think that Holly could come back from the dead? Or was she just making things up to cope?

“Did I say something wrong?”

“No, Hazel.”

“Do you think Mommy will find us?”

“I do,” he lied.

* * * *

SCOTT

After reading with Hazel, Scott searched the grounds for Carter, but couldn’t find the caretaker in any of his usual spots.

The old man is always lurking around, all up in our business, but the one time I need him, he’s vanished without a trace. What the hell?

Scott was hesitant to leave the grounds in search of Hudson — an excursion that was now overdue — without checking in with Carter first. He had to find the old man, let him know he was leaving, locate Hudson, drag the boy back to the manor, then go out and explore the grounds with Hazel as promised. But as time kept ticking, Scott suddenly felt stupid for needing to check in. It wasn’t like he owed Carter an explanation. He was an employee of the estate, not Scott’s father.

Yet he did feel an obligation, almost as if this weren’t their house, as if they were guests and owed it to Carter (who’d been here forever) to explain what was going on.

Suddenly, just as Scott was about to give up, he heard Carter’s laughter coming from the kitchen.

He entered the kitchen and found Carter chatting with Garza and Jacquelyn. As the door swung closed, Carter’s face brightened. Scott wanted to ask Garza and Jacquelyn why the hell they were shooting the shit with the old man when both knew that Scott was looking for Carter. Both had promised they’d let Carter know when they saw him.

“Mr. Dawson! What can we do for you?” Carter’s smile was so warm, its return was inevitable. So wide and genuine, it was as if every cell of resentment swelling Scott’s last forty-five minutes turned to mist.

“I’m glad you’re in here,” Scott said. “I’ve been looking for you.”

Concerned wrinkles creased Carter’s brow. “Is everything okay?”

He didn’t want to go into details, or concern Carter that Hudson might be unhappy with their arrangement.

“Just some teenage drama, nothing to worry about.”

“What can I do?”

“Nothing. I just wanted to let you know I’m leaving the grounds to look for Hudson.”

“Oh my! You mean he’s not here? Where’s Hazel?”

“Right now she’s in the library with a stack of books, but I’m not sure how long I’ll be gone, and don’t really know where I’m going. I figured you should know that Hudson’s not here, and that Hazel’s by herself. Can you have someone look after her until I get back?”

Carter nodded. “Well, I’d love to get to know the girl a bit better. Whip smart, that one.”

Scott laughed. “That she is.”

“Between me and Jacquelyn, we’ll keep your girl plenty busy, and annoyed, with old-folk jibber-jab.”

“Speak for yourself,” Jacquelyn said. “I’m plenty young still.”

“Sure are,” Garza whistled.

Everyone laughed, Scott included.

Carter went to Scott and put a hand on his shoulder. “I wouldn’t worry too much about Hudson. He’s just doing what boys need to do. He probably went into town to check things out. I’m sure he’ll be back soon. All the same, I’d suggest having Johnston drive you into town. Hudson could get lost after all. Last I saw him, he was waxing Alastair’s Gullwing, now your Gullwing I suppose — a beautiful car, she is.”

“Thanks,” Scott said, then went to the garage.

Johnston waved at his approach. “Well hello, Mr. Dawson!”

The driver was doing exactly what Carter had said he would be: waxing Alastair’s old Mercedes — a beautiful car, indeed, colored a silver that shined like it was still in the showroom.

“Hi there, Johnston. How are you?”

“Just fine, Mr. Dawson. Just fine. Did you need to go somewhere?”

“Yes, but I don’t need you to drive. I was wondering if I could take one of the cars?”

“Well, of course, Mr. Dawson. I can’t think of a reason why not. Way I understand it, they all belong to you anyhow.”

Scott nodded, working hard to keep his eyes from the grass. “Thank you. Would you mind showing me around? Tell me where the keys are — you know, stuff like that?”

“Of course, Mr. Dawson.” Johnston led Scott to a second garage, much larger than the first. He pulled a small black disc from his pocket and pointed at the paneled wall until it parted from a seam in the middle. He pointed. “You can drive anything in there.”

The second garage held a gorgeous fleet of old and new vehicles: an SUV, a roadster, a pickup, two sedans, a motorcycle, and what looked — inexplicably — like some sort of small flying machine. Scott chose a Toyota Tundra, thanked Johnston for the keys, and pulled out from the garage onto the long cobbled road, winding down from the manor, through the gates, and out into the real world.

Scott didn’t see much more than trees as he drove. A few rich people’s houses, alongside relatively modest homes, a small church, a large graveyard, and then eventually he had the Tundra spitting gravel down the center of an old road with faded paint.

Scott parked in front of a small post office, got out, and started to walk along the quaint shops down Main Street, figuring that was where Hudson had gone. He couldn’t imagine him wandering in the woods, though that would be the first place Scott would look if Hazel had gone from the manor. Hudson would probably head straight for wherever he might run into other kids his age. He could see his son wanting a chance to start over with peers who didn’t know who he was or where he’d come from.

That was Scott’s primary concern with Carter’s homeschooling scheme. He liked the proposition in concept, and believed the old man when he promised that the children would learn better with one-on-one instructors, and that individualized curricula would easily eclipse the state’s best schools, but Scott also thought there was something (or many somethings) to be said for regular socialization.

In a way, Scott was glad that Hudson had stormed off, especially if he found him with other kids. It meant he still cared about normal teenager stuff and wasn’t as withdrawn as he often seemed. Scott walked a few blocks down Main Street, until too many stares prickled his skin. He felt unreasonably certain that every eye knew who he was and where he now lived.

Scott kept walking, telling himself that no one was looking and he was just being stupid. He reached the end of Main Street, crossed to the other side, then turned and headed back the way he’d come, planning to investigate the general store at the corner, then the gas station on the other corner, and see if maybe either clerk had seen Hudson. If yes, hallelujah. If no, he’d get in the Tundra and keep searching.

Though he tried to avoid it, Scott’s walk turned his thoughts to Hazel and the night before when she had asked impossible questions about things she shouldn’t know. He wanted to dig further, to find out why she’d really asked about Karla, but the topic was difficult to raise without him having to explain what had happened with Karla.

Clearly, Hazel had been sleepwalking, and in her sleep had dreamed of her mother. That was the only logical explanation. But how had she come up with Karla? Maybe she’d overheard one of their arguments and remembered the name, even without knowing the context. And perhaps she dreamed of Holly saying to ask him about her.

That had to be it.

Scott thought back to how he’d lied when Hazel asked if he thought her mother would find them.

Yes, he’d said, because it was the most expedient way to get her back to sleep.

Scott felt awful for lying and feeding Hazel’s delusions. He wished he could believe that Holly was coming back, but hell, he wasn’t even sure she could. Because in the deepest dark of night, when he was in bed all alone, he felt that she had to be dead. Worse, he feared they’d never find her body — a mystery forever unsolved, a hole left in his heart, and in his family, never to be mended.

But on other dark nights, he faced another fear: that Holly was alive, and that his affair had pushed her away. That it was his fault his children would never see their mother again. This was her way of punishing him.

He hated not only that he’d betrayed his wife, but that he might have turned someone so pure as Holly into someone capable of such hate and anger as leaving their family behind without a word of explanation.

The least she could’ve done was leave a note on her way out the door. Scott could accept the blame, accept the punishment, even if he didn’t feel like the children deserved it. He could accept anything if he just knew.

But not knowing was an emotional limbo where he didn’t know where to put his feelings about any of this.

He thought they’d gotten past Karla. It had been more than a year since Holly had found out about the affair, and while there were still issues in their marriage, they’d found a way to move on. But maybe Holly hadn’t really forgiven him. Once the ties of fidelity were severed, trust was impossible to weave back into place — apparently on either side of the marriage.

More than anything Scott wanted — needed — to see her again, to hear Holly’s voice, even if it was to tell him he was a bastard and she was never coming back. He craved closure, and in that way was jealous of Hazel, who (whether in her own head or not) was able to see her mom whenever she wanted.

Sometimes Scott wished he had Hazel’s blind faith. But faith isn’t practical. It’s only a disappointment waiting to happen.

If Holly was alive, or even if she actually existed in some ghostly form that was visiting Hazel, he needed her to know he was doing his best for their children.

Holly was a natural at mothering from Day One. It had seemed like some sort of cruel trick of fate then that Scott was the one who became the full-time parent. Not that they had much of a choice. He’d lost his business as hers was soaring. Each did what they could, but there was no arguing truth: Holly was better at parenting and making the money.

Scott had been jealous, but only in the way that one lover can envy another. Mostly he was proud, and committed to be a better parent because of her. It wasn’t easy, but with Holly at least it was usually fun. He’d always enjoyed their “parent meetings” each Sunday night, when they would bitch about the children over goblets of pinot. He appreciated them then, and missed them desperately now.

How could things go so wrong?

Life in general had failed to deliver the ample promise he and Holly had felt when first saying, “I do.” When they married in 2001, a year before Hudson was born, the world was different, and somehow more beautiful: Greener grass, bluer sky, and, as Holly had said, “Every day has the chance to be our new favorite.” Flowers bloomed, life was roses. Scott graduated from California Polytechnic and became an architect, like he’d wanted to be since he was a boy, before knowing he’d hate it. Holly said he was born to be a contractor while he was still paying tuition, and wasn’t disappointed in the least when he quit Clancy & White after only two years, abandoning a substantial salary regardless of loans that hung heavy like dark, rolling clouds.

Holly said they could do it and did. Scott was born to be a contractor. Business boomed almost immediately. Though not a dreamer, he followed Holly, who never stopped believing in him or herself. She was an interior decorator, and a damned good one. She blended old with new because she said one of the fastest routes to a boring room was getting stuck in a style or period.

Like Scott’s contracting company — Scott Dawson, LLC — Holly’s company, Dawson Design, was booked solid its first year. The Las Orillas Gazette called her “a revelation!” The Times agreed, and life was great.

They bought a house and made two babies, four wonderful years apart.

He never should have succumbed to Karla.

Everything, Scott was certain, would be different if he hadn’t.

I’m so sorry, Holly.

Scott stepped inside the store and approached the counter as the door closed behind him.

* * * *

HUDSON

As they walked to Horse-Face Josh’s home, Hudson could hardly take his eyes off of Iris. Yet, with her brother circling them on his bike, and Josh walking beside her, he had to be careful not to creep on her too hard.

Hudson hoped that life at Galloway Manor came with an allowance. He’d use every cent to buy some alone time with Iris. Every second softened her features and made him want her more. He was having a hard time walking beside her and not picturing her face on all the nude women he’d seen online, the only place he’d seen an actual naked girl.

Hudson forced the images from his mind as they ambled toward Josh’s house. The cyber pics felt wrong, insulting, and a pale imitation to the real beauty walking beside him.

After knowing Iris only for moments, Hudson knew she was special. He could tell by her smile: She was the sort of girl everyone liked, but that no one found intimidating because she made the world around her more positive. She seemed like the sort of girl who held open doors for people behind her, and said thank you more often than not. Her sweetness seemed especially sexy because of her sarcastic grin and naughty blue eyes that twinkled beneath raven hair.

He wanted to know everything about her. It was like she knew a secret he’d give anything to discover. But he had to intersperse conversation with the two guys so as not to only seem interested in Iris.

She waved her hands in front of her a lot while speaking, and kept them by her sides while she walked. She met Hudson’s eyes when asking a question or listening to his response, and despite her brother and Josh seeming to curse every other word, she remained relatively demure, swearing only for punctuation. When Brian accused her of having ADD she countered, “I don’t have attention deficit disorder. I have Your Shit Isn’t Interesting Enough to Pay Attention to Disorder.”

She was nice but not too nice, funny but not aiming to be the center of attention. Iris seemed like she was into Hudson, but was in no way fawning, and definitely seemed like she couldn’t give a shit about Galloway Manor or the wealth that obviously conferred. Best of all, she was smart, and unlike a lot of girls he knew, didn’t act dumb to seem cute, either knowing that intelligence was always more attractive, or simply not giving a crap either way.

Even though he wanted time to get to know her alone, Hudson was glad the guys were there. Being alone with Iris would have been so awkward. And bouncing one-liners off of the guys made Hudson seem a lot funnier than he might have seemed if he was trying to entertain her on his own.

She and Brian didn’t live too far from Herman’s, the general store where they met, a few blocks over and up. And Josh lived just down the street. After their short walk from Herman’s, they passed Brian and Iris’s, then parked themselves in Josh’s living room where Hudson felt himself feeling increasingly more at ease as they all joked around.

Both Brian and Josh kept suggesting that they go to Brian’s, or back into Josh’s bedroom. Hudson got the distinct impression that each time they said “it’s about that time” meant something specific, but he had no idea what. They played some Grand Theft Auto V — Iris showed a surprising zeal for running over innocent bystanders — while Hudson tried to make conversation by telling his new friends about The Last of Us, and making the stupid mistake of telling them that he liked to play God of War with his father.

Finally, Brian and Josh disappeared back into Josh’s room.

Iris whispered, “They’re going to smoke pot.”

“Oh.” Hudson didn’t know what else to say.

“That’s a euphemism: It’s about that time. I like to think my parents aren’t dumb, but a few times a week my brother says, ‘It’s about that time,’ then he and Josh start grinning like idiots. A few minutes later the back of our house smells like a skate park.”

“They do it with your parents’ home?”

“Yup,” Iris nodded, her eyes on the screen as she stole a Banshee from an innocent citizen. “All the time.”

“They have to know, don’t they?”

“You’ve never met my parents.”

Hudson laughed. “I think my parents used to do that … smoke weed.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. We were at the park one time, and someone must have been smoking. The scent was familiar. I asked my mom what it was. She said, ‘barbecue.’ Sure enough, I smelled barbecue in their bedroom a few times after that.”

“Your parents sound much cooler than mine.” Then, “What happened … to your mom?”

Hudson felt a lump in his throat, not sure what to say. Earlier, he’d said she was dead because he didn’t feel like talking about what happened. But sitting here with Iris, he suddenly wanted to share his world.

“Oh … I’m sorry.” She looked down. “You don’t have to tell me.”

“No. It’s okay. I don’t know if she’s really dead. She disappeared earlier this year. Went on this trip and never came back. Police found the car, but no sign of her.”

“Oh my God.” Iris paused the game and put a hand on his, resting on Hudson’s leg.

His heart raced. He wanted to hold her. Wanted to kiss her. Wanted to be with her. He wondered if it was wrong to be so turned on while talking about something so incredibly sad.

“She could still be alive, right?”

“I dunno,” Hudson said, trying not to play up his emotions. He wasn’t going to turn into his sister and start trading drama for attention. He wanted Iris to like him because of him, not because he was this sad kid who lost his mother. “My dad is looking for her, so who knows?”

Her hand stayed in his, and he tried not to act like he was noticing. This was the longest any girl outside of family had ever touched him, and he could feel his heart racing. He wondered if Iris could tell.

He looked at the TV because he couldn’t look directly at Iris while they were talking about his mom; otherwise, he might actually tear up.

A long moment of silence passed where he wondered what to say. Finally, he said, “Can we not talk about it?”

Iris pulled her hand away and looked down, “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”

You dumbass! Now you scared her away!

“No, no, it’s okay. It’s just hard to talk about. You all are the first people I’ve met here, and I don’t wanna bum you out, ya know?”

“Okay,” Iris said, returning her eyes to the game.

He felt stupid through the next few minutes, trying to think of something clever to say, hoping he hadn’t blown a good thing.

I should’ve just kept talking about Mom. Now I look like a jerk. Now she’ll never hold my hand again.

After a quarter hour or so, Josh and Brian emerged from Josh’s room, smelling like weed.

Brian said, “We’re gonna go see Dry Heat. You guys wanna come?”

Iris looked at Hudson. “Wanna go?”

He shook his head. “I just left the house. I didn’t grab my wallet, so I don’t have any money.”

Josh said, “You don’t need money,” as if it was Hudson was crazy to even suggest it.

“Huh?” Hudson said, “Are the movies free here?”

Everyone laughed.

Brian explained: “No, man. We go in through the back doors. Our friend, Nick Cook, works there and doesn’t give a shit.”

“Do you wanna go?” Hudson asked Iris.

She shrugged.

He turned back to Brian. “I’ve already seen it.”

“You’ve seen Dry Heat?” Brian seemed surprised. “But it just came out.”

“Yeah, but it’s the same plot as To Live and Die in L.A. How different can it be?” Hudson echoed Carter’s words, hoping to sound half as cool as he thought he might.

“We’ll stay,” Iris said, smiling at Hudson. “But thanks for the offer. She turned to her game as her brother hedged at the door, looking over at Josh.

“You sure?” Josh asked. “It’s supposed to be really good.”

“To Live and Die in L.A. is awesome.” Hudson worked hard to keep himself from laughing, hoping he didn’t cross the line from funny to being an arrogant jerk.

“Okay,” Brian shrugged. “Whatever. We’re going out. We’ll be back. You all can hang here, right, Josh?”

“Yeah,” Josh said. “My parents are in the Bahamas for the week.”

“Cool,” Hudson said as they headed out the door, leaving him alone with Iris.

His stomach started doing flips again as he tried not to overthink stuff.

Just sit down and play games with her and be yourself. It’s working so far. Don’t blow it.

“That was cool,” Iris said after a while. “What you said about To Live and Die in L.A. Is that true?”

“Not sure,” Hudson shrugged. “This guy named Carter said the same thing a few hours ago.”

Iris laughed. “Who’s Carter?”

“He’s like the butler at Galloway Manor.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. He’s worked there forever, like his father’s father before him and shit.”

Her eyes widened. “Wow.”

“Yeah …”

“So, what’s that like?”

“Living in Wayne Manor?”

“Yeah.”

“It would be cooler if there was a Batcave, or ghosts.”

“So, you haven’t seen anything?”

“Nope,” Hudson shook his head. “Unless you count the stupid shit my crazy sister makes up.”

“Your sister’s crazy?”

“Actually, no. She’s attention-seeking. Big difference.”

Iris opened her mouth, then closed it. After a moment she said, “So, do you like old movies?”

“Not as much as new ones.”

“Ah, I thought you might be one of those guys: Black and white is better!”

“No, not at all. I don’t go much further back than The Matrix, actually.”

“Wow, really?”

Hudson laughed again. “No. I like a lot of movies from the eighties. My dad made me watch a bunch until I finally cried mercy and started to like them.”

“Me, too! I think I’ve seen everything made in the eighties.”

“There was a lot of crap in the eighties. No way you’ve seen it all.”

“Okay, not all of it, but I have seen a ton.”

“What’s your favorite?”

“You first.” Iris smiled, and Hudson wanted to taste her.

“Are we going for favorite as in the best of the bad, or something we genuinely like?”

She shrugged. “Whatever you want.”

“Well, my favorite is Goonies.”

“Great choice!”

“Yeah, Goonies is awesome. I thought it looked dumb when my dad first made me watch it. But I was being a jerk. I’ve seen it like fifteen times now. How about yours?”

“Beastmaster,” she laughed. “Have you seen it?”

“Yes … but is that your serious pick, or something so bad it’s awesome?”

“Oh, I’m totally serious.”

“Why? Beastmaster is terrible!”

“Terribly awesome!” she laughed.

“Explain yourself!”

She paused the game, set her controller down, and folded one leg under her other as she turned to face Hudson on the couch. “You’re being too hard on it. It’s a stupid swords and wizard flick, but it kicks Conan’s ass because it doesn’t take itself seriously. There’s an evil priest, the sacrifice of an unborn son, a prophecy, a hunky dude who talks to animals, a hot slave girl, a hawk, two ferrets, and a black panther! It’s the perfect eighties movie!”

Hudson wanted to make a move, and felt time thinning. Josh and Brian might be gone for a while at the movies, but he would have to go home before too long. He was already in a world of trouble for leaving in a huff and didn’t want to turn that world into a universe.

As Iris went off on a tangent about movies today, Hudson could hardly concentrate. Between trying to read her signals, and looking at her beautiful face while trying not to get caught looking at her cleavage whenever she leaned forward, he felt like he was trying to spin plates on a circus high wire, over an ocean of lava, with sharks — exploding sharks.

The way she was turned on the couch, toward him, then tucked her hair behind her ears when he did, he thought she might be sending him signals to do something, but Hudson couldn’t be certain. He’d never had a girl flirt with him, so he couldn’t tell if the way she looked away then back at him, or the giggling, or frequent touching of his hand or knee was actually flirting or not.

Like a wimp, Hudson kept hoping she’d make the first move, but after a while realized that as cool as Iris was, that wasn’t going to happen. His hands were curious, and longed for her body to answer his questions. He grazed her skin with his eyes, deciding where he would touch her first, deciding to steer clear from her breasts unless invited. But as he thought about touching her breasts, he suddenly realized that he’d been staring at them longer intended.

He looked up and met her eyes, staring at his.

Busted!

She burst out laughing. “Take a picture, it’ll last longer.”

“What?” Hudson said, as if he didn’t know, and felt his face burn with embarrassment. He lowered his gaze, hiding beneath his hair.

Iris lowered her head, peering beneath the shelter and smiled at him.

He looked back up, meeting her eyes.

“Are you going to kiss me or what?”

His heart couldn’t have raced faster if it were strapped with rockets and blasting into space.

He’d never kissed a girl. He wasn’t even sure he knew how.

What if I’m bad? What if I make an idiot of myself?

Time seemed to stretch like a band, and with it came the realization that he was pausing too damned long after a beautiful girl’s request for a kiss.

Do it, dummy! Do it now.

He did: Hudson held her eyes, leaned in, paused as their faces were an inch apart but not touching, then waited for Iris to meet him.

Their lips brushed, then smashed together. Her hair, or maybe it was her skin, smelled sweet, a scent he’d never inhaled before now, and now didn’t know how he’d lived so long without.

He kissed her hard, harder than he meant, then pulled away.

“You’re so beautiful.” He stared into her eyes, feeling stupid but meaning it so much that he wanted to say it again.

Iris kissed him back, just as hard.

After another minute of swimming tongues, he pulled back again. “I’m going to have to go soon. My dad’ll come looking.”

Hudson wasn’t sure why he said it, other than being exactly that awkward.

“Then stop wasting time.”

She pulled him down onto the couch, on top of her soft body. Hudson slowed, kissing her softer, slipping his tongue between her lips while trying not to slobber. How much tongue was too much? How hard a kiss was too hard? How soft was too soft? Where the hell did one go to learn these things? She tangled her fingers into his hair and pulled his face harder against her. He lost his breath and had to pull away again, this time panting.

She said, “You’re excited.”

“Yeah.” Hudson drew a breath, then returned to her mouth, lightly tugging her lower lip with his teeth and running the tip of his tongue over the top.

His hands found her breasts as she gently nibbled at his mouth. He knew what he wanted, of course, but had no idea if she wanted the same thing. If he was reading her wrong — which was entirely possible, he was a stupid fifteen-year-old kid after all — he’d be embarrassed enough to leave Clovis Point for eternity, plus Josh and Brian would probably both want to kick his ass.

If right, Hudson would return home no longer a virgin.

He kissed Iris more firmly and pressed his body harder against hers. She pushed right back and — Hudson was reasonably certain — she was giving him permission to do what he couldn’t stop thinking about.

He slipped his hand under her shirt, then her bra, hoping she wouldn’t protest. He’d see where things went after that. She moaned, inviting him to do more, so Hudson reached back, unfastened her bra, and readied himself for the rest of his life to improve.

And then, just as the surreal moment of pleasure promised to get even better, the sound of thunder brought the show to a stop — a loud pounding on the front door.

Iris pushed Hudson off of her.

He crashed to the floor.

“Is that your parents?” he asked, even though they weren’t at her house.

“I dunno.” Iris was up from the couch, adjusting herself. “Quick — go to the kitchen!”

Hudson was inches from panic. He felt as if he’d crashed into a brick wall going downhill on his bike. He had gone from soaring from the edge of eruption to trembling in the kitchen like a cat coming in from the rain.

“Hello?” Hudson heard Iris answer the door. A one-second pause, then … his father’s voice.

Dad?

“Yes, hello. My name is Scott Dawson. I’m looking for my son, Hudson. Is your name Iris?”

Both Dad’s question and her yes made it feel like Hudson’s heart would burst into chunky nuggets.

“Yes, that’s me.”

“Do you know my son, Hudson?”

He wanted to ignore it, but didn’t know how bad things might get. Dad had a way of playing like he knew less than he did, and if that’s what was happening and Hudson didn’t get in front of it, he could go from bad to the worst trouble of his life. If he was cool, he might be able to put this behind him, turn it into a funny memory, like the time he got caught going to the beach when he was supposed to be at his friend Ronald Gorman’s. Dad was furious when he found out, but laughing two weeks later.

Yeah, but back then Mom was there to calm him down.

“I’m here, Dad!” Hudson called from the kitchen.

He grabbed a full glass of water from the counter — he had no idea whose it was, how long it had been there, or if it was really water, but figured it was the best prop in reach — then went into the front room pretending to sip as if he’d just poured the glass a moment before.

Dad peered through the screen. “Hudson.”

Iris opened the door wider, then impressed Hudson by taking perfect control of the situation.

“Sorry about that, Mr. Dawson. Me, my brother, and his friend, Josh, just met Hudson over at Herman’s a couple of hours ago. We invited him to our place, figuring anyone who had just moved to Clovis Point would probably be looking for a new friend. We played games for a while — Hudson said you guys liked to play God of War together — but then my brother and Josh wanted to go see Dry Heat.” She nodded at Hudson. “He wanted a glass of water before going home. You knocked while he was in the kitchen. Now you know the rest of the story.” Iris smiled awkwardly, as if realizing how she’d sounded guilty as hell with such an elaborate explanation for such mundane events.

“Uh huh.” His dad grinned, looking surprisingly calm. He looked from Hudson to Iris then back. “It’s nice to meet you, Iris. Come on, Hudson. Let’s go.”

Hudson smiled awkwardly at Iris. “So, I’ll see you around.”

“See ya later.” Iris smiled in a way that promised more, then turned to his father. “Thanks for coming to get him. How did you know we were here?”

“I didn’t. The guy at Herman’s said I should look here.” He turned to Hudson. “I’ll let you two say goodbye; I’ll be waiting outside.”

Hudson felt a million feelings coursing through him at once: embarrassment, relief that his dad didn’t freak out, anger that he’d interrupted his one shot at getting laid, and — then, as he looked at Iris — messed up the closest thing he’d ever felt to love.

It was hard for Hudson to meet her eyes, but at the same time, he needed to see her, not knowing when he might ever again. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be. Hold on a sec, okay?”

“Okay,” he said, pacing as she ran into the kitchen, hoping his father wouldn’t get pissed at the delay.

Iris ran back, and slipped a piece of paper into his hand. “My number. Call me.”

“Really?” he said, hardly able to believe she wanted to see him again.

“Really. Someone has to teach you an appreciation of the finer movies of the eighties.”

She threw her hands around Hudson and kissed him.

It was all he could do not to shut the door and lock his dad out and get back to what they’d been doing. But given his lack of a condom, Dad’s cock blocking was probably for the best.

Outside, Dad honked.

Iris laughed as she pulled away. “Bye, Hudson.”

“Goodbye, Iris,” he said, though there was nothing good about this bye.

**

After a few minutes of driving, Dad spoke and killed the torture of silence. “So, did you have fun?”

“Yes.” Hudson was still mad, but also glad that Dad wasn’t ripping into him.

“She seems nice … Iris. Do you like her?”

“Yeah,” Hudson grinned. “She’s great.”

“I’m glad you made friends.” Dad cleared his throat. “I don’t want to embarrass you, so I’ll say two things then shut up. First: Don’t ever lie to me or leave the manor without permission again — under no circumstances whatsoever. If you do, I swear to all that is holy, you will never live to see another blue sky. And, number two: The next time you’re with Iris, or any girl, be smart. Honestly, Hudson, I don’t care what you do. Well, I do, but you’re fifteen, and I’m not about to stop nature, but please, please, please, don’t be stupid. I—”

Hudson cut the embarrassment at its knees.

“Got it, Dad. I promise, I’m not stupid.” Even though he was pretty certain that he wouldn’t have let something like not having a condom stop him from losing his virginity. Not with Iris. She was perfect.

They fell back into silence. Hudson realized that he felt happier than he had in a while, and he wondered how long it would be before he’d see Iris again.

* * * *

HAZEL

Hazel hadn’t left the library since Dad went to find Hudson. She had the reputation for needing extra attention and creating drama — even though she wasn’t creating anything, only reporting things as she saw them. It was Hudson stomping off like a toddler whenever he didn’t get his way.

The manor’s library was amazing. It had a lot of books that Hazel knew, thousands she didn’t, and a private cloud network with everything else she could read on a tablet. Hazel had always loved to read, but it was hard to get lost in other people’s worlds when her own had become so awful. But now, in the manor where she could somehow feel Mom, Hazel felt hungry to tear through every book in the library in hopes of finding ones her mother had read too. Perhaps the books would serve as a bridge not just to another world, but also back to her mother.

She was reading A Wrinkle in Time when the door opened and Carter entered the room. Dad had been encouraging her to read the book forever — it was one of his favorites as a kid — but she’d never been able to get into the story. This was the first time she found herself liking it. Hazel closed the book at page 47, the furthest she’d ever made it, and looked up at the caretaker.

“Hi, Mr. Carter.”

“Your father’s gone to find your brother.”

Hazel rolled her eyes.

“I know,” he said, stealing her thoughts. “And they say you’re the drama queen!”

They laughed.

“How would you like to explore the house a bit? I’ll take you places that your brother doesn’t even know about, then you’ll get to be Little Miss Know-it-All if you explore together later.”

“Yes, please!” Hazel loved that idea. She set the book on an end table. “Mind if I leave this here?”

“It’s your book and your house, Ma’am.”

Hazel smiled. It was surprisingly nice to be called Ma’am. “So, where are we going?”

He put a finger to his chin. “Not sure. Attics are always interesting and full of old stuff. How does that sound?”

“Awesome!”

“Well then, the attic it is. I’m sure it’s a matter of time before your brother wants to go up there, anyway. So you’ll get the lay of the land first.”

He winked then walked toward the double doors, gesturing for Hazel to follow. She practically leaped from her seat and scampered behind him, out of the library, into the hallway, and up several flights of stairs toward an attic adventure.

“Hazel?”

“Yes?”

“Mind if I ask you a question?”

“Of course not.”

“I heard some commotion last night. I looked out the window, and saw you outside with your family. What was going on?”

He kept his eyes forward while walking. Not looking at Hazel made it easier for her to answer. She drew a deep breath and said, “I saw my mom.”

“Your mom?”

“Yes,” Hazel nodded, maintaining pace two steps behind Carter. “I’ve been hearing my mom’s voice since she left. It’s usually like a whisper. She tells me that everything will be okay. But last night, for the first time, I actually saw her in the gazebo.”

“Really?”

The caretaker stopped, stood on his tiptoes, and batted a dangling cord until he had a firm grip on its end.

“Did she say anything?”

“Yes.”

“What did she say?”

“She told me to ask Dad about someone. I did, and he said it was a friend from work. I’m not sure what Mom wanted him to say. Maybe she wanted me to have proof that we talked, since I wouldn’t know about his friend otherwise.”

“And what did your father say? Did he believe you?”

“I don’t know. He seemed kinda mad. Do you believe me?”

“Oh yes.” He smiled. “Indeed.”

“Really? Why? Hudson always thinks I’m making stuff up.”

“I have my reasons, sweetheart, but I’m not sure I should say. I wouldn’t want to upset your father. That isn’t my place.”

“He doesn’t have to know,” Hazel promised. She pitched her voice to a whisper. “I cross my heart, Mr. Carter, I’ll never say anything to Dad, or anyone. I want to know what you do; I want to know why you believe me.”

“Well, Miss Dawson, if you can’t forget to drop the Mr. before the Carter, I’m afraid I won’t be able to share anything.” His smile widened. “But since I know you’re trying your hardest to do just that, I suppose I can tell you.”

He held his palms open. Hazel timidly set hers into his.

“Your mother was special. I’m sure you know that already, but I’m not sure you know exactly how special she was.”

“How was she special?”

“Your mother, like you, Hazel, could see things that most people can’t.”

Hazel felt a smile stretching across her face. “Really?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Like what?”

“Your mom saw ghosts, Hazel. And what’s more, she talked to ‘em, too.”

“Are you telling me the truth right now … Carter?”

“I solemnly swear on the manor and all it means to me.”

Hazel didn’t know the caretaker well, and what little knowledge she did have had been gathered over the last few days. Still, she understood that his solemnly swearing on the manor was like her friend Jeanine swearing on her dead brother’s grave.

“So, what kind of ghosts did my mom see?” Hazel only realized she was whispering after the words left her mouth.

Carter said nothing.

“You’re making up a story. I can tell. Mom used to look like that when she was about to tell me something made up.”

“Oh, I’m not making anything up, dear. I’m deciding which story to tell.” His face brightened as he leaned forward. “The second time your mother came to visit, we were all in a flurry. Your Great-Aunt Scarlett had just passed away. But old Scarlett was a ‘hellcat of a woman’ as Alastair said plenty. She left behind some rare jewelry and documents when she died, stuff the family needed for various reasons. All the heirs were searching the house. Davenport — his father, not the man you met — hired a small team to help. He had to talk Alastair into it, since Alastair thought the idea was awful. After all, who knew Galloway Manor better than the folks who had lived inside it for generations? Davenport insisted that they had nothing to lose. Alastair finally agreed. He was right — they turned up nothing but nothing after sifting for days.”

Hazel’s heart beat faster, knowing what was coming.

“Your mom came to visit a day after they left. Guess what?”

“What?”

“She knew where Scarlett had hidden her stash of whatnots, without knowing what it was, or even that we were looking. She got this glaze in her eyes, right in the middle of eating her grilled cheese. She set it down next to her soup, stumbled from the dining hall like she was drunk, then disappeared. Alastair was up in a flash, but your mom was already gone. When she came back, around ten minutes later, she was holding Scarlett’s stash, but had no memory of the minutes she’d lost since dropping her sandwich.”

Hazel felt breathless. “Then what happened?”

“That was it. She came back into the dining hall and set the box on the table, next to what was left of her sandwich. She looked around and to no one in particular said, ‘She told me this was for you, and that you’d be happy to get it,’ then your mom pushed the box toward the table’s center, emphatically nodded, and sat. She picked up her grilled cheese and started to chew as they found what they’d been searching for. She finished her sandwich without another word. Later when asked, she claimed no memory.”

“That’s so weird. And sort of cool!”

“Oh, it’s definitely that,” Carter agreed. “Your mother was very cool. And whether or not you believe in unnatural happenings like ghosts — even those who see the impossible will sometimes cling to insisting they didn’t — there were things she could do that … well, that couldn’t be explained, or argued.”

“What do you mean?”

Carter looked thoughtful. Hazel thought he might be wondering how much to tell her.

“You can tell me anything about my mom. I’ll believe you, and she would want me to know.” Hazel didn’t know if that was true, but it felt like the right thing to say.

“You’re right. I’m sure she would.” Carter paused for what felt like forever, then finally said, “What would you say if I told you that she could move things with her mind?”

“No way.” Hazel wondered if he was pulling her leg. “Really?”

“Yes.”

“That’s amazing. How did she do it? Just by thinking?”

“She just could.” Carter nodded at a stack of books piled on an end table beside an overstuffed shelf. “Like those books over there. She would stare and stare, sometimes for what seemed like forever.”

“How long?”

“A minute. Three. Once for an entire day.”

“What would happen … after she stopped staring?”

“Eventually, the something your mom was staring at would start to move, slowly at first, but then fast and jerky like she was trying to wrestle control. But, eventually, she got pretty good, and it was like she was holding it in her hands.”

Hazel gasped. “What did people say?”

“No one could really say much of anything.”

“Why not?”

“I’m the only one who saw it, and everyone always thought I was crazy anyway — an old coot long before I was, filled with old ideas and too much superstition.”

“Why do you think Mom never told me about that? She would’ve wanted me to tell her if I could mind-move stuff. Are you sure you’re not messing with me, Mr. Carter?”

He held his hands in front of him, palms out. “I swear on the manor, for the second time in too soon, kiddo. I’m not messing with you. You said you’d believe me, and I figured you were old enough for me to say things straight.”

“She should’ve told me.”

He set his hand on her shoulder. “Your mom probably didn’t tell you because she knew how people would respond. People have a need to understand their world, and get scared when they see things that don’t match what they know. Some people retreat, but others attack. She probably found it easier to simply forget or pretend it never happened. How could your mom tell you when she couldn’t even tell your father about Galloway Manor?”

“Why didn’t she tell him, or any of us? About the house or Great-Uncle Alastair?”

“I’m sure your mom had her reasons.” Carter smiled. “Now what say we go look and see what we can find in the attic?”

He gestured for Hazel to climb the ladder. She started, and he followed behind. The attic was dark until he reached the top and turned on the lights, which lit only parts of the attic at a time, leaving the rest in patches of darkness.

Hazel looked around the beautifully arranged attic. In the spots she could see, everything was neatly stacked and spotless. The space felt recently tidied. “Why is everything so clean?”

“What do you know about the Golden Gate Bridge?”

“That it’s a bridge in San Francisco.” A pause, then, “And it’s the world’s longest suspension bridge.”

“It is a bridge, but not the longest. Don’t feel bad, lots of people think that. It was the longest when it was built. Now I think it’s number 12, behind the Verrazano Narrows Bridge in New York, England’s Humber, a bunch of others, and finally the Akashi-Kaikyo in Japan — though who knows, there could be a longer one after I stopped paying attention. What else do you know?”

Hazel shrugged. “Nothing.”

“Ever hear how the Golden Gate gets painted?”

“With paint, I assume?” she said with a giggle.

He laughed. “Well, yes, but it’s how they paint it that matters. They start at one end, paint it, get to the other, then go back and do it again. Know why?”

“Because it’s as big as this house?”

“Yes,” he smiled. “Because of its size. The Golden Gate is large enough to always need painting. Like Galloway Manor, which is constantly in need of cleaning. We start at one end, move to the other, then start over and clean it all again. We refile, organize, stack, move, dust, wipe, scrub, and — this is my favorite part — update each room as needed. The manor would have ended up with Wi-Fi and whatnots, flat screens in every room eventually, but we have it now because of this guy.” He laughed and jabbed a thumb at his chest.

Carter patted Hazel’s shoulder, then led her to a stack of boxes. They all looked new, not like attic boxes at all. Hazel had only been in one attic before (the one at their old home in Las Orillas), but she’d seen plenty of movies and read enough books to know that attics were dingy and poorly lit. Boxes stored inside them were fatigued by age, caked with dust, and collapsed at the corners. But these boxes were sharp, clean, and strong, in towers so neat they were almost unsettling.

“We can blame Alastair for the orderly manner of the boxes.” Carter pointed to the towers. “He was a bit rigid. Liked things just so. And I imagine we’ll keep making them just so to please his spirit.”

He went to one of the smaller stacks and opened the top box, peered inside, then turned to Hazel. “This is the one. You’ll probably love everything in this stack.”

“What’s in it?”

“Well,” he said as he gestured for Hazel to join him. “Let’s see!”

Carter pulled down the box, set it on the floor, then sat beside it. Hazel’s bottom landed beside his. She lightly clapped while waiting for him to open the box.

“It’s nice to see you so excited.”

He lifted the lid, and Hazel looked inside. She didn’t know what she expected, other than something that might be magic. But the box was filled with books.

“Don’t be disappointed.”

He reached inside, then handed Hazel a brown hardcover, blank on the front, back, and spine.

He winked. “You want magic, there’s magic in there.”

Hazel opened the book to its middle and peered at the handwriting. She looked up. “This is someone’s journal.”

“Alastair always encouraged family guests to record their thoughts during their stay.”

“Do you think my mom has a journal in here?”

“I’ve no idea. But it’s possible. That’s why I brought you up here.”

“How do I know where to look? That’s a lot of boxes.”

Carter stood. “Unfortunately, these aren’t archived as well as they should be, so I can’t tell you for certain. I suppose your mom’s box would be somewhere near the top. Maybe this one.” He negotiated the pile, trying to withdraw the second box from the top when a girl appeared in the attic from nowhere.

Hazel cried out, then realized it was only Mara.

“Sorry! I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“No, I’m sorry.” Hazel shook her head, embarrassed. Mara was the closest thing to a big sister that Hazel would ever have, so she didn’t want the girl to think she was a scaredy cat.

“Yes, Mara, what is it?”

She smiled at Hazel, then turned to Carter. “My mom needs you for a minute, when you have one.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Is this a right now thing?”

“She said, ‘when he gets a moment,’ but yeah, she was doing that thing with her mouth.”

“Of course.” Carter turned to Hazel. “I’ll be right back, dear. Hopefully, you’ll find what you’re looking for in the meantime.”

He finished pulling the box from the top of the tower, set it in front of Hazel, lifted the lid, patted her shoulder, then turned and followed Mara down the attic stairs.

She looked through the boxes beside her, then more after that. Hazel had no idea how long she spent poring through journals on a hunt for her mother’s, searching for a younger version of the scribbles she’d seen on so many notes, sorries, I love yous, and you can do betters — secret notes sometimes stashed in her pockets.

Hazel found something that might have been her mom’s in the fourth box, toward the bottom, but after reading a page she thought the author was male. She was reaching for another box when an odd sound — like a bird chirping — startled her from the attic’s only dark corner.

“Hello?”

No answer.

“Hello?”

Hazel’s heart started to race again. Her breath nearly matched it as she swept her legs across the floor and pushed herself to standing.

The sound again — this time louder. The only thing she was certain of was that it wasn’t her mother. Whenever Hazel saw her mom, she felt her warmth like a heater. This felt almost like ice.

“Hello?” Hazel’s voice cracked on the O.

Still nothing.

She laughed, trying to shove the fear from her body. But Hazel couldn’t shrug it away. She thought of the girl she’d seen when they first arrived, the girl she’d thought of several times each day since. If memories had smells, the scent of that one was all over the attic.

Nothing split the silence, so Hazel returned to the floor. If she just distracted herself, then surely the eerie feeling would fade. She continued to look through the journal written by a boy, curious to see the world from inside his mind. Even though she had a brother, boys were largely a mystery to her, weirdness wrapped in a crazy energy that made them do stupid things.

The chirping turned into a whisper.

“Hazzzeeeellll …”

She dropped the journal and looked around, heart in her throat.

“Hello?” Hazel hoped it was Mom, but knew it wasn’t.

A clatter in the corner was chased by a rumble.

Then, a hiss.

“Hazel, come here …”

“Who are you?”

She heard only silence; the whisper was gone along with the clatters. And the hiss had disappeared.

Hazel had to flee the attic. She turned from the boxes and made her way toward the door until the voice yanked her back.

“Hazel!” it said, then hissed, “Karla!”

“Mom?”

The silence said nothing. Hazel crept toward the dark corner. The air was cold and raised the hairs on her arm as she crept closer.

It took everything inside her to keep moving. Her eyes slowly focused until she could finally make out something in the shadows.

The something stepped forward, giving Hazel a line of light to illuminate its shape: the girl from the window, her face half-skeleton, half-beautiful young blonde. The skeletal half was missing its hair. Rotted flesh clung to its skull.

Hazel cried out, covering her mouth with shaking hands.

The girl from the window stared at Hazel with her one eye, though it was the empty black socket that Hazel couldn’t turn from.

The girl shambled into a patch of light. As she did, her skeleton side was met with warm pink flesh.

Hazel wanted to turn and run, but was frozen.

The attic lights began to flicker — off, on, off, on, off — as the ghost crept closer.

Hazel’s heart was a jackhammer, but her legs were frozen, unable to follow her will.

Run! Run!

Dark.

Light.

Run!

Dark.

Light.

The ghost was a foot away, close enough that Hazel could smell its putrid flesh, could feel the coldness rolling off it in waves.

The ghost stared at Hazel oddly, head titled, long straw-colored hair seeming to float around her as if they were underwater.

They were nearly the same height, and for a moment Hazel felt like she was staring into some sort of funhouse mirror. Though Hazel had dark hair, their faces were eerily similar, down to the slope of their small noses.

Hazel, teeth chattering, asked, “Who are you?”

“I’m Savannah,” the girl said softly.

Dark.

Light.

Closer still — inches away.

Savannah looked at Hazel as if examining a rare thing that should not be. She reached up to touch Hazel’s cheek.

Dark.

Light.

The girl’s fingers brushed her, sending an ice-cold chill through Hazel’s flesh.

Dark.

Light.

Savannah asked, “Why are you in my house?”

Dark.

Light.

Hazel’s entire body was shaking, yet paralyzed. She couldn’t even answer the question. Her breaths were tiny. She was almost certain she was going to drop dead on the spot, scared to death.

Dark.

This time the lights didn’t flicker back on.

Hazel swallowed as more cold fingers brushed her face. It felt like more than just Savannah’s. She wanted to pull away, to feel around to see if there were others in the attic, but she couldn’t move.

Then, a low growl came from the darkness. Almost animal, like a wolf.

“Get … out,” the ghost said, so softly that Hazel wasn’t sure she heard correctly.

She stared into the nothingness, wishing the light would return, but darkness stayed to taunt her. She felt as if hundreds of fingers were scraping her body. Sharp fingers that would cut her if she moved an inch.

“I said …” the ghost’s voice repeated, though this time it wasn’t the soft sweetness of a girl, but something darker, almost leathery.

The lights flicked back on, revealing a fully rotted skeletal face, inches from Hazel’s, its mouth opened wide to rotted teeth and foul hot breath.

“GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!”

Dark.

Hazel fell to the floor, hitting her elbows and knees hard. She screamed, and in that bellow found the will to move.

She scrambled toward where she remembered the attic door was.

A loud roar swelled behind her.

The walls shook as if hundreds of somethings were on the other side, trying to break them. If she didn’t reach the door, she was certain the walls would implode from every direction, burying her in rubble.

She raced forward on all fours, until she saw a seam of light from the attic door.

Got to reach it!

She heard scurrying behind her, things chasing her.

She moved faster.

Reaching the door, she pulled it the rest of the way open, then went head first over the lip, hands reaching out to grab the ladder to break her fall.

But before she could get all the way out of the attic, something stopped her momentum, grabbing her legs.

Hazel screamed as the something pulled her back into the attic.

She closed her eyes, kicking wildly behind her, trying to break free.

Her foot found something hard, and it screamed, letting her go.

Hazel plummeted, head first, out of the attic.

She cried out, certain that she would hit the floor hard, head cracking open like a melon.

But her fall was broken as she fell into Carter’s open arms.

“Hazel!” he gasped. “What is it, child?”

She hugged him tightly and cried, “I saw Savannah! She’s in the attic!”

* * * *

SCOTT

“Probably wouldn’t seem half as haunted if they had more people inside,” Hudson said.

He and Scott had been back in the house for less than five minutes before they heard the scream.

“What the hell?” Scott turned to his son before rushing up the stairs.

Carter was at the top, halfway down the hall, approaching, holding Hazel in his arms.

“What happened?”

“Nothing at all, Mr. Dawson. Hazel was exploring the attic, and something gave her a fright. She’s perfectly fine.”

Scott took Hazel into his arms. “What happened, honey?”

“I saw Savannah in the attic.”

“Savannah?”

“It was the girl from the window, on the first day. She said her name was Savannah. She’s a ghost, Dad. She told me to get out of her house.”

Scott, already exhausted, turned to Carter. “What is she talking about, and why the hell was she in the attic?”

“I took her to the attic because I thought she might like to go exploring. We were looking through some of her mother’s things. Quite healthy, I think.”

Scott ignored the lecture on what was healthy for his daughter. “Was she alone?”

“She wasn’t, at least not for more than a few minutes. I took her up there, then Jacquelyn needed help and sent Mara to fetch me. So I went, and heard commotion on the way back.”

Hazel turned to Carter, her face twisted like it got when she was angry.

“You weren’t right back! You were gone for a long time.”

“No, Hazel, I wasn’t. I spoke with Jacquelyn for two minutes, helped her for five at most, then went back.”

“You were gone forever! I went through four boxes!”

Scott ignored Carter. He set Hazel down and looked into her eyes which reminded him so much of Holly’s. “Are you okay?”

She nodded.

“Did you really see something in the attic?”

She nodded again.

“What did you see?”

“I saw Savannah. She told me to get out of her house. Her face was half skull-like, then normal, then full skull, like a Halloween mask, but real.”

Scott sighed, swallowed, and quietly said, “I want you to calm down and think — did you really see a girl up there?”

“I’m not imagining things, Dad!” Hazel clenched her fists and held them at her sides. “Savannah was there! I can see her — just like Mom could!”

“What?” Scott said, confused.

She looked at Carter, then back to her dad. “Carter said Mom could see ghosts just like I can.”

Scott spun to face Carter.

“What kind of bullshit are you telling my daughter?”

“Mr. Dawson,” Carter cleared his throat, “would you mind if we had a moment alone?”

That was exactly what Scott wanted.

“No argument from me.” He turned to Hudson. “Take care of your sister.”

Hudson saluted, wrapped his arm around Hazel, and said, “Let’s go, squirt. Dad looks like he’s about to make a mess in his grouchy pants.”

Scott saw Hazel almost smile and felt grateful for Hudson. Sometimes the boy surprised him, knowing when a gentle touch or friendly brother was needed.

Good job.

He waited for his children to disappear, then repeated, “What kind of bullshit are you telling my daughter?”

“Nothing,” Carter insisted. He took a step back, put his hands out in front of him as if planting them on an invisible wall. “I promise, Mr. Dawson. I’ve only told Hazel the truth as I see it.”

“As you see it? Well, you’re filling her head with something.”

“Hazel said she saw her mother last night, and was quite upset. I consoled her by telling her that Holly could see things, too.”

Scott blinked. “What?”

“I told Hazel that her mom saw things, like she did. And it’s true, Mr. Dawson. When Holly was young, she saw ghosts, too. I merely relayed that truth.”

“What the hell?” Scott exploded. “Why would you say something like that?”

“I’m sorry you’re so upset about our conversation, Mr. Dawson. As I said, the manor has many stories, and far be it from me to deny what someone says they saw. I’ve seen enough myself to know better than to shut my mind to anything.”

“My daughter is in a rough spot, Carter. The last thing she needs right now is someone feeding into whatever’s wrong with her.”

“I might argue otherwise, Mr. Dawson. I might ask who are we to determine Hazel’s needs? Who are we to deny whatever she must cling to so she can lie down peacefully at night?”

“Telling her stupid ghost stories, and that her mother saw ghosts, isn’t helping! She’s my daughter! She’s not your family, so if you don’t mind, I suggest you come to me before deciding what’s best for Hazel!”

Carter met Scott’s gaze, his smile fading. He closed his eyes as if biting his tongue. Then, finally, his twinkle returned.

“Of course, sir. I apologize.”

Scott stared at Carter, surprised to find the old man backing down so easily. He probably feared for his job, regardless of what the will said.

“What did she see in the attic, Carter? Are you saying she actually saw this Savannah?”

“I’m not saying that, Mr. Dawson. I’m saying Hazel saw something we can’t, and that you must believe that.”

Scott stared at Carter with more fury than he could articulate. He chewed his lip, rubbed his arms, then turned from the old man and marched down the stairs, not slowing until he stopped in front of Hudson’s door and pounded on the wood.

“You guys in there?”

“Yeah!” they called together.

He opened the door. Hudson was laying a red Draw Two on top of a red 8. A smile cracked through his temper. “Uno?”

“Yeah, Hazel brought it.”

She looked up and smiled.

“I’m glad you did, but why bother? I’m sure you could ask Jeeves where they keep the Uno supply and he’d lead you to a drawer stuffed with a hundred unopened decks.”

They all laughed, and that felt good.

“What’s up, Dad? Everything cool?”

“Yes.” Scott nodded and smiled at Hudson. “Everything’s fine. But I’m going up to the attic, and I want Hazel to come with me.”

Her face lost its color.

“No.” She shook her head and scooted back on the bed with what looked like an involuntary lurch.

“It’s okay,” Scott promised, stepping toward her.

“No! I don’t want to go to the attic! I don’t want you to go to the attic! Please, Daddy, please don’t go!”

Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks.

“Fine,” he said with a sigh, “I won’t go.”

It wasn’t as if Scott thought he’d see anything anyway. This was all clearly born in Hazel’s head, and he couldn’t let it seep into his as well. The important thing right now was to stand by her side, comfort her, be there. In time they’d get past this.

Scott went to the bed, lay down next to Hazel, and hugged her to him. He stroked her hair, repeating that everything would be fine. Being beside her made him feel like the world’s strongest father, someone who could take on any trouble and be there to protect his child.

Everything will be fine.

But as Scott caught his reflection in the dresser mirror, he saw the uncertainty in his eyes. And the fear that things would never be fine again.

* * * *

SCOTT

“Please!” Hazel pouted.

There was no way he could say no. It was almost ridiculous how Hazel widened her eyes, collapsed her hands into a ball, and begged like she was still four.

Even before he gave in, he knew he was going to collapse.

Holly would argue, “What’s wrong with you, Scott? Don’t you realize your daughter’s a slot machine, just like your son? Have years of paying out taught you nothing?”

It wasn’t that he disagreed — Hazel needed only one payout for every hundred attempts to see that pulling the arm eventually made the machine start to clink — but saying no was harder with Hazel than it had ever been with his son. That shouldn’t have been true, but there was no denying it. Before it was difficult saying no to his sweet girl. Now it was next to impossible.

“Fine. You can sleep in my room. But only tonight. I’m not ready for bed, and don’t want to hear you snore, so I’m going to watch TV downstairs for a bit. You’re on your own for now.”

“You can watch TV in here, Daddy.”

“No, I can’t.”

“Why not?” She pointed to the large wall screen. “There’s a TV right there.”

“Because, Hazel, I’d like to watch stuff that you shouldn’t be watching.”

“Like Bloodline?”

“Yes, like Bloodline.”

“Okay.”

Scott smiled. “Good. Can you fall asleep?”

“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “Probably.”

“Great. Just so you know, if you’re snoring while I’m trying to sleep, I’m going to stuff you in the closet.”

“You wouldn’t do that.”

“I totally would.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I’m serious.” Scott stared at Hazel with serious eyes. “I wouldn’t snore if I were you.”

He winked, then kissed Hazel on her forehead. He made it halfway to the door before he looked back, then returned to the bed for one last kiss on the forehead, this time pressing her to his chest. “I love you, Hazel. I’ll be back soon.”

“I love you too, Daddy. Have fun watching your shows with all the killing and swearing and other stuff I’m not supposed to see.”

Scott opened the door, flipped off the light, stepped into the hallway, and closed the door behind him.

He went downstairs and made himself a snack, guilty for hoping he’d find Jacquelyn in the kitchen, both because he wanted her to make him something to eat, and because he wanted her company.

She wasn’t in the kitchen, and neither was her daughter, Mara. Scott felt another flash of guilt — not too long ago he’d been wondering whether rage, insanity, or good old-fashioned desperation would be first to eat him. Now, he was disappointed when there weren’t women waiting to serve him. Holly would laugh and say, Figures.

He made himself some popcorn — two bags in one bowl — and used the microwave rather than the air popper because he didn’t feel like the hassle. That made him feel worse, because if Jacquelyn had asked his preference he would have said air popped for sure.

He grabbed the popcorn and two beers, then went into the media room. Scott had the Apple TV figured out his second night in the manor, and now had a ton in the queue. He was on his third episode of Homeland and returning from his second trip to the kitchen when he found Carter sitting on the sofa, staring at the paused screen.

“Hello, Mr. Dawson.”

“Hey, Carter.” Scott sat and pointed to the half-empty bowl of popcorn. “Want some crap?”

“No thank you, Mr. Dawson. I’m afraid corn never sits well with me.” He pointed at one of Scott’s two unopened beers. “I will have one of those, though.”

“All yours.” Scott handed a bottle to Carter.

“Fair trade,” Carter said, handing him a card.

Scott looked at the card. It had a woman’s name: Sandra Bryant. Beneath that, the word, Solutions.

“What’s this?”

“Sandra’s a family counselor, and an excellent friend of the Galloways. I strongly feel she can help you.”

“Me?”

“All of you, Mr. Dawson. Your family has suffered. You’ve been left to wonder. Too much, I’m afraid. First about Holly, now about all of this. You have questions. I believe it’s healthy to ask them. Sometimes, families need a leader to reach wherever they’re trying to go. That’s Sandra’s job. She’ll help you draw a map, then show you the X.”

“How does she know where to draw it?”

“By listening, of course.”

“I don’t know.” Scott’s anger was creeping like a fever. “Is she trying to help me? Or us?”

“What do you mean, Mr. Dawson? Forgive me. I’m older than I want to be, and my mind lets me know it.”

“What if I didn’t want to use an old friend of the family? What if I agree you’re right, that maybe we could use some help, especially now that we can afford it, but I wanted to look online, find someone local with great reviews, and use them instead?”

“That would be perfectly fine, Mr. Dawson, but why would you want to?” He lowered then lifted his eyes. “I don’t mean to misspeak, but if you want a solution, wouldn’t an authority help most? And isn’t an authority whoever has the most information? In this instance, wouldn’t that be someone with experience helping this family? I think the better someone knows the family, the more they’ll be able to do for you. But that’s just me talking. No offense taken if that card’s on the table when I return.”

“Did Sandra treat Savannah?”

Carter looked down, pausing in his answer just long enough for Scott to notice. “No. She never did. You’ll like Ms. Bryant. And she will help. I wouldn’t have handed you her card if I didn’t believe that.”

“I know,” Scott nodded. “But I’m not sure how crazy I am about my daughter seeing a shrink. I don’t want her hopped up on drugs or anything like that. I knew a few kids who were sent off when they were her age. Things didn’t really work out for them, and from where I stood at the time it sure seemed like their parents had lost perspective. What if I’ve lost the ability to see Hazel from the side she needs me to most?”

“I understand your concerns, Mr. Dawson, but Ms. Bryant won’t prescribe anything without your consent. And you don’t have to schedule a second appointment if you’re not pleased with the first.”

Scott put his lips to his beer, picked up the remote, pressed play, and nursed his bottle to empty, just like Carter beside him, as they settled into Homeland’s comfortable racket together.

After a while, Carter finished his drink, then leaned toward Scott and said, “Want another?”

Scott nodded. Carter stood and went to the kitchen.

The old man was right. As soon as Scott accepted that, he began to look forward to Hazel talking to Sandra. Sure, they all had stuff to work out, and had some healing to do as a family. But Hazel might be more than upset. She might be damaged. If so, that was at least partly his fault. This might be what she needed. Hazel’s problems could be as simple as missing her mother and needing another woman to talk to. But if they were more, the last thing Scott wanted to do was stand in the way.

By the time Carter returned with the beers — just two, one for each of them — Scott felt infinitely better than he had just hours before.

Carter set both beers on the table and looked up at the still screen. “You didn’t have to pause it.”

“It would have been rude not to.”

“Well in that case, thanks. Now let’s get this show going.” He laughed. “It’s a helluva lot better than I expected.”

“Yeah.” Scott nodded. “It is. But I don’t want to watch another episode. I’d rather you tell me more about the Holly you knew.”

“What would you like to know, Mr. Dawson? I fear the Holly I knew was somewhat different from the one you knew, and to be honest she could do many things that I imagine you’ll have a hard time believing.”

He paused, as if waiting for Scott to argue.

“My mind is open, Carter,” Scott said, even though it wasn’t. “Tell me.”

“An open mind, well, that’s exactly what Holly had, and precisely why I believe she was able to do what she could. A skeptical mind will yield no results. If you believe that something is impossible, or that you simply cannot do it, then you’re greatly increasing the odds that you’re right.”

That Scott found easy to imagine. Belief was easy for Holly, even when the same faith was impossible for him. “Life leaves little room for doubt,” she often said. “You can’t doubt yourself or your possibility, because positive thoughts breed more of the same. No different from the negatives. You’ll be a skeptic before you know it.”

“So what is it that Holly could do?” He had already lost his taste for the conversation, and wished he’d never followed its trail. “What is it that I’ll have such a hard time believing?”

Carter took a sip of beer, swallowed, then wiped his mouth. “What if I told you that Holly could move things with her mind—”

“As in telekinesis?”

“Yes, Mr. Dawson, as in telekinesis. And, as your daughter told you, Holly could also see the undead.”

“Ghosts.”

“Yes, Mr. Dawson, ghosts.” Carter set his beer on the table and said nothing more.

After a few excruciating minutes of silence, Scott picked up the remote, pointed it at the screen, and took the next episode of Homeland off pause.

* * * *

HUDSON

Hudson could hardly concentrate on the waffles; his mind kept turning from breakfast to Iris. He hadn’t called her yet, not since his father have interrupted what was sure to have been the best day of his life.

He wanted to see her again — today, if possible.

He gauged the table’s mood. Both his father and Hazel seemed to be doing well, so he took a chance. “So, are we going to draft a master schedule for who gets to leave the house and when? It would be a shame to mess up and lose the Publishers Clearing House just because we aren’t in sync.” He waved his hand among the three of them. “I want to go back into town today. Objections?”

“Yes,” Hazel said. “You left yesterday. It’s my turn.”

“But I actually have somewhere to go,” Hudson argued. “I made friends in town.”

“You did not.”

“I did,” he said, looking smug. “Ask Dad.”

“He made friends in town,” Dad confirmed.

Hazel whined, “Well, how am I supposed to make friends if I’m not allowed to leave? Two days in a row for Hudson isn’t fair, Dad, and you know it.”

“I never said it was.”

“So, can I leave the manor today?”

“Yes, it’s your turn.”

“That’s cool,” Hudson said, trying not to get pissed. It was probably better not to call Iris so soon. It might seem desperate. And while she seemed like the ideal girl, and perfectly suited for him, that didn’t mean she wouldn’t be turned off by his puppy dog’s slobber. Back home, he’d always been too nice when it came to girls. Too eager. It was time to start playing it cool. He was already much more interesting than he’d been a month before, by way of his bloodline and address. Why not milk both for all they were worth?

Dad looked at him with an arched eyebrow, clearly surprised by Hudson not putting up a fight.

May as well earn points with Dad while I’m at it.

“Plenty to do here.” He shoved a piece of waffle into his mouth, leaned back, and chewed. He looked at Hazel and felt good. Odd, but good. Being a big brother to Hazel, like he was yesterday in his room after whatever happened in the attic.

He would do better from now on. Starting today.

After breakfast, Carter came into the dining area with a package and handed it to Hudson. “Says this is for you.”

He looked at the box wondering what it could be. It wasn’t big, but had some weight to it. He tore it open to find another box, one with an Apple logo beside the most beautiful words Hudson had ever seen: iPhone.

“No way!”

He looked at his Dad, then Carter, not sure who had bought it, and said thank you to them both.

Dad said, “Next time you take off, I need to be able to reach you. Okay?”

“Yeah!” Hudson said, eager to turn the phone on and see all the cool stuff it could do. He’d had friends with iPhones, of course, but the only thing Hudson ever had was a cheap prepaid cell that broke three months before he’d ever heard of Clovis Point.

**

Hudson finished breakfast, took his own dishes into the kitchen (hoping to see Mara, who was nice to him and also pretty), then lost track of hours as he started playing Z2134 on the PS4. The game was amazing — kind of like Resident Evil meets The Hunger Games, though he’d heard from reviews that the ending was a bit rushed. The graphics were amazing and the sound was off the hook, with explosions that rocked the theater-sized media room.

He had the sound system cranked loud to block the storm outside: wicked, relentless, battering the manor. Brick and windows accepted their punishment, but between slapping rain and shuddering eaves, blankets of bright light flashing in the charred sky, and roaring, rolling thunder, things seemed to be quickly going from bad to worse.

Things were also terrifying on-screen. Hudson was down to no energy. One — maybe two — swipes from a zombie would send him to nothing. He was surrounded, in a skyscraper in the Outback, as zombies swarmed on the lobby stairs below. He felt stupid being scared, but it wasn’t as if he had a choice. Fear was part of the game, and Hudson supposed, part of the manor as well. A zombie grabbed his character, spun him around, and feasted on his neck. Hudson screamed, on-screen and in life as thunder boomed, lightning flared, and a mountain of zombies piled atop his twitching corpse.

The screen filled with blood, and his character was brought back to the last save point.

“Crap.” Hudson tossed his controller onto the carpet and sank back against the couch. He wasn’t going to spend another twenty minutes getting back to where he’d been. He hated games with crappy save systems.

He stood from the too-comfortable couch and stretched, then left the media room, trading it for the hallway and his daily walk through the manor. Hudson had yet to explore the eastern wing since the first day’s tour, but wasn’t in a hurry. If this was his new home, he wanted to know it well.

After fifteen minutes, Hudson ran into no one. The manor was silent, save for the storm, which thickened every room in echoes and shadow. The kitchen, living rooms and parlors, every hallway, and all of the rooms were empty. Hudson wondered if everyone was outside, then realized that was part of the manor’s odd magic: It was large enough that everyone could be inside and he wouldn’t even know.

Hudson knew that Dad was going to the creek with Hazel but couldn’t remember if they’d come in to tell him they were leaving while he was playing the game. He seemed to remember something about a shop in town — a more likely destination given the storm.

He felt a sudden ache, a need to connect, with someone. Anyone. Carter, his father. Hazel.

Hudson pulled the iPhone from his pocket, and dialed Iris.

No answer, until voicemail on the fifth ring.

“Um …” he started, feeling totally stupid. “I guess you’re not there. I’m here in the storm. Well, not in the storm. I’m actually in the house … or the manor … whatever you call it. So, wow, it looks like I’m leaving the world’s worst, and probably longest message … or I will have once I finally finish rambling … I’m really sorry … I wish I knew your password so I could call you back and erase this, but I don’t … so you’ll have to erase it yourself, and not hate me too much when you hear it.” Hudson laughed, feeling painfully awkward, and not in the “cool way” that some girls liked so long as you were good looking, but the dorky sort of awkwardness that remained strictly in the domain of nerdy virgins. “Call me back … if you want.” He almost hung up, then added, “This is Hudson. The guy you met in town, who lives in Galloway Manor.”

Hudson hung up, hating himself.

Oh, my God. I did not just leave that message, did I?

Hudson wandered the apparently empty manor like an idiot, wishing he hadn’t been so stupid, feeling lonelier than he was used to, and more than he was comfortable with. As he was about to head to his bedroom, a girl’s voice called his name.

“Hazel?”

No response. Outside, lightning crashed, followed by what sounded like bombs.

He heard his name again, but just barely, seeming to come from the end of the hall.

“Hudson …” the voice giggled.

Hazel!

He recognized her voice, even if she was trying to disguise it. He smiled. His sister was trying to scare him, because she didn’t realize that he couldn’t be scared — video games and a handful of movies aside. Yet, there were countless places to hide, and Hazel had the upper hand, so she could startle him.

Unless …

Hudson grinned, remembering the manor’s security app which Carter had already showed him how to install. He pulled it up on his phone and saw two red dots blinking in his wing — his, and Hazel’s, hiding three rooms away behind the door with the silver handle.

Judging from his on-screen map, her room had only one doorway, so she wouldn’t be able to sneak away.

He would scare her.

Hudson slowly approached the door, watching the red dots close in on the screen. He debated whether to open the door and yell BOO!, or stand outside the door and make creepy sounds until she ran out crying for mercy.

Hudson could barely contain his laughter while inching toward the room. He alternated looking between the door and the dots as he nudged against the wood.

He reached for the doorknob, trying to stay silent. Then he paused, remembering Carter’s admonition on their first day — that they weren’t to enter the room with the silver handle. He’d not thought much about it since, almost forgetting the old man’s warning. In fact, when Carter had first ordered them away from room, Hudson had made a mental note to go inside at his first opportunity. Somehow, he’d forgotten all about it.

Screw it. It’s our house, now. Why wouldn’t we be able to go wherever we wanted?

He looked at his screen, saw Hazel’s red dot, and smiled as he reached for the doorknob.

His fingers touched the cold metal and her dot vanished from the screen.

What the …?

He let go of the doorknob and looked at the screen, waiting for the dot to return.

It didn’t come back.

Two thoughts came to mind: If Hazel was hiding in the closet, maybe she’d be obscured from the cameras. Or, and this thought chased any notions of scaring her, Hazel went out the window, onto the balcony, and into the storm. It was just the kind of careless thing that she’d do, to put herself in danger, and them both in trouble.

He threw open the door, calling Hazel’s name, his eyes on the closed window. He went and checked it: locked. Rain pelted the glass as he turned away from the window. That left the bathroom and closet. But the bathroom door was shut, with a giant wooden board nailed sloppily across it. The doorknob had also been removed.

He pushed at the door, but it didn’t budge.

He leaned down and looked through the hole into the pitch black darkness beyond.

Something about the room made him think that there was no way Hazel would hide in there even if she’d managed to open the door.

That left the closet.

As Hudson approached the closed sliding closet doors, he suddenly realized what the room was. The walls were covered in posters of musicians from the eighties: Madonna, Duran Duran, Wham!, a guy he’d never heard of named Jack Wagner, and a poster that read FRANKIE SAYS RELAX.

Pink and purple wooden letters spelled Savannah over a bed filled with stuffed animals, including several unicorns.

He felt as if he’d stepped back in time into a perfectly preserved time capsule, a place that had never been touched, aside from dusting, since the day Savannah died.

He turned from the closet and continued to look around, studying the pictures in frames on her dresser and hanging on the wall.

Savannah was beautiful. Long blonde hair and pretty blue eyes. He wasn’t sure how old she was when she passed, but she seemed near to his age in a few of the photos. She was also smiling in most of the pictures, which seemed surprising given that Dad had said she’d killed herself.

He wondered what could make the smiling girl in these photos turn down such a dark path.

He spotted a brown wooden chest, about the size of a shoe box, sitting atop an otherwise empty desk. He went to the chest, cautiously lifted the lid, and began sifting through photos of the girl with a bunch of people he’d never seen, save for a few with a slightly younger Carter.

Hudson finished flipping through the photos, then looked around Savannah’s room, wondering how long they would leave it like a museum. Forever, he supposed. It wasn’t like Carter and staff were real people who used real people logic. The manor seemed to operate under its own reality, under rules from a Great Uncle who was no longer among the living. Hell, maybe this was one of the rules in the will — leave my daughter’s room as-is.

Hudson approached the closet.

“I know you’re in there, Hazel. Come out.”

He was no longer in the mood to scare her, and wasn’t sure if it was the room itself that made him nervous, or being caught by one of the staff. He reached out, slid one of the closet doors open, and was met by the scent of moth balls and a row of neatly hung formal-looking dresses and blouses hanging beside bright neon clothing and jeans that practically screamed Eighties!

He also spotted some neatly stacked boxes and considered going through them, but figured he was already pressing his luck by being in the girl’s room this long.

He closed the closet door and looked at the phone again. Just one blip nearby. He was all alone.

Where the hell is Hazel?

There had to be a logical explanation. Maybe she was in the adjacent room to the right, waiting to surprise him. That made the most sense. Better than the alternative: that he was hearing ghosts.

Hudson felt a strong pull drawing him back to the bookshelf along the wall beside the door. He crossed the room and ran his fingers along a thin, dark chocolate-colored spine. He pulled it out: a leather-bound journal with the name Savannah Galloway scrawled in paper taped across the cover.

He opened the book, heart pounding and nerves tingling as he saw the dead girl’s writing. It was hard to wrap his mind around the fact that the girl who wrote the words in the book, blue ink still dark on the pages as if the words were written yesterday, had been dead for nearly thirty years.

Hudson felt as though he’d been led into Savanna’s room to find and read the journal, then felt stupid because it was the sort of thing Hazel would claim.

A ghost led me here, Daddy!

Thunder boomed, so loud it sounded like something exploded outside. Startled, Hudson jumped and dropped the book.

The power flickered, twice, before going out and casting the room in darkness. There was a noise, louder and downstairs, then the lights returned.

Hudson ignored his racing heart, bent down, grabbed the book, shoved it into his pants, fled the museum, and returned to his room. He buried the book like treasure beneath his mattress, then went downstairs into the kitchen for something to eat.

Jacquelyn was coming in through the rear kitchen door, her arms loaded with groceries stuffed into canvas bags.

“Well hello, Hudson.”

“Hey, Jacquelyn.” He pointed to her full arms. “Need any help?”

“No, I’ve got it. But it’s almost lunchtime. Are you hungry?”

“Definitely!”

“I’ll make you something and bring it to the media room, okay?”

“Okay, awesome,” he said, nodding. “Thanks.”

Hudson returned to the PS4, but his mind was gone from the game. He kept thinking of the journal, wanting to return to his room and read it immediately.

No, he thought. Wait until tonight.

* * * *

HUDSON

The world could have ended, and Hudson would never have known.

He’d had his nose buried in Savannah’s diary for half an hour, or ten times that. He couldn’t tell if she was fourteen or fifteen at the time of her most tortured entries, but he could definitely tell that the girl had hated her life.

She’d felt imprisoned in the manor. Apparently, Alastair was just as crazy about the bloodline when she was a kid, saying the manor felt “most settled with Savannah inside it.”

He was only comfortable with her leaving for a few hours at a time, and never unescorted by one of the staffers on duty. Oddly, there was no mention of Carter. Maybe the old man hadn’t been as involved in the day-to-day stuff back then.

The will’s conditions were ludicrous enough that Hudson figured the Dawson Family’s ejection from the estate was only a matter of when, not if. Until then he’d enjoy the PS4, and every other luxury he’d never had, and probably wouldn’t see again after leaving its lap in a day or a week or a month, or however long it took for them to screw up and lose it all.

Hudson wasn’t a prisoner. He could go if he wanted. If Hazel wanted to surrender her fortune following his departure, that was on her. The same held true the other way around. He was smart enough to keep what was offered, at least for now. Captives had no choice.

But Savannah was a prisoner, held by the family and kept in the mansion. Her schooling took place in the second-floor library, drawing room, and music studio (where she also had art and dance). Each subject had an instructor. Each came and went precisely as scheduled. Life was an unwavering routine. At one time, she had friends, but as time went on, they stopped coming to the house — either spooked by its reputation or her stories of ghosts.

Entries darkened as Hudson turned pages. They felt heavier as he dropped each atop the last.

At one point, Hudson felt a bit guilty. Not for reading the dead girl’s words, as it seemed that the only reason someone would write a journal was to connect with any soul who might read it long after they were gone. Instead he felt guilty for being interested in her stories about hearing voices at night, and seeing “ghosts” in the halls, even though the stories weren’t all that different from Hazel’s attention-seeking lies.

He wasn’t sure why one set of stories would annoy him while being intrigued by another. It wasn’t like he believed Savannah’s stories any more than Hazel’s — at least at first.

But as he read on, especially when she wrote about the manor’s cellar, doubt crept into the corners of his skepticism.

It all began with something her friend, Madison, said.

The girl, who lived down the road, was the only person left who hadn’t abandoned Savannah. Madison came by once a day at the end of Savannah’s instructions, usually staying for an hour or two, until dinner. Sometimes her father even allowed Madison to stay over for dinner, which was the only time Savannah seemed to enjoy the meal.

One day, Madison suggested that Savannah check out the manor cellar. She said it was rumored to hold secrets. Lots, and the very best kinds. All the stuff Savannah wasn’t supposed to know about. How Madison had heard these rumors, or from where, she didn’t know, but her friend seemed convinced that there was something under the mansion.

At dinner, Savannah told her father what Madison had said. He was very angry. He thanked her for telling the truth, then said that Madison was no longer welcome in Galloway Manor. She was a troublemaker, and, Alastair said, it was the sort of trouble the family couldn’t afford.

I can’t believe Father destroyed the last friendship I had!

Now NOBODY will talk to me.

I’ll die an old lady in this house, I just know it!

The words on the page were smeared, and the paper bumpy, likely from tears as she wrote.

Hudson reached out and ran his fingers over the text, feeling a chill through his entire body.

His lip quivered as he imagined Savannah’s pain, feeling not just like a prisoner in the manor, but an outcast in town.

Why did Father get so mad?

Why did he have to do this to me?

I love Father, but at times like this, I also HATE him.

Hudson felt another chill, and had to look away from the page for a moment, feeling like an intruder staring straight into Savannah’s soul.

The next two weeks’ worth of entries were mostly Savannah debating whether or not to investigate the cellar for herself. Her father had forbade her, though, like many of his rules, had never given her a reason why.

But she was tired of following rules. Especially stupid rules that made no sense!

The cellar was all she thought about, waking, and in sleep. In one dream, her Aunt Scarlett came to her, showing her where to find the medallion that served as a key to the cellar door.

Savannah stole it, then stayed awake until the middle of the night. She snuck down to the cellar, spending a minute per stair until her courage had fattened enough to find the bottom.

She wrapped her hand around the knob as her father yelled from the top of the stairs.

He stomped down, grabbed her roughly by the arm — she wrote that it bruised like an eggplant — and yanked Savannah back upstairs into the biggest trouble of her life.

The entries after that were awful.

Hudson read them four times and cried through three of them. When he finally set the journal down, he felt like he knew her. He hurt like she hurt, he ached as she had, and he felt awful about what her father had done, locking her in a room with only bread and water for a week. Alastair had said it was time she could use to ponder the art of respect, for which she clearly had none.

But even in isolation, Savannah was allowed to record her thoughts. It was in these thoughts that Hudson found himself getting to really know her. He liked her on the first page, as she told stories of being cooped inside her forest castle like a fairytale princess. He rooted for her when she found ways to slip untethered around the manor. And he was devastated by what came next.

Alastair had turned into a monster, coming into her room each day, claiming that she hadn’t yet learned her lesson, and worse, that she was possessed. Savannah didn’t specify what kind of possession he meant. Did the old man really believe in demons? Or was this some sort of control thing?

He thought about the will again, and how he and his sister were being controlled even from beyond the grave.

What the hell was this dude’s problem?

Not only had he chased Savannah’s final friend away, but he was also cancelling her time with the teachers who came to instruct her. He claimed that her evil shouldn’t be allowed to spread to others, which was why he was also not allowing any of the staff to deal with her until the malevolence was driven out.

From now on, Savannah’s only contact was with her father. She professed her hate for him on every page that followed. Not that there were many. The journal stopped on her fourth night in isolation, and judging by her words, Savannah was clearly delirious.

He wondered what happened next. Was this when she’d killed herself? While she was locked in isolation?

Hudson had to know more. He felt like there was more to know, but somehow he was missing clues in the text.

He flipped back to the first page. One more read, then sleep. Tomorrow, he’d start looking under every beam and rafter for clues.

He would find out what happened to Savannah.

* * * *

SCOTT

Scott sat in the library outside his home office, which he’d yet to use himself, where the shrink, Sandra Bryant, was now talking to Hazel.

She’d already finished talking to Scott and Hudson, who was sitting beside his father, playing some game on his phone. At least Scott thought he was playing a game. Maybe he was texting Iris.

Scott passed the time eying the impressive floor-to-ceiling shelves, packed with more books than he could read in a lifetime. He wondered how many of the volumes had been read, or if they were for show, to impress visitors into thinking Alastair was an intelligent man. His most skeptical side wondered if the books were fake. I bet if you opened them, they’d be full of blank pages.

Scott wondered what the woman was saying to Hazel. He’d thought to ask Hudson what she’d asked him, but then decided to wait. He wanted to keep his ears open in case Hazel got upset.

It was hard to think of all this shrink business as anything but bullshit.

Her questions to him had seemed probing rather than helpful. She wanted to know shit about him, about his relationship with his wife, how he felt about his parents, and a bunch of bullshit that had nothing to do with their present situation. Maybe the worst part was how she kept saying, “I’m not judging you,” when it sure as hell seemed like she was. Everyone judged everyone, didn’t they? It was human nature, so was she somehow above it? No, of course not. So that made her a liar.

There was also the weirdness of how she was almost like a different person when she got him alone. When they were all together, she’d been pleasant, practically saccharine-sweet to Hudson and Hazel, and even joking with Scott. But the moment she took him into the office for a one-on-one, her mask came off. She was cold, overly professional, and reminded him of his third grade teacher who seemed to have it out for him and him alone.

He wondered if her change in tone was part of the process, a way to unsettle her patients into opening up. If so, it seemed like shitty bedside manner.

He didn’t object to therapy in general, for other people, but it wasn’t for him. Holly said that therapy was some of the best money she’d ever spent — not that it meant dick in the end. She still lost her mind and left them, or, if she didn’t leave, got herself into some trouble which ended with her possibly dying.

Scott had gone to a shrink. Once. Because Holly said it would mean the world to her if he was at least willing to give it a try. He did, knowing he’d hate it, but ended up loathing it less than expected. Scott didn’t like it, or think it would do him any good, but was pleasantly surprised to find it somewhat amusing. He laughed when relating the encounter to Holly. She punched him on the shoulder and said he was missing the point. He said the same about her.

A psychiatrist wasn’t supposed to offer debate or discussion. Their job was to treat their patients with medication, or guide them to treat their own symptoms. Neither required blather. If the shrink was talking more than the patient, then the shrink was the patient.

Holly argued. “That’s not fair. Their job is to help you. How can they help if they don’t talk?”

“By listening. By saying what’s necessary and not a grunt more. I bet most shrinks are talking out of their ass because they feel powerless. Their patients come in messed up, and it’s their job to fix them. They’re paid a lot, but it isn’t easy. So, BAM: Prescription. Now what? Talk and talk and talk — shrinkie-dinks make themselves feel better to justify their value. I think a good psychiatrist should say, ‘Where would you like to start?’ then shut the hell up.”

Holly had laughed (while shaking her head), but now his words were back and biting. Sandra Bryant was exactly that sort of shrink. She said little, and nothing of herself. Scott had said even less. He answered Sandra with long and painful pauses while waiting for her to fill the aching space with another.

Scott longed for Sandra to start talking about herself, but she wouldn’t. He hoped for signposts that might show him what to say next so he wouldn’t feel like he was drowning, but didn’t find a single one.

He squirmed, melting beneath the heat of her stare. Sandra seemed satisfied when the questions ended, as if she’d mined plenty from Scott’s scant answers and ample silence.

He stared at the door of the office wondering if the shrink was giving Hazel the same sort of long silences and judgmental stares. He could practically feel his daughter squirming in her seat, and wanted to go in and wrap his arms around her, protect his daughter from the woman’s interrogation.

She’s here to help, and she can’t do that if I scare her away.

He wasn’t sure if Sandra could help his family, but he had to at least give it a try.

Hudson broke the silence. “Hey, Dad, do you know anything about the girl who died here? The one Hazel said she saw?”

Scott shifted in his seat. “No, and I don’t want to.”

“I want to ask Carter about the girl. I’m sure he’ll know.”

“Don’t.” Scott was firm. “It’s not polite.”

“Why not? That guy loves talking about this stuff, or any stuff. You can see it in his eyes whenever he starts going on about nothing. I’d be doing him a favor.”

“No, you wouldn’t be. The girl came up once, and I saw the look on his face. He was sad, Hudson. Devastated.” Scott paused, then added, “I’m just saying you might not want to ask him anything, unless, of course, you’re cool with upsetting an old man.”

The doors opened before Hudson managed a word. Sandra and Hazel emerged together, both smiling at Scott.

Sandra said, “Mr. Dawson, can we talk?”

“Of course.” He turned to Hudson, winked as he stood, then walked toward Sandra, ruffling Hazel’s hair on his way back to the shrink’s temporary office.

Sandra closed the door as Scott reclaimed his earlier seat. “Okay, doc, so what did I do to screw up my kids?” he asked with an attempt at a laugh.

“This isn’t about you,” Sandra said, still icy. “Hazel thinks you’re doing a terrific job. You and Hudson on the other hand, definitely have some things to work out, which I can definitely help you with.” She smiled, and her demeanor seemed to thaw. “But at the moment, I’m mostly worried about Hazel’s insistence at seeing her mother.”

“Well, clearly that’s something we want to keep an eye on, but I’m guessing that this is a normal response to everything she’s been through. Maybe it’s exacerbated a bit by us losing our house and coming here. But now that we have some stability, maybe she’ll stop with all this.”

“Is that what you think, Mr. Dawson, or what you hope?”

“A bit of both?”

“You’re right, this is a big move, and she has been through a lot. Maybe this is a phase that’ll go away on its own, but my professional opinion is that she needs help immediately. The sooner we help her, the sooner the healing can begin.”

“You mean therapy?”

“Yes, absolutely. I’d also suggest an anti-anxiety medication. And maybe something to help her sleep through the night.”

“I don’t know. I think this all sounds like a bit too much.”

“There’s nothing wrong with medicating your child, if they need it, and I believe that Hazel does. Resistance to things without reason is never healthy, Mr. Dawson. It’s okay to have your objections, but you should understand your own opposition. Giving her the medicine she needs to improve is in no way reflective of a failing on your part. Nor is it a ‘bad thing.’ It’s simply what’s needed to help Hazel successfully navigate her present difficulty.”

“I don’t know.”

“Here, I wrote something on the back for you to look into,” Sandra said, handing Scott her card. It had the name of what he assumed was a drug scrawled on the back: Diaxipram 5mg. Beneath the drug name and dosage was a web address.

“You can read about the medication on that site. There are minimal side effects with this particular medicine. Do your research and ask your pharmacist questions, but I believe it’s the best course for Hazel’s age and condition. This isn’t a big deal, Mr. Dawson, unless left untreated. Then it could be … catastrophic. I don’t want to see that happen to Hazel.”

“Of course not,” Scott said, irritated. “Nor do I.”

Sandra went to the table, opened her briefcase, scribbled two prescriptions for Scott, and an appointment for the same time the following week.

* * * *

ALASTAIR

Alastair had been wanting for Sandra to speak with the Dawsons forever, or at least since their arrival. But that would have been too difficult, unnecessary suspicion so soon. Far better to play his role as Carter and wait for the moment when Scott needed his help the most. Following Hazel’s incident in the attic, Scott was ready.

Sandra was finishing her turn with Hazel as Alastair made himself an avocado and cheese sandwich. Jacquelyn didn’t offer to make it for him. He could make his own damned sandwich.

Sandra entered the kitchen looking nervous then took a seat opposite him at the table.

“You okay?” Alastair looked her over.

“This is going to be difficult.”

“Difficult, but not impossible. Right?”

Alastair held a smile long enough for it to hurt his face.

“I’m not complaining, Mr. Galloway. I’m saying that it’s tough getting inside their heads. They’re both strong, even if they don’t yet know it. And there is a resistance, making it hard to see their thoughts.”

“But not impossible?”

“I don’t think you’re understanding me, Mr. Galloway, or else you wouldn’t be in here, pacing around, wondering what the hell is taking me so long. Instead, you would have finished your sandwich and gone for a walk, grateful for someone like me to help you through this.”

Alastair took a bite of his sandwich. “So, which one’s stronger?”

“I think they’re both on the cusp, but we need to tread carefully and give them time. Hudson is stubborn, and very, very angry. He’s holding it inside, quite well I’d add, but he’ll only be able to stuff it all down for so long. Eventually, his cork will pop. When it does, he could be vulnerable to their influence. Hazel is stronger. I felt her power while pulling up to the manor, but dismissed it as the mansion’s usual heartbeat. But when I was in the room with her, it was … so strong. But I also think she’s far more fragile.”

Alastair said nothing, though he wasn’t surprised. He felt the Dawsons passing through the front gate before Davenport announced them. He could feel Hazel like he had felt the power in her mother.

He took another bite, chewing without tasting. “Will she make a good custodian? How quickly can we get her ready?”

“Yes, I think she is the better choice, with the caveat that we take the proper time to prepare her. Why are you asking how quickly we can get her ready? We were supposed to have years, unless you know something I don’t. Is your condition worse?

“By the day.”

Her eyes widened as she surveyed Alastair. “But you still look so … good.”

He laughed, then the laugh turned to a cough. “You can’t see inside me. That’s where everything’s black.”

He took a drink, then pushed his plate with the unfinished sandwich away. “It was supposed to be years, but now I don’t know. I feel like we’re down to months, though a part of me feels weak enough to fear it’s only days.”

“Can I assume that this is you being overly dramatic?”

“You can, but that’s not why I’m paying you. I need a solution, assuming we only have days.”

“Be blunt, Mr. Galloway, because if I’m understanding you correctly, you’re saying that everything’s changed.”

He drew a deep breath then nodded.

Sandra stared at him for a bit, as if trying to determine how best to ask her next question.

“Spit it out,” he said.

“What happens if you die before the children are ready?”

“Then God help you all.”

Sandra swallowed, then blinked her eyes as if waking to a reality she wasn’t prepared to accept.

“Now, what can we do to speed things up?”

“If you’re really serious, you can try pushing one of them over the edge. I assume you’d want to trigger Hazel first; that would mean focusing attention on Hudson or her father.”

“Why?”

“Because Hazel won’t care about herself. If you do something to her, she’s far more likely to simply shut down.”

“So what do you suggest?”

“I really don’t want to suggest this, but given the nature of the threat, and our lack of time—”

“Just say it, Sandra.”

“You could have either Hudson or his father killed. That might — I think that will — be enough.”

Alastair barely waited for her to finish. “That’s absurd. Our family’s suffered enough losses. Bloodline or no, Scott Dawson is family, and I would as soon kill myself as one of the children. Besides, she could just as easily shut down if you kill her brother or father.”

“No, I think a perceived threat to someone she loves will draw her out. Again, I don’t suggest this. Hell, if Hazel is really seeing her mother’s ghost, maybe she’s close enough to only need a nudge. But, if you want to be certain she’s prepared, I think she will require something volcanic to bring her the rest of the way.”

Alastair cleared his throat. “Do you really think she’s seeing Holly?”

“I don’t know if it’s her mother, or one of them using Hazel’s memories against her, but honestly, Mr. Galloway, I don’t see how one is better or worse. Her channels are open. If you’re deteriorating as rapidly as you suggest, and we don’t have time to prepare the children, you might need to consider more drastic measures. Remember, I didn’t want to bring this up at all.”

“Do you think she can be turned against us?”

Sandra paused, then nodded. “Yes. It’s certainly possible. And if so, they could kill you all. Of course, you could—” Sandra chewed her bottom lip, hesitating.

“Just say it,” Alastair barked.

“I don’t know why I bother, but I feel compelled to suggest now what I have from the start … what I see as the only logical option.”

“No. We’re not telling them. The last thing I want to do is scare them away. We need the children here. If we spook Scott, we’ll lose them both.”

“But—”

“No. We must do this without telling Hazel, or bringing harm to her family.” Alastair pulled a watch from his pocket, looked at its face, then stood. “I’ll call you if I need anything.”

“But—”

“Thank you, Sandra.”

He smiled again, nodded, then left Sandra alone in the kitchen.

Alastair walked briskly through the house, past the dining room where Jacquelyn was serving the Dawsons, and into the long hallway toward the cellar.

At the bottom of the stairs he pulled the amulet from his inner coat pocket, went to the cellar door, inserted the amulet into the lock’s circular inset, then pressed his palm over the top so it sank into the smooth crater. He waited for the dim light and subtle hum that rumbled out from around the metal and filled his flesh with a tickle of warmth. There was a tremendous heaving, then the door seemed to settle, as if shrinking inward from its frame.

Alastair pushed it open, stepped inside, and crossed the cellar, a long narrow room with a cold stone floor and walls that hummed with an energy older than time. At the end of the room, smack in the middle of the otherwise featureless slab of wall, was the portal — the dark, shimmering blackness with a slight emerald tint bathing the room.

He tried not to stare into the Threshold’s abyss. Tried to bury the jumbled emotions that stirred inside him: hate, awe, wonder, terror, reverence, and lust.

Don’t stop. Don’t let them into your head.

Alastair went to the stone fountain in the room’s center and stared down into the basin at the always-bubbling blood, which ran from the bowl into the stone crow’s mouth, then back into the basin.

The basin was low. It needed to be replenished.

He could hear the usual gathering of scratches and shrieks braying from the other side. The portal grew brighter, green light threatening to swallow the darkness.

They knew he was in the room. And they wanted nothing more than for him to open the doorway.

Alastair felt a flutter to his right, then heard it. Her. He willed himself from turning, knowing what he’d see but not wanting to look.

Like always, he turned anyway.

“Please, Daddy,” Savannah begged. “Please don’t!”

“You’re not real.”

Alastair shook his head and squeezed his eyes tight.

“Please, just come through the Threshold, Daddy. You don’t understand. You don’t have to do this.”

Alastair grabbed a stone blade from a hollow in the fountain’s base. It was full of symbols that only he could read — some of them, anyway. He brought it to his palm, dragged the blade two inches across his flesh, then held his hand over the waiting basin, and fed the magic.

Blood bubbled in the fountain. The shrieks and clawing grew louder, coming from the other side of the Threshold, alongside Savannah’s soft and still-angelic voice, until everything faded — her whisper last to leave — and the portal started to darken again.

The manor is safe another day.

Alastair winced as he stepped away. He cleaned the blade without a sound, wiping it with a cloth. Then he placed it back into the fountain’s stone scabbard and held out his hand, still marveling after all these years as he watched his skin stitch itself beneath the Threshold’s dimming light.

He thought he heard Savannah’s voice — a far-off echo — and ignored it because he had to. It wasn’t her. It was a deception, the same sort they were probably using on Hazel.

Knowing it was a trick didn’t stop him from crying.

Alastair didn’t want to die, except every day he had to come down here to keep the doorway closed. Every day he had to face his daughter’s mockery. And during these moments, it felt easier to let go — allow the doorway to open, damn the world.

* * * *

HAZEL

Hazel swallowed her scream and shot straight up in bed.

She couldn’t remember the dream, only that it was awful, and felt like forever as she tried to escape. She was drenched in sweat, heart pounding, clueless to what time it was in her darkened bedroom. The nightstand clock was somehow unplugged, or maybe the power was out. She closed her eyes, sank back beneath the covers, then pulled them under her chin and tried not to be scared.

This was the worst: Waking up scared, unable to fall back asleep. It used to happen all the time in their old house, especially after her mother had vanished. It hadn’t happened yet in the manor, though that seemed to be about to change. She’d probably be up for hours, counting bulldogs and crows — she and Hudson thought that was so funny back when she was five — and making up stories in her head to kill the insomnia.

She should have kept Mom to herself. No one believed her in Las Orillas, so why would they believe her here? Galloway Manor was just one more place for Dad to worry that something was wrong with her, and for Hudson to think she was desperate for attention.

Sometimes she wondered if Dad was right. That she was making all of this up. She didn’t think she was, of course. But what if she was crazy? Hazel was pretty sure that most crazy people had no idea they were crazy. Maybe she was like that?

She wished she could be normal, even if it meant never seeing her mother’s ghost — or whatever it was — again.

She felt a flush of shame.

But what if I really am seeing Mom? And now I just wished I couldn’t. What if she’s trying to reach me right now and can’t because I wished to be normal?

“I’m sorry, Mom,” she said to the darkness.

The darkness answered back — the sound of something moving in her closet.

She sat up. “Mom?”

Nothing.

Wondering if she’d imagined the noise, she stared at the closet doors.

What if it’s Savannah, come to grab me and bring me up to the attic?

No, no, that didn’t happen.

It was your anxiety.

Yes, it had felt real. But feelings didn’t make something true.

She felt like the things in the attic had grabbed her tight and even scratched her, but she had nary an abrasion or blemish on her skin. And she bruised easily, so if something had tried to hurt her, there’d surely be proof.

And yet she had nothing.

Another bump in the closet.

“Mom?” she asked again, leaning forward in her bed.

No reply.

She got out of her bed, walked slowly toward the closet, heart in her throat.

Hazel was inches from the closet doors, and started to reach out to open it.

Something moved again.

And then it spoke.

“Hasssiiiil!”

She backed away, shaking her head.

No, this isn’t real.

This isn’t happening.

“Hasssiiiil!”

What if everyone’s right?

Maybe she was crazy.

It’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real …

The door slowly slid open.

Hazel wanted to turn around and run back to her bed. But again she was frozen.

Run!

Run!

Run!

She heard a strange ticking as the door slid on its track. Despite the moonlight bathing her room, it was too dark to see inside the closet, at least past her hanging clothes.

This isn’t happening.

The door finished opening, stopping with a thud as door met frame.

She stared into the closet, heart pounding, waiting to see what pushed the door open.

The clothes began to move.

No, no, no. This isn’t real.

This isn’t happening!

Savannah’s half-corpse, half-flesh body floated out of the closet.

Hazel cried out, “No, please go away!”

Savannah’s rotten mouth opened. She hissed, “Why are you sssssstiiiill here?”

Hazel screamed, swatting at the apparition, expecting her hand to sail through its form. It struck a body instead.

She fell back on her butt with a shriek.

Savannah stared down at her with her one good eye, an empty black hole.

“Why are you sssssstiiiill here?”

Perhaps the fall did her some good, as Hazel’s frozen limbs finally decided to cooperate.

On hands and knees, she scrambled to her bedroom door, reached up, twisted the knob, and threw it open.

She tore from the room, screaming, then ran smack into Dad in the hallway.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

She looked back at her bedroom door. It was shut, though she’d been too busy trying to escape to close it.

Who, or what, closed it?

She shook her head, staring at the door, crying, “No, no, no” over and over.

“Hazel, Hazel, up here,” Dad said. “Hazel!”

She felt her father’s fingers under her chin in slow motion, but he was working a mannequin, and she was barely in her body.

Dazed, she couldn’t make words.

Her world was swimming.

“Hazel, say something … sweetie, can you hear me?” He took her hands in his.

She finally managed to make words. “I hear you.”

“What’s happening, honey? Where are you?”

Thoughts became easier to make. Hazel made two in a row. “I’m here, Dad. I can hear you.”

“What’s wrong? What happened?”

“Savannah. Savannah’s in my room.”

The look Hazel hated was all over his face. Again. Sad disbelief. Worse than pity.

“Okay, Hazel.” Dad dropped her hands.

He stood, marched into her room, flicked on the light, and was already snarling before she made it to the doorway.

“What’s going on?” Hudson asked from behind, standing on the other side of his open door. “Did you schedule Crazy Time for tonight and forget to tell me?”

“Shut up!” Hazel snapped.

“I’d ask you to shut up, but you won’t.”

Hudson went back into his room and slammed the door.

Dad was standing with his hands on his hips, circles under his eyes, patience threadbare. “There’s nothing wrong with your bedroom, Hazel. You saw a shadow. Go back to bed. Goodnight.” Dad kissed her on the forehead and brushed past her, back out into the hallway — leaving Hazel all alone in her room.

“No!” she cried out. “Please, Dad. I can’t sleep in there tonight. Not now. I’ll never fall asleep. Please, Dad. Can I please sleep in your room?”

“I thought we agreed that you were going to sleep in your bed from now on?”

“Please,” she sobbed, tears rolling down her cheeks. She didn’t cry just to get him to say yes, but, at the same time, she didn’t try not to cry.

“Fine, Hazel.” Dad sighed, then turned and headed toward his room, leaving the door ajar.

Hazel stared at the door. Even though she’d won, she still felt like she’d lost because she made her dad angry, and he didn’t want her in his room.

He hates you, a voice said in the back of her mind as she slowly approached his door. The voice didn’t sound like her mom’s, or Savannah’s. This time the whisper belonged to her.

And the worst thing was she knew it wasn’t lying.

* * * *

HUDSON

Hazel was unbelievable.

Hudson had been asleep when her nonsense yanked him from a pleasant dream. He couldn’t remember much, except for the fact that he was with a girl. He wasn’t sure if it was Iris or some imaginary girl, but they’d been kissing, and about to move on to something more interesting.

Then Hazel ruined everything.

He returned to bed, closed his eyes, and thought hard, hoping to return to his dream to pick up where he left off. Then fragments filled in, and he remembered parts of the dream before he was with the girl.

He was in the manor, but it wasn’t the present. And Savannah was there.

He tried to remember more, but everything was fuzzy. Now he wanted to return to the dream more than when he was about to get laid. Because now Savannah’s mystery was waiting.

Since reading the journal, he’d returned to her room and found another two, sneaking them to his room and devouring both in a single sitting. They were earlier journals, written a year or two before the one he’d already read, and not nearly as interesting. Nor did they answer the question of what happened after her punishment. Had that been her last journal? Her final words before taking her own life?

Even though the earlier journals were written when she was younger, and filled with silly things about music, animals she liked, and other things that girls wrote about as kids, he still appreciated getting to know more of her. They weren’t the pieces of her puzzle he was looking for, but they were pieces nonetheless, pieces that helped him get to know her better.

And the more he knew, the more he felt an odd connection with her. Connection might not be the best way to describe it, as it was purely one-way. It wasn’t as if she could know him in return. It was kind of pointless, he thought, yet he couldn’t stop yearning to know more.

He wished Iris would return his stupid message, so he could stop obsessing about a girl long dead.

But Iris had yet to reply. Maybe she was still laughing at his message. Maybe she was regretting letting him kiss her that night. Maybe her brother and Horse-Face ridiculed her. You like that dork? And now she’d lost interest.

Even as he thought about Iris, his thoughts kept getting pulled back to Savannah.

It was weird reading Savannah’s later journal first, then reading ones she’d written when she was younger. A part of him felt like if he tried hard enough, he could go back in time to when she was writing the pages and warn her of what was to come.

Don’t tell your father about the things you see!

Don’t tell him about Madison and the cellar!

And as he thought of the cellar, Hudson again wondered what was down there that Alastair was trying to cover up. What had scared him so?

“Hudson,” a girl’s voice whispered from outside his room.

He sat up in bed, staring at the door and the shadow passing beneath it.

“Hazel?” he whispered back.

No response.

“You better not be messing with me.”

Hudson got out of bed, annoyed, then went to his door and opened it.

The hallway was dark and empty, save for a swath of moonlight bleeding through the window behind him.

Hazel’s door was closed. But Savannah’s was ajar.

“Hudson …” The whisper came again.

He wanted to yell at Hazel to come out from Savannah’s room and stop messing around. But a weird part of him that thought maybe it wasn’t Hazel.

Maybe it’s—

He couldn’t finish the thought, lest he admit to something he didn’t — shouldn’t — believe.

He’d felt like a fool too many times in his life. The last thing he wanted to do was give his sister a reason to mock him, or his father a reason to think him crazy, too.

He stepped into his shadow and followed the voice.

He passed Hazel’s door on the right. It was open, and she wasn’t in her bed.

Of course she’s not in her bed — she’s in Savannah’s room waiting to scare me!

He walked as quietly as possible, passing two other closed doors, thinking maybe he could surprise Hazel by ducking into one of them and calling her.

But the closer he got to Savannah’s room, the more he felt it pulling at him.

He reached the end of the hallway. Savannah’s door was on the right, with his father’s directly ahead.

He looked at Dad’s closed door and wondered if Hazel was in there just on the other side, her ear pressed against the wood, waiting until she heard him. Hell, maybe she and Dad were both waiting, poised to scare the crap out of him.

It wasn’t like Dad to do something like that, or much of anything fun lately. But maybe he’d do it to lighten the mood.

I swear to God if they scare me, I’ll soooo make them regret it!

If Dad thought Hazel was a drama queen, Hudson would make sure to show him what real drama was. See how the old man liked having both his children sleeping in his room.

Hudson laughed at the idea of pulling the same shit as his sister, maybe out-Hazel Hazel.

He paused in front of his dad’s door, waiting.

To his right, in Savannah’s room, he heard his name whispered again.

Okay, you little brat, you asked for it.

He reached out and pushed Savannah’s door open.

It swung with a light creak, revealing an empty room.

His eyes locked on the closet doors.

Hazel had to be in there, probably giggling like crazy, about to piss herself.

Want to scare me, eh?

He turned around, pulled Savannah’s bedroom door closed, then twisted the lock.

See how you like this!

Hudson was pissed at himself for being nice to Hazel following her attic scare. She’d played him, just like she played Dad, making him proud to be her big brother and protector. But clearly she didn’t want to mend fences. No, she wanted to wake him up from a great dream, playing childish games in the middle of the night, maybe hoping to get revenge for whatever imagined sins he’d committed.

You wanna play? Let’s play.

He looked down at Savannah’s bed, the stuffed animals looking eerily up at him, moonlight in their eyes.

He grabbed the girl’s pillow, pulled the pillowcase off, then tossed the pillow back onto the bed. He held the pillowcase open with two hands, ready to slide it over Hazel’s head, yank her into the closet, and really scare the crap out of her.

He held his breath as he gingerly stepped toward the closet doors, careful not to make a sound.

He listened.

He could hear her breathing on the other side.

He smiled.

This is going to be so good. If I’m gonna get in trouble, may as well make it worthwhile.

He reached out, touched the handle’s edge, then threw open the door.

It slid fast, hit the track with a thud, and Hudson jumped into the closet with the pillowcase open and ready.

Except Hazel wasn’t in the closet.

Nobody was.

“What the hell?” he said, looking around.

Impossible! I just heard her breathing.

Something on the floor grabbed his attention.

He reached up, found the string to turn the light on, and yanked it.

The light revealed a journal sitting behind the boxes.

This wasn’t here the last time I looked.

He reached down and picked it up.

He opened the book.

The first page began with:

I HATE MY LIFE.

I WANT TO DIE.

The words were bold, big capital letters traced over many times in blue ink, occupying the journal’s entire first page.

He flipped to the next page.

The entry was dated nearly six months after the entries where she’d been punished and held in isolation.

It’s not getting any better.

He still won’t let me out of my room, nor will he let me see anyone.

Says I’m still EVIL.

He brings this woman over to the house who comes in my room and says all these weird words in another language, but none of it makes sense.

She doesn’t say anything else, and she always leaves looking disappointed.

I don’t know what’s going on, and

The entry ended abruptly.

Hudson turned the page.

Another one, a week later:

I saw the ghosts again.

They showed me something special.

They showed me that I have a power.

I can move things.

I practiced on my unicorns, and then on heavier stuff.

I think I can get out of my room.

They said if I do, I can join them in the cellar.

The next entry, two days later:

I got out.

But Father stopped me before I could get into the cellar.

He dragged me up to my room, slapped me across the face, then locked me inside.

I screamed for an hour, but the staff ignores me, just like always.

I can’t take it any longer.

I guess I’ll have to find another way to join the ghosts.

Sorry, Mom.

Hudson’s heart was in his throat as he stared at the words which ended abruptly in the middle of the page.

No! There’s got to be more!

Hudson panicked.

He tore at the pages, plowing forward, finding nothing until the final one. His eyes settled on the words — written in red unlike the rest of the journal’s blue ink.

He shook his head as he read them.

No.

Impossible!

Scrawled in Savannah’s hand, shaky and red all over the page, were the words:

I need you, Hudson. Please help me.

He touched the red and found it wet.

* * * *

SCOTT

Prince Hudson was sleeping in as Scott sat with Hazel for breakfast in a little nook, enjoying a lovely view of the gardens and woods stretching forever behind the house. Hazel munched on a Danish as she laughed at a group of birds playing in their bath in the garden.

Scott tried to enjoy the moment, even vicariously through Hazel’s enjoyment, but his anger at Hudson was souring everything.

Scott had tried to wake his son at 8 a.m., as they’d agreed to the evening before, but that effort led to what seemed like a brutal argument would surely erupt if he pressed it.

The children would be starting school in a week if they were still living in Las Orillas. And while they’d been assured they would get the very best resources without ever having to leave Galloway Manor or being forced into a rigid school schedule — not that Scott saw anything wrong with that — he wanted them to have a normal bedtime, and wake at a reasonable hour. Having sudden wealth didn’t abdicate his responsibility to raise his children correctly.

After too many arguments, Scott and Hudson had begrudgingly agreed on an 8 a.m. wakeup, an hour later than Scott thought should be his absolute latest, and an hour before Hudson said was reasonable.

Scott looked up from Hazel to the clock on the wall behind her which read 8:30, and tried to not let Hudson’s tardiness further ruin his breakfast.

He smiled at Hazel.

“Are you ever going to get tired of these amazing breakfasts?”

“No,” she spoke through a mouthful of Danish. “Definitely not. Are you?”

“No. Never.”

“I see where Mom got it.”

Scott looked at Hazel, raising his eyebrows. “Got what?”

“The food thing. You know, how she was always cooking, no matter what. And how she always wanted us to eat, and gave us too many choices. Stuff like that. Maybe she got that from staying here … Dad?”

“Yeah?”

“Why do you think Mom never told us about Great-Uncle Alastair, or the manor — or any of this?”

Scott set down his coffee, not surprised by the question. He had expected it since their arrival, and had wondered why it was taking his children so long to ask.

“I don’t know, honey. I really wish I did.”

“Do you think it has anything to do with … her not being here?”

“It might.” Scott had wondered the same thing, too many times.

The kitchen doors swung open, and Mara came in carrying the silver carafe full of coffee. She nodded at Scott, smiling as she poured a fresh cup. She looked from him to Hazel and back.

“My mom and I are going into town, Mr. Dawson. I was wondering if Hazel wanted to come, and if that would be okay with you if she did.”

“Of course.” Scott forced a smile, not really wanting her to leave.

Mara told Hazel to meet her out front in five minutes. She beamed, then turned to Scott. “We’ll finish talking later, okay? I promise. I love you, Daddy!”

She threw her arms around him, kissed Scott on each of his cheeks, then left the nook. He finished his coffee, taking his time, sipping while reading headlines on his new tablet.

He finished, killed time wandering the manor without direction, and finally found himself in the bar, pouring a drink. The small glass was halfway to his expectant lips when Carter stepped through the doorway, looked at Scott, laughed out loud, and said, “Little early for that, isn’t it?”

“It’s 5 o’clock somewhere.” Scott turned from Carter and poured the drink down his throat.

* * * *

HAZEL

Hazel stared out the window, trying to capture everything they passed on their way into town. Mara and her mom both kept talking so much, she could barely focus on anything beyond their words. Mara was twenty-four but seemed younger — like a teenager — and Hazel liked being around her.

“Aren’t you glad to get out of the manor?” she asked.

Hazel was, but shrugged and said, “I guess.”

“The manor is wonderful,” Jacquelyn said, keeping her eyes on the road. “But it’s great to get out every now and then, too. When I was your age, my favorite part of the week was driving into town. I always went with my mom and grandpa. Grandma died when I was just a bit younger than you, and Grandpa hung around for another two years. He went with us everywhere. He always seemed so sad at the manor, walking around and missing her, rifling through drawers and handling all of her old things. It was awful. But he’d always brighten up as soon as we left, and talk right through the drive every time.”

Hazel smiled, not because the story was anything special, but because of the sweet lilt to Jacquelyn’s voice while she told it.

They drove past fancy houses and smaller shacks, then eventually into town, the car’s cabin filled with an unnatural silence. Hazel knew what was coming.

“Is it true you saw your mom?” Jacquelyn asked.

Everything seemed suddenly louder: The car, their breathing, a single shock of thunder in the distance. Hazel deflected. “How far are we from the store?”

Jacquelyn said, “Two minutes.”

Mara said, “It’s fine if you saw her. Carter told us. You don’t have to feel weird about it.”

Hazel would have gladly poured herself an acid bath and dipped right in, rather than answer questions about her mom.

“It’s okay, you know,” Mara continued. “Whatever you saw, it’s not weird. And you shouldn’t think it is. That’s the way things have always been at the manor. Anyone who has ever lived at the mansion has a ghost story to tell.”

Hazel still said nothing, tapping her foot on the floorboard, muscling through the final minute before their arrival at the store.

Jacquelyn moved her eyes from the road to the backseat. “You’re safe, Hazel. Whatever you say in this car will stay here. We want to help you understand, however we can. You’ve been through a lot, and don’t have to go through it alone. Let us help you by listening.”

Put like that, it sounded wonderful.

Hazel did need someone to hear her.

“I saw my mom by the gazebo,” she admitted, trying to keep her voice from cracking. “I used to hear her back home, just after I’d fall asleep. But this was the first time I saw her since she disappeared. She called me outside. She didn’t stay long because my dad came outside, and then my brother. Mom left once we were all there.”

Jacquelyn parked three rows from the front of the grocery store, killed the engine, then turned to the backseat after a subtle glance at Mara. “What did she say?”

Hazel tried to separate the voices in her head from those that seemed to chase her through the manor. “She didn’t say much. And she wasn’t there long.”

Hazel wondered if they had really been oblivious to the commotion, or were only pretending.

“Have you ever seen other things in the house?” Mara asked.

“What do you mean other things?”

Jacquelyn seemed to be studying Hazel, her eyes narrowed, nose turned up, mouth drawn back, expression kind but assessing.

“Well,” Mara said, “anything, really. The manor is different for everyone, depending on who you are. Have you seen anything?”

Hazel knew: They wanted to know about Savannah. The ghost.

“I saw Savannah.” Hazel studied their faces. “Have you?”

Mara said nothing, though Hazel thought she wanted to. Almost too fast, Jacquelyn said, “Savannah was a sweet girl. Her passing was an absolute tragedy. My mom cried for two weeks, almost without stopping. I cried for longer than that.” She pulled keys from the ignition, and shook her head. “Just. Horrible.”

Jacquelyn hadn’t answered the question. “Ready to go inside?”

Five minutes later Hazel was inside the store and picking out cereal, any one that she wanted, when Mara was suddenly beside her. “Do you have a favorite?”

Without moving her eyes from the rows full of color, Hazel said, “I love Cap’n Crunch, but hate how it makes the roof of my mouth feel.”

“All scratchy?”

“Yeah. It’s worth it, though, especially with the crunch berries.”

Mara shook her head. “Try something else. Cap’n Crunch is a liar and a fraud. Go with Golden Grahams, they never lied to anyone.”

Hazel laughed as Mara handed her a box of Golden Grahams.

“A liar and a fraud?”

“Navy captains have four stripes; commanders have three. Like Cap’n Crunch. Sure, anyone who leads a ship can technically be called a captain, but I think the Cap’n knows exactly what he’s doing and is trying to work us all. Don’t let him fool you.”

Hazel laughed, returned the fraudulent Cap’n to the shelf, and hugged a box of Golden Grahams to her chest.

Like in the car with Jacquelyn, Hazel knew Mara was about to say something important (and maybe scary) a second before she did.

“I’ve seen Savannah. Three times. The first time I was younger than you, once a few years ago, then again about two weeks after last Christmas.”

“Why didn’t you say that in the car?”

“Because I was told by my mom to never say anything about it.”

“So, why are you telling me now? Won’t your mom be mad?”

“Not if you don’t tell her, she won’t.”

Hazel smiled. “So, a secret?”

“The way I see it, you live there, too. There’s no reason not to tell you. I grew up here, and know what it’s like to see things. I don’t think it’s fair for you to have to keep everything in your head, wondering. I just …” Mara paused. “I just don’t want you to think you’re crazy.”

“Thanks.” Hazel felt lost for all other words.

“Mom’s biggest rules growing up were to never speak about what I saw with anyone other than her, and to never go anywhere near the cellar, no matter what.”

“Why? What’s in the cellar?”

Hazel vaguely recalled seeing the cellar door on their house tour — with its weird, oversized, thick metal circular lock above the doorknob that didn’t even have a keyhole — and Carter telling them it was a dangerous place for children, but she hadn’t thought of it as particularly scary.

Hazel didn’t know why Mara couldn’t answer, but could see her losing color. Hazel felt a presence behind her, then turned and found herself looking up into Jacquelyn’s eyes.

Hazel couldn’t tell how long Mara’s mother had been there, but was suddenly afraid that her sort-of friend might’ve got herself into trouble. Jacquelyn’s eyes quickly lit with their usual sparkle as she held up a box of brownies.

“Buying these will make Garza furious, but Mara will agree they’re totally worth it.”

Hazel laughed, then the three of them left the aisle together. Hazel couldn’t stop thinking about the cellar, or wondering what was down there. She told herself that the cellar had answers, and that it was time to find out what they were.

* * * *

HUDSON

Hudson woke in the darkness, startled by a thump.

But as he sat upright in bed, looking nervously around in the dim-blue moonlight from the partly open curtains, he saw nothing out of the ordinary. The sound had seemed like it was in his room. But as he looked around, nothing seemed disturbed.

He listened again, perhaps for something in the hallway, but the manor was still. He thought about getting up to look, but was exhausted and figured the sound must’ve been born in a dream. He lay back down.

Nights when he woke and couldn’t fall back asleep were the worst. He wished he could just turn his mind off, stop the nervous chattering, the endless what-ifs, and all the other crap that seemed to wait until nighttime to percolate.

He tried to think of nothing.

But thinking of nothing was impossible. Your mind always found something to cling to, some fragment of a thought to untangle.

But, as he stared out his second story window at the moon, a terrible thought scurried into his brain.

I’m being watched.

His earlobes tingled, and all of his body’s tiny hairs stood on end.

Hudson sat up in bed, rubbing his temples, looking around his room again. He had the nagging thought that he’d forgotten something, but couldn’t remember what. Not remembering was worse than not being able to shut your brain off, because then you were preoccupied with a thought you couldn’t even recall.

Then he remembered.

The journal.

The words:

I need you, Hudson. Please help me.

He’d read through the journal again before going to bed. Went to sleep with the words humming in his head. And he was pretty sure he’d seen Savannah in his dreams, but couldn’t remember for certain.

In fact, everything that happened the past day or two seemed fuzzy. He tried to remember what he’d done earlier in the day, but couldn’t.

I must’ve done something. Dad wouldn’t have let me stay in bed all day.

Hudson got out of bed, scratching his head, hating the disorientation, a sense of lost time he couldn’t account for.

He turned on the lights and reached under his mattress for the diaries.

But they weren’t there.

None of them were.

Panic swelled inside him.

Oh, no.

Someone found out I took them, and I’ve been reading them.

They know I was in her room!

He tried to calm himself.

Maybe they fell.

He dropped to the floor and searched under his bed.

Nothing.

He looked in his nightstand, then behind it.

Still nothing.

Maybe someone came into my room and took them.

But who would do that? If it had been a staffer, wouldn’t that have said something? Maybe told Carter that he’d broken a house rule?

Maybe Hazel sneaked in here.

That had to be it. Hazel. She was always snooping through his things back home. She must’ve come into his room and taken them.

The idea of her going through Savannah’s diaries made him angry. Hudson felt, oddly, violated, as if his sister had broken some secret covenant between him and Savannah.

He looked at his iPhone. It was only 10:20 at night.

Maybe Hazel was still awake in her room, reading through the diaries.

He decided to find out.

He stepped into the hallway. Muffled voices from his father and Carter drifted up the stairs. And down the hall, a different sort of noise — the thump that had woken him.

Hudson swallowed as he looked toward the source.

Savannah’s room.

He slowly made his way toward her room, one tentative step at a time.

Another noise, quick movement, then silence.

Someone had to be messing with him. But who? He could see Hazel writing the I need you, Hudson message in the journal — payback for calling her a liar, even though she was — but the handwriting looked nothing like hers. It could’ve been one of the live-ins, maybe Mara. Sometimes, Hudson thought she gave him weird looks. But why would anyone want to trick him like that? It wasn’t funny and didn’t make sense. Besides, Mara had been nice to him.

He stopped in front of Savannah’s room, hand on the doorknob, pausing without the courage to turn it.

He counted to five, then to ten when five wasn’t enough.

A beat after eleven, he used everything he had to turn the knob and step into the icy room.

It was empty, though he still had the odd sensation that he was being watched. Just bright enough from the moonlight bleeding through the open curtains that he didn’t need to turn a light on.

His eyes fell on the bookcase, and the diaries, all put back in place — including the last one he’d found in Savannah’s closet.

How the hell did they get here?

Someone is definitely messing with me.

Heart racing, Hudson reached for the last diary and flipped it open. He thumbed through the entries to the end, looking for his message.

It was no longer there.

Nothing but blank pages.

He opened the book all the way to try and see if a page had been ripped out. He couldn’t tell. It was possible that someone used a razor to remove the page, but he couldn’t be certain.

It was there.

I know it.

Hudson hated feeling crazy. Or toyed with. If this was Hazel, she’d be sorry. He’d had it with her endless crap through the last half year. It ended now.

He returned the diary to its shelf — no way was he giving Hazel the satisfaction of thinking he saw it — then approached the door. Halfway there Hudson heard heavy footsteps coming from the hallway.

Crap! I can’t let Dad or Carter find me in here.

He fell several steps back from the door, then turned and ran toward the closet.

He hid inside, sliding the door shut.

Just as it was nearly closed, he noticed that he’d left Savannah’s bedroom door ajar.

Crap! Crap!

It was too late to get out of the closet and close it.

He slid into the darkness, behind the clothes and boxes in Savannah’s closet, hoping that whoever was coming down the hall wouldn’t enter the room, or search the closet. If it was his father, he’d probably be punished. Or he’d think Hudson was a freak for snooping through a dead girl’s bedroom that was supposed to be off-limits.

If it was Carter, though, what then?

Was this a violation of their contract?

Would this get them kicked out of the house?

Would this lose them their fortune?

Would this mean Dad wouldn’t be able to pay for the new investigation into Mom’s disappearance?

Hudson awaited discovery, hating his weakness.

Why did I have to come in here?

Why did I have to read those stupid diaries?

Please, God, don’t let them catch me.

He couldn’t hear the footsteps from inside the closet, which turned waiting into torture. He had no idea where his father, Carter, or one of the other staffers was, nor when the coast was clear.

He was also standing in an uncomfortable contortion, hunched over, one leg on top of a box, his back pressed against the wall.

He was about to shift when Savannah’s door creaked open the rest of the way.

The light went on.

He froze in his uncomfortable spot.

He held his breath, watching the thin sliver of light along the bottom of the closet doors.

A shadow fell over part of the light.

No, no, no.

Turn around.

Do not open the door!

Someone was in the room, but Hudson couldn’t tell who it was.

Footsteps were light but confident. Female. Not Hazel, and definitely not Jacquelyn. Probably Mara: The person Hudson least wanted it to be. She’d probably think he was a pervert, snooping through a dead girl’s closet.

The footsteps approached his hiding spot.

Hudson wanted to exhale and draw new breath, but couldn’t.

His back was screaming, demanding that he get out of his awkward position, but he didn’t dare move.

The person outside his door was close enough to hear him.

The shadow stopped as if the person was standing there, staring at the closet, debating whether to open it — or maybe waiting for Hudson to emerge.

He had to exhale.

Needed to breathe.

Just go!

The shadow moved.

Footsteps retreated.

He chanced it, exhaling then drawing a deep breath, and sighing with relief as the light went off.

He shifted in the tight space, then felt the boxes beside him began to topple.

No!

He threw his hands up and prevented the pile from falling on top of him, but in doing so made a loud noise.

A whisper of metal as something dropped onto the carpet.

The light in Savannah’s room went back on.

Crap!

The boxes stable, he fell to his knees, planted his palms into the carpet’s plush fibers, and tried to make himself as small as possible behind the boxes.

Hudson suddenly had the oddest sensation that someone was sharing the darkness beside him.

Impossible, given the space, but he couldn’t ignore it any more than the sound of that someone breathing.

No, no, it’s just my imagination. Stay put. Do NOT leave the closet or you WILL get busted!

His fingers suddenly brushed something on the ground. Small, metal, and cold.

He pulled it into his fingers, trying to tell what it was from touch alone. He palmed the disc-shaped object and slid it into his pocket.

Outside the closet, footsteps drew closer again.

Here we go.

I’m so busted!

Something slid across his back — cold and wet.

To his right, something skittered in the darkness.

Hudson screamed and launched himself from the closet, crashing into Mara, then falling on top of her.

She cried out in pained surprise. Hudson kept screaming, now for his father as Mara scrambled to her feet.

Mara, looking down at him as he started to stand. “What were you doing in there?”

“There was something inside the closet,” Hudson yelled, then turned toward the open closet doors and repeated his earlier bellow. “DAD!”

Before Mara could ask anything else, or Hudson could explain further, Dad ran into the room, followed by Carter. “What’s going on?”

Mara spoke first, to Carter. “He was in the closet.”

The old man turned to Hudson, his eyes red, his voice shaky. “Why … why are you in here?”

“Because I heard some noise, and figured it was Hazel. When I couldn’t find her I thought she was trying to scare me, so I wanted to scare her first. I heard footsteps,” he pointed at Mara, “and thought it was Hazel, so I hid in the closet and was going to jump out and scare her. But there was something in there.”

“Hazel?” Dad asked.

Hudson said, “No ...”

The old man exploded.

“I told you to never go in this room! You have demonstrated either a total lack of understanding about the established rules, or have complete contempt for them. Which is it, Hudson Dawson?”

The old man didn’t wait for Hudson’s response. Carter spun to Dad. “A few simple rules, that’s all that we ask in exchange for everything you could possibly want, and yet—”

“That’s bullshit,” Hudson cut in, yelling. “If this is our house, we should be able to go wherever the hell we want. And why is this room even off limits, anyway? What are you all hiding in here?”

Hudson pointed to the shadows in the closet and shuddered. “What the hell is going on here?”

Carter glared. Hudson thought it looked like the old man might blow smoke through his nostrils. “You have violated your Great-Uncle Alastair’s rules, and that is unacceptable. You don’t have to understand them, but you must honor them. If you do not, all will be lost.”

“The fortune?”

“That, too,” Carter said, marching toward the closet.

He flicked on the closet light, peered inside, then looked back at Hudson and asked, “Well, what am I looking for? All I see are Savannah’s belongings.”

Hudson, unable to stop himself, said, “Why the hell are we even keeping a shrine to a dead girl?”

Something in Carter’s face changed immediately. His eyes flashed, and for a moment, Hudson thought the old man might hit him.

Instead, Carter swallowed, turned away, and stomped out into the hallway. Mara followed, leaving Hudson alone with his dad.

Hudson said, “Something’s going on here.”

Dad stared at him, clearly restraining himself. Hudson had seen this face too many times. He had to be careful. The right sequence of words would soothe things, but the wrong ones would set Dad off, and make things weird for a week.

“There’s something off about this place, Dad. You have to feel that.”

Dad, in a very deliberate, almost unnaturally calm voice, asked, “What do you think your consequence should be, Hudson? What do you think is fair punishment for this nonsense?”

“You’re not listening, Dad! There’s something weird going on. Why won’t you talk to me about that first?”

“Because that is irrelevant. Of course, the house is weird. It’s a fucking old castle, and has had generations of Galloways and their staffers living here. That’s the kind of weird that’s bound to breed weirder. But that doesn’t excuse your doing things you know you’re not supposed to do. So, what do you think your consequence should be?”

Through clenched teeth Hudson said, “How about I have to live in a haunted mansion, and wait my turn to leave?”

Then he stormed from Savannah’s room, marched down the hall to his room, and slammed the door behind him.

Alone, he fished out the metal object from his pajama pocket, opened his palm, and stared at the small copper medallion attached to a thin matching chain.

His mind hammered a single word like a nail into his thoughts.

Cellar.

* * * *

SCOTT

Scott woke up exhausted, wishing that for once he could sleep through the night without any drama.

He looked at the blinking clock.

Power must’ve gone off again.

He reached for his phone on the nightstand, flipped it on, and was startled by the time: 1:12 p.m. He’d slept straight through breakfast, and lunch!

Scott hadn’t overslept in years, not since he’d stopped drinking like a fish after Hazel was born.

He looked at the whisky bottle he’d emptied last night, to calm himself after Hudson’s bullshit. He couldn’t remember how full it had been when he started.

How much did I drink?

His head was swimming, and light coming through the sheer white curtains hurt his eyes. If he didn’t have children to check on, he would’ve pulled the covers over his head and gone right back to sleep.

Scott rarely allowed himself to swim in self-pity. He’d had a shitty childhood, but hell, so did a ton of people. Plenty had it worse than him. Despite his father’s abuse, the old man did love him in his own fucked up way, which was more than a lot of people could say. He never let that stop him from starting a family.

He’d also had shit luck when the economy tanked and killed his business. But hell, a lot of people lost their businesses then. At least Holly’s business didn’t suffer as much. And while he did surrender to the depression for a while, Holly had helped him see the bright side — that he could now be a stay-at-home dad and actually be present while his children grew up. And though she didn’t say it, because she wasn’t a martyr looking for praise, he was certain that she would’ve traded places with him in a moment, so she could stay home and watch her kids grow. But, no, now she had to work even more hours to support the family. No way Scott could complain when she was the one doing the heavy lifting.

After Holly vanished, he had to hold in whatever self-pity or depression he felt. Had to hold in the anger over her leaving him saddled with bills he couldn’t pay, and kids he couldn’t possibly raise as well on his own.

But he’d find a way through it.

They would find a way through it.

And when the lawyer appeared with this promise of a new life in this new place, Scott felt like he’d been rewarded by Fate for not being a whiny little bitch. God, or Fate, or Whatever had tested him, and he didn’t break.

And now God, Fate, or Whatever would deliver — would help them through these tough times with a gift he could never have imagined.

Scott should be grateful, happy that the worst of things were behind him. So why did he still feel on the verge of collapsing?

It all came to a head last night after Hudson’s bullshit. He’d needed relief, and had thus turned to an old friend and enemy, slipping into the old routine of self-pity and wallowing in his depression with the bottle.

And, as much as he hated to admit it, the drinking felt good. At least what he could remember.

But now, as his head throbbed and obligations waited for him downstairs, Scott felt even worse.

He got out of bed, showered, then found some ibuprofen in the medicine cabinet and washed down three with a gulp of water from the bathroom sink.

He got dressed and headed downstairs.

Jacquelyn greeted him at the bottom with her usual smile. “Good afternoon, Mr. Dawson. Are you feeling well?”

Normally, he liked being in her company. She was professional, but warm and friendly, kind of like a woman he used to know who ran a bed and breakfast. But, for some reason Scott couldn’t explain, he felt agitated by her now.

“Where are my children?”

“Hazel went to town with Mara to pick up some groceries. Hudson, last I saw him, was in the garden playing games on his phone.”

“Hmm …” Scott looked out the windowed doors into the garden. Hudson was sitting on a stone bench staring at his phone.

“Are you feeling well?” Jacquelyn repeated.

I will be, as soon as you get out of my face.

“Yeah,” he said, “just a bit of a headache.”

“Do you need me to get you anything? Or perhaps call the doctor?”

“I don’t need a doctor. It’s just a headache.”

Jacquelyn stepped back a bit.

He was pretty sure he’d been short with her, and normally would recognize his lack of manners and start falling all over himself to apologize. But something cold stirred inside him, something that wanted to hurt her.

He stared at Jacquelyn until she grew uncomfortable.

“Okay,” she said, “if you need anything, just call.”

Scott said nothing and headed toward the doors, looking out into the garden at Hudson.

What kind of idiot sits in a beautiful garden like this with his eyes glued to a fucking phone?

Scott stepped outside and approached his son.

Hudson was bolted to some game, unaware of his father was approaching, then equally clueless to Scott standing behind him watching for a full minute.

Anger stirred inside Scott as he watched his son playing some idiot game. Not just that he was practically addicted to the fucking phone, but for last night’s bullshit. He was acting like an entitled brat, and it was time for Scott to step in and put some hard boundaries in place.

He’d start by taking the iPhone away.

That’ll wipe the smile off his face!

Scott cleared his throat.

Hudson turned, startled, and nearly dropped the phone, catching it just before it hit the ground.

Lucky little shit.

Scott wished it had hit the ground. Wished the boy’s carelessness had shattered the screen. It would teach him to be careful, that nothing in this world is forever, and you can lose it all in a blink.

A part of Scott wanted to take Hudson’s phone and hurl it to the ground just to see his son’s reaction. Then smash it to pieces with his heel.

That’ll teach him.

Hudson looked up at his father. “What’s up?”

Something shifted in Scott, as if someone had taken a mirror and raised it to his dark thoughts. He stepped back, shocked.

“You okay?” Hudson said, seeming to notice something in his father.

Scott looked into his eyes and flashed back to the old days — when he couldn’t control his temper. Scott remembered the first time he’d smacked his son. It wasn’t hard, but the boy had been a toddler, too young for a wallop. Scott didn’t even remember what Hudson had done to deserve it, as if a two-year-old could deserve it at all.

But he remembered the moment afterwards.

There was a shift in his eyes, the look a child gets when betrayed by a loved one. That look when your child realizes he’s not safe around you.

And that look was a knife in Scott’s heart.

I did this to him.

Me.

My anger.

And Scott hated himself for that to this day.

Now, as he stared into Hudson’s eyes, he thought about how hard he’d worked to rebuild their trust, and worked to never put that look in Hazel’s eyes.

What the hell is wrong with me?

Was I actually about to break his iPhone?

Why was I such an asshole to Jacquelyn?

Why am I feeling these horrible feelings about my son?

Scott felt a crushing wave of self-loathing. He needed to get away from Hudson.

“Nothing. Just seeing how you’re doing.” Scott turned, heading back into the house, without even waiting for his son’s response.

He went to the bar, found another bottle of whisky, and returned to his bedroom.

* * * *

HAZEL

“Hazel!” the voice called out in the night.

She was awake in an instant, sitting up in her bed looking left and right, blinking.

“Mom?”

Mom’s voice came as a whisper in Hazel’s head: “Yes, Hazel, it’s me. I need to see you. Will you come and see me?”

Her feet hit the floor. She curled her toes, took a step forward, paused, perking her ears, wanting to hear her mother again.

“Good job, Hazel. Keep going.”

She left her bedroom and followed the drifting notes of her mother’s song, down the hallway, then the stairs, and through the manor toward the cellar.

The final stairway was dark. And cold. Hazel hated it more by the step.

“Almost there,” Mom said when Hazel was halfway down and could see the end of the stairs — a small black square, slightly darker than the surrounding shadows, a shifting shape standing in front of the imposing cellar door.

Though she hated each step and the stairs felt icy on her bare feet, Hazel ran down those final few until hitting the door at the bottom. She turned the knob and pressed her body to the wood, smiling, knowing she was seconds from seeing her mother.

The door wouldn’t budge. She pushed her body harder against the door, but it went nowhere. She turned the knob faster, over and over, banging her shoulder into the frame, as if speed and repetition might act as her keys. They didn’t, and soon Hazel could feel her shoulder starting to purple.

The door was formidable, with metal bands and bolts looking like it was made to withstand an attack.

Then she stared at the lock above the doorknob, the one she’d noticed on the house tour, which didn’t even have a keyhole.

How do I open this?

She ran her fingers along the circular depression in the thick metal frame and felt a cold chill run through her. She withdrew her hand, wiping her fingers on her pajama top as if they were wet.

“I can’t get inside!”

“I know, Hazel. I’m sorry.”

“What do I do?”

“You must find the key, Hazel. It’s the only way to free me.”

“There’s no keyhole. Where do I put it? I’ll ask Dad. He’ll help me.”

“No! Don’t do that, Hazel. You must find it on your own. It’s not a regular key. It’s a small copper medallion, fixed to a copper necklace. You’ll know it when you see it. Find it, then put it in the lock to open the door. But please, tell nobody. Not your father or your brother. And especially no one in the house. This is your job, Hazel. You must do this for me. For us. For our family. We can tell everyone about this, but only after I’m free, when there’s nothing to keep me trapped down here, away from you.”

“But Dad can help us. We can find the key faster!”

“No. You can’t trust him. He is a liar, Hazel. Lies are sticky like webs, and your best intentions are flies inside them. You must be careful, Hazel. Webs can kill you in a place like this.”

Hazel felt scared. Part of her was mad at Mom for saying those things about Dad. But then she thought about how her father had been earlier in the evening, not coming out of his room until dinner time, and looking like he didn’t want to be there with them during dinner. Something was definitely wrong with Dad, but that didn’t make him a liar.

“Dad’s not a liar.”

Mom was silent.

Hazel tapped at the door. “Mom?”

“Did you ask him about Karla?”

“Yes.”

“And what did the liar say?”

“Dad said she was a landscape architect. He knew her from a couple of jobs.”

“Liars love to tell part of the truth. That way you can’t tell which parts are rotten. She was an architect, and your father did know her from some jobs. But … he also loved her.”

Hazel stepped back from the door, feeling as if her mother had just punched her in the chest, knocking the air from her lungs.

“No! That’s not true.”

“It is true,” Mom said calmly.

“No, he loves you.”

“Maybe he once did. And maybe he can again. But he also loved Karla. You can ask him yourself, as long as you don’t mention the key.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because you deserve the truth. And because everything depends on it. I need you. I can count on you, right, Hazel?”

Hazel hated the idea of not telling her father about this, almost as much as she hated what Mom said about Karla. There had to be something more to the story, something else Mom was leaving out. Dad wouldn’t just forget about his wife, forget about his kids, and fall in love with someone else.

Would he?

“Hazel? Can I count on you?”

“Of course, Mom.”

“Good. I’ll be checking on you again soon. Right now, return to bed. Get a good night’s sleep. We’ll start our work in the morning. No one can see you before then.”

“Mom?”

“Yes, Hazel.”

“Are you really my mother?”

“What do you think?”

“I want to say yes.”

“Then say it.”

Hazel looked at the door, wishing she could open it and be in her mother’s arms. “Yes, Mom.”

Hazel heard a gentle kissing sound from the other side of the door, then silence. She turned, trudged up the stairs, returned to her room, climbed into bed, and pulled the covers up under her chin.

She thought it would be impossible to fall asleep, but sleep came quickly to claim her.

* * * *

HAZEL

“Dad?”

Hazel knocked on his bedroom door for a third time, and yet no response.

She knew he was in there because of the dot on her iPad. And she knew he was awake because she couldn’t hear him snoring.

Pretending to be asleep wasn’t nice, and made Hazel think of Mom’s word:

Liar.

“Dad!” Hazel called again. She considered walking in, but restrained herself.

“What?” he finally shouted.

“Good morning to you, too.”

Dad hated when she was sarcastic, even though Hudson was always sarcastic and always got a pass.

“Can I come in?”

“Do I have a choice?”

Hazel opened the door and went to her father’s bed. His eyes were red and his hair a mess. He looked as if he’d barely slept. She noticed two empty bottles on his nightstand and wondered if that was why he looked so bad.

She sat on the edge of the bed. “Why are you being so mean this morning?”

“Sorry,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “Guess I’m just feeling grouchy. What do you want?”

“I want to know more about Karla.”

Dad sat up straighter in bed and glared at her. “Really, Hazel? We’re gonna do this again? Where is this coming from?”

“Mom. Same as last time.”

“Did your mother put you up to this before she left?”

Dad’s face was turning red, his nostrils flaring.

“No.” Hazel held his eyes and planted her feet in the carpet as she stood. “She told me last night.”

“No, she didn’t.” Dad was off of the bed and starting to pace in front of her, like a caged animal. “She told you about Karla before she left, didn’t she? She told you she was leaving, didn’t she Hazel? You knew she was going to go, didn’t you?”

Hazel shook her head, trying not to cry. She took a few steps away from the bed, and him.

Dad’s eyes went suddenly wide as if he’d just figured something out. His voice climbed in pitch. “Wait a second! That’s why you say you’ve talked to her, isn’t it? You do talk with her, don’t you? She’s calling you or something! Where is she, Hazel? Tell me!”

Dad was huffing, puffing, and giving her shivers as he circled her.

Her mom’s voice was suddenly in her head.

“Don’t let him scare you.”

“Keep asking him about Karla. He’s deflecting, accusing YOU of things so he doesn’t have to answer.”

“Make him answer you!”

Hazel wasn’t sure if her mom’s voice was really advising her, or if she was imagining it like she sometimes did when needing encouragement.

Either way, she would listen.

Hazel stood straighter, trying to find the confidence to continue her line of questioning.

Dad kept circling her, fists balled at his side like he wanted to hit her.

Though it was scary, Hazel maintained eye contact, turning in a circle with him.

Two can play this game!

He saw what she was doing and stopped. He stared at her, and for a moment, she thought he was going to hit her.

She swallowed, but refused to break eye contact.

He let out a deep sigh then walked toward the dresser and slammed both fists into its top.

She flinched at the sound, but stayed put, looking up to meet his reflection.

“Bluff. Tell him you already know what’s going on.”

No way. He’ll know I don’t know.

“Just do it!”

She met his eyes, then told the lie.

“Mom told me everything last night.”

Scott’s eyes narrowed in the mirror. He turned and ran toward her. Time seemed to freeze for just long enough for her to become truly frightened of him for the first time.

Hazel screamed as he seized her by the arms, fingers clawing hard above her elbows, and started to violently shake her.

He was out of control. His eyes were like a madman’s — like a stranger’s.

“Stop it! You’re hurting me!”

Hazel yelled, but Dad kept shaking.

Instincts kicked in as she remembered something she’d seen in a safety film about getting away from bad guys.

She kicked her heel down hard on his foot.

He yelped but didn’t let go. She struck a second time, harder, and this time he released his grip. She turned and scrambled toward the door.

“Stay away from me!”

Dad’s hands seized the back of her pajamas. He spun her around while kicking his door shut, then loomed above her, face completely red, eyes dark and scary. “Tell me the truth, Hazel!”

He was no longer speaking. Every sound was a snarl.

“Mom said you were lying. If you want to make this right, you have to tell the truth and stop scaring me!”

“Tell me the truth! Where … is … your … mother?”

Hazel said nothing.

Her father raised his hand, cocking it back, ready to strike.

Hardly able to register what was happening, let alone believe he was actually about to hit her, Hazel threw her hands out in front of her face to deflect his blow.

Her palms suddenly burst into flames, except the fire didn’t hurt, and wasn’t orange or red. Instead her hands were engulfed in a bright-blue light, surrounded by crackling flecks of green and red that felt like raw energy waiting to be unleashed.

Again, time felt frozen.

She stared in awe as colorful light swirled in slow motion around her hands.

Dad seemed to freeze as well, in mid-motion, about to strike her.

The beautiful light swelled, faster than the slowed-down time, until it exploded in a bright white blast.

Slow motion collapsed, time returning with vengeance, as the blast of light hurled her father backward across the room.

Dad slapped the wall so hard that a chunks of plaster rained on him as he slid to the floor beside his nightstand.

Dad heaved, back pressed to the wall, gasping for breath, staring wide-eyed at Hazel, who looked helpless, shocked, and confused. She stared down at her open palms, colors fading to barely-there wisps around her fingertips.

What did I do?

Hazel thought of the Incredible Hulk, pictured him turning from monster back to Bruce Banner, and felt like that’s what had happened to her.

Dad’s door exploded open behind her.

Hudson rushed into the room. “What the hell is happening in here?” He looked from Hazel to their father, crumpled on the ground. “Oh my God! What happened to Dad?”

“I d-d-don’t know.”

It was the truth.

“Weren’t you here?” Hudson stared at his sister in disbelief.

“Yes,” she said, then stopped.

“Don’t tell them anything. They won’t understand,” Mom’s voice warned her.

Hazel had no idea what to say. Carter came through the door and surveyed the room. He looked from Hudson to Hazel, over to their father, then back to Hudson as though he was responsible.

“What’s going on here?”

Hudson, voice cracking, said, “I have no idea. I was just asking her the same thing.”

He gestured at Hazel. Dad made a grunting sound, still slumped against the wall. Hudson went over to him, dropped to his knees, and felt for a pulse.

“Well?” Carter bored his eyes into Hazel.

“I don’t know.” She shook off her sudden chill, then turned from Carter to Hudson. “Is he … dead?”

“No. He’s still breathing. What did you do to him?”

With Hudson and Carter staring at her accusingly, and Dad passed out, maybe seriously injured, Hazel felt the world crashing in around her.

Carter repeated Hudson’s question. “What did you do?”

Hazel’s heart was racing, her breaths shallow. She felt like she might pass out too.

Hudson shouted, “Hazel! What did you do?”

Despite Mom’s warning, she couldn’t hold back the truth. She told them everything.

“I don’t know. Dad was … different. Madder than I’ve ever seen him. He was screaming at me, and kept saying that Mom told me she was going to leave and that I was still talking to her, and knew where she was and stuff. Then he was shaking me and was about to hit me. I felt like he might even kill me. He probably wouldn’t have, but I didn’t know.” Hazel sucked air through her teeth, screaming internally at herself.

You better not cry!

“Suddenly, a bunch of light came from my hands, and Dad flew back into the wall.”

“What?” Hudson stood, eyebrows arched and head cocked as he approached her.

Hazel looked at her brother: He clearly didn’t believe a word.

“I’m not lying!”

Carter’s eyes met hers.

Some odd sort of recognition flashed in his eyes which said that he did.

Carter went over to her father, looking him over. “He’s fine. Just passed out. We’ll get more of the story after he wakes up.” He turned to Hudson. “Please take your sister to her room. I’ll take care of your father.” He turned back to Hazel. “Tell no one what happened. Not even your father if he doesn’t remember. That goes for both of you, do you understand?”

Carter’s eyes were so serious, Hazel could only nod.

“What are you talking about?” Hudson said, sounding scared. “Did she really do what she said she did?”

“Your sister is very special, Hudson. Just like your mother was. That’s all I can say right now. Your father will be waking, and my attention must remain focused on him. Can I trust you to get your sister somewhere safe in the meantime?”

“Um … yeah.” Hudson nodded. “You can count on me.”

“Good.”

Hudson took Hazel’s hand and pulled her from the room.

“Come on,” he said.

* * * *

SCOTT

Scott had been waiting for Sandra Bryant in the library for more than an hour, at Carter’s insistence. She wasn’t late, but he couldn’t stand the fact that she was coming at all. This wasn’t their scheduled time. Carter had strongly suggested an emergency meeting because Scott had apparently lost his shit first thing in the morning. Not that he could remember any of it — at least, not too much.

Scott felt an odd sense of guilt and shame, even though he couldn’t remember what the hell he’d done to be shameful about.

How much did I drink?

He hated that while he couldn’t remember anything that happened, clearly everyone else in the manor knew, and they were all walking on eggshells around him as if he might snap.

He’d asked his kids, who seemed to be avoiding him now, and Carter a few times what he’d done, but the old man said it was best to wait for Sandra. He was pissed that his kids wouldn’t even tell him what the hell he’d done. How bad could it have been? He didn’t see any bruises on them. He was the one with the bump on his head and broken wall in his bedroom.

He felt like the villain in a show he couldn’t see.

His anger was back, bristling beneath his skin as he felt their judging eyes.

Scott chewed on his anger while waiting, trying not to let it roll him from simmer to boil, and wanting to see things from their perspective despite his missing minutes. Sandra finally showed. Scott got the distinct feeling that she’d been in the manor a while, and had already talked with Carter and the children, getting their side of the story first.

Of course it would be the only side she’d get, as he didn’t remember dick.

“Are you ready?” She looked down at Scott, still sitting in his chair against the wall. She smiled, a warm contrast to the judgmental sideways glances he’d been getting since he woke up.

“Do I get a choice?”

“Everything in life is a choice, Mr. Dawson.”

She smiled, and he smiled back, though he was certain that neither of them meant it. He followed Sandra from the library and back into the office where he’d sat so uncomfortably before, preparing himself for an even less pleasant follow-up.

Sandra sat across from Scott. He held her eyes, trying without luck to stave off his embarrassment.

What kind of man can’t remember scaring his daughter?

“So, you blame yourself?”

“Of course.” Scott saw no reason to lie.

“What happened?”

She stared at Scott, her legs crossed and gaze intense.

“I don’t know.” He shook his head, snared by embarrassment despite his desire to remember. “I don’t remember a thing.”

“You must remember something.”

Scott shrugged. “Sure. I remember something. But nothing that will matter to you.”

“You might be surprised … what do you think your family is thinking?”

“You mean Hudson and Hazel? Or are you allowed to talk to Holly, too?”

Sandra stared at him, no reaction to his accusation.

“Is that what you think, Mr. Dawson? That everyone is somehow conspiring against you? And that your wife is alive somewhere?”

“No.” Scott wrestled his anger. “I mean, I don’t think I do. Hell, I don’t know what to think. All I know is that I did something to scare Hazel, and now everyone is looking at me like I’m some kind of monster. But I can’t apologize for something I can’t even remember, not when people refuse to tell me.”

Scott choked, and for a moment was intent on silence. Then he swallowed and asked the question he’d been waiting to ask.

“What did I do, Sandra?”

“What do you remember?”

“I remember Hazel coming into the bedroom. I was groggy, barely awake.”

“Had you been drinking?” she asked.

He assumed she already knew. “Yes, last night. Anyway, Hazel marched in, and I could tell she was upset. She started saying stuff about her mom, the same sort of stuff she’s been saying since before we came to the manor, but somehow worse because now it’s stronger. She’s more insistent, as if she believes in it more.”

“Go on,” Sandra prompted, speaking softly into his pause.

“I remember getting mad. Suddenly, I was certain that Hazel was hiding something. That she and her mother had planned this whole thing. I don’t know why I felt so certain. Obviously, Hazel has been missing her mother for some time. No way she could’ve kept a lie like that hidden from me. But in the moment, I was so damned certain.”

Sandra stared at him.

He continued, “I can’t really remember anything after that. I do know there’s a giant chunk of wall missing in my room, but my knuckles aren’t red, nor do I see anything indicating what happened. I asked Carter if I hurt them, and he said no, though he claims not to know what happened to the wall.” He swallowed. Then, staring into Sandra’s eyes, added, “What did the children tell you?”

“The same thing. Except in their words.” She turned the question. “What do you think it means?”

“Think what means? That I can’t remember?”

“Yes, Mr. Dawson. That you can’t remember. Do you think that might be indicative of a larger problem?”

“I don’t know,” he said, shifting in his chair, feeling a cold sweat coating his back.

“I think you have some deep issues that remain unresolved with your wife. There are things you must address.”

Scott flinched, thinking of Karla, but didn’t want to mention her to Sandra.

“Do you have any unresolved issues with your wife, Mr. Dawson?”

Scott gritted his teeth. “Yes.”

“Like what?” Sandra’s pleasant voice only served to fuel his rising rage.

He wasn’t sure why he was angry, that someone was calling him on his secret, or that Sandra, who had already talked to Hazel, probably already knew all about Karla and was being coy in dragging it out of him.

He hated when shrinks did this kind of shit. He could practically feel the condescension in the air.

“I cheated on Holly. Is that what you want to hear?” He met her stare and held it until she looked away uncomfortably.

“You cheated on your wife.” Sandra repeated his confession and slipped a dull blade between his ribs.

“Yes. I cheated on her with a woman named Karla. I think that might be why Holly left, and maybe she told Hazel before going.”

“So, then you do think this is all a scheme between your daughter and wife? That Hazel is in on it?”

“I don’t know what I fucking think! And I don’t want to believe it, but it’s the only thing that makes sense — unless you believe my daughter is seeing ghosts or some shit.”

Scott shifted in his seat again, wanting to get up and leave. But he forced himself to stay put. If there was a way for Sandra to help, he had to at least meet her partway, be a big boy and accept responsibility.

“It’s all my fault, and I accept that. But I don’t understand why Holly has to punish me like this! It’s awful — knowing your wife won’t work things out with you. Yeah, I did something awful, but it was a long time ago, and it was the only mistake I made our entire time together, at least the only one big enough to matter. She claimed she was over it, and I thought we’d worked it out. But then she just up and left. Why? I understand if she can’t forgive me, but she should at least give me a chance to make things right. You don’t throw everything away over one mistake. Why play these games?”

“And you’re certain that’s what’s happening?”

“No,” Scott sighed. “I’m not certain of anything!”

“Well,” Sandra said, almost sadly. “That doesn’t give us much to work with, Mr. Dawson, now does it?”

“No, I suppose it doesn’t. So, what do I do?”

“The best that you can. You’ll need to figure out what it is you feel most guilty about, and leave that behind you. I believe that you’re manifesting fault onto your children, thereby turning their time here into a struggle, when it should be a time of hope for you all.” She paused, then added, “Has anyone ever told you that you have a difficult time receiving?”

Scott smirked. “Advice, criticism, compliments, gifts; yeah, Holly said that all the time.”

Sandra smiled. “Holly might have had a point.”

They made small talk after that, with only one snide comment about Scott not yet starting Hazel on her medicine. The further they strayed from discussion of Galloway Manor, the family, or Scott’s children, the friendlier Sandra seemed to become. He found himself enjoying their banter, and almost sad as their hour ended, feeling his brush with comfort slipping away.

“Thank you, Mr. Dawson. If you don’t mind, I’d like to talk to Hazel again, alone.”

“Fine.” Scott stood. Sure, Sandra said everyone had choices, but that probably only applied to people not living in Galloway Manor.

* * * *

HAZEL

“Would you like to tell me what really happened?” Dr. Bryant asked, staring at Hazel.

Hazel had managed to avoid telling the truth the first time Dr. Bryant had spoken to her. She wondered why the woman had asked to talk to her again. Did Dad remember and tell her something which didn’t agree with what Hazel had already said? Did Carter say something? He was the one who told them not to tell anyone what happened, so why would he tell Dr. Bryant?

“I don’t really remember,” she said, repeating her lie.

The office door opened and Carter stepped inside.

He took a seat beside Hazel, then put a hand on her shoulder. “It’s okay, dear, you can tell Sandra the truth.”

Hazel looked at him, confused. “I thought I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone.”

“Sandra is a longtime friend of the family. She can be trusted.”

“She can, but Dad can’t?”

“It’s not like that. In time, we can tell your father. But right now, Sandra is here to help you.”

Hazel met the woman’s kind face.

Dr. Bryant nodded.

Hazel told her everything that had happened, save for the things Mom said to keep secret — like the whole cellar thing. Mom had said not to tell anyone about that, and she wasn’t about to disobey.

After Hazel told her everything, Dr. Bryant said, “What do you remember about your mother?”

The question seemed vague.

“What do you mean? I remember everything about her.”

“Have you ever wondered what your mother was like when she was a girl? When she was your age?”

“All the time.”

“What if I told you that your mother was seen by someone like me when she was here?”

“What do you mean, someone like you?” Hazel shifted in her seat. “You mean like a family counselor?”

“Yes.” The woman smiled. “Something like that.”

Hazel shrugged. “Did she? See someone like you?”

Dr. Bryant nodded.

“How do you know?”

“Because my mother saw her, and I’ve read her records.”

Hazel leaned forward, hands on her lap.

“What do you know about my mom?”

“I know she was a lot like you.”

“Of course, she was,” Hazel said, defensively. “She’s my mom.”

“You know the things you’re feeling, Hazel?”

Another vague question, but this time Hazel knew what she meant.

She nodded.

“You know the things you see, and hear?”

Hazel continued to nod.

“You know how you get mad because no one believes you?”

She swallowed, still nodding.

“Your mom got mad, too.”

Hazel stopped nodding and listened.

“The difference between you and your mother is that your mom learned to control her anger so it didn’t control her. Do you know who taught her how to do that, Hazel?”

“Your mom?”

“That’s right. Now I’d like to show you how you can do the same. Would you allow me to do that?”

Hazel nodded and looked up at the counselor, waiting for direction. She stood, walked to the bookshelf, pulled what seemed like a random volume from a high shelf, then returned to her desk and set the book on top. It was a hardcover book called The Lost Princess of Oz, which depicted a blonde girl in a flowing white dress and crown, holding the arm of a large frog in a suit. It looked old, its dust jacket delicate.

“Ah, a favorite of your mother’s,” Carter said.

Dr. Bryant looked at Hazel.

“I want to try something with you. Is that okay?”

Hazel nodded.

“I’d like you to move the book without touching it. Can you do that?”

She remembered what Carter had said about her mom moving stuff with her mind.

Can I do it too?

“How can I move it without touching it?”

“Do you know how you expelled toward your father?”

“Expelled?”

“Yes, Hazel. That’s what it’s called when you send a blast at someone. Moving a book isn’t all that different.”

“Except I wasn’t trying to blast my father! It just happened.”

“Perhaps not consciously, you weren’t trying, but your instincts kicked in and you did it nonetheless. You have the ability, same as your mother. Maybe even stronger. Focus on the book. Imagine it moving.”

Hazel tried, but the book stayed still.

“It’s okay, let’s try something different. Instead of imagining it moving, picture yourself touching it. Imagine reaching out, your fingertips finding the cover. Think how it feels, the texture of the spine, imagine running your fingers along the pages. Is it cold to the touch? Consider its weight as you pick it up. Is it heavy or light?”

“Not too heavy,” Hazel said. Though the book wasn’t moving yet.

“Good. Now I’d like you to open the cover. Imagine placing your fingers at the corner. Do you open from the top corner or the bottom? Whichever it is, touch the corner and open the book.”

She stared at the book, imagined it in her hands. Pictured herself touching the top right corner and trying to pull it open.

Still nothing.

“There’s a message inside the book. A special message just for you to read. But you have to open the book to see it, Hazel.”

She stared at the book, hard, feeling her body begin to shake in frustration.

“I can’t do it!”

“Yes, you can.”

“No, I can’t. I’m trying.”

“I don’t think you are trying. I think you don’t believe you can do it. So you’re not letting yourself. I want you to focus again. But this time, I have something else to tell you.”

“What?”

“The message in the book is from your mother, and it will disappear if you can’t open the book in ten seconds.”

“That’s not fair!”

Dr. Bryant began counting down, “Ten ...”

“I can’t do it.”

“Nine ...”

Hazel stared at the book, imagining herself picking it up, opening it.

“Eight, seven …”

But still nothing.

“I can’t!”

“Can’t or won’t? Six ... time is running out. Five ...”

Hazel stared at the book harder, so hard that her eyes hurt. But it still wouldn’t open.

“Four, three … time is running out, Hazel. The message will be gone forever. Two ...”

“Stop!” Hazel said, staring at the book and wishing she could pick it up and throw it at the doctor.

The book jerked into the air and flew straight at Dr. Bryant’s chest.

The doctor surprised Hazel by catching the book with one hand.

Dr. Bryant smiled wide. “Excellent.”

Hazel stared, hardly able to believe what she’d done.

“I did that?”

“Yes, Hazel. You did that. Just like your mother.”

“Wow.” Hazel stared at the book.

Dr. Bryant cracked the cover and passed it to Hazel.

Hazel looked inside at the big handwritten in loopy letters below the Garfield sticker that read, This book belongs to: Holly. Her mother’s name.

Hazel touched the sticker, running her fingers over the name in faded blue ink. This was the first time she’d seen her mom’s handwriting from when she was a child. It was so neat, and so cursivey.

She imagined her mom sitting in the library, writing her name into the book. Hazel smiled.

“Can I have this?”

“Like I said, the books are all yours, sweetie.” Again Carter patted Hazel on her back.

“Thank you.” She thumbed through the pages with their intricate and beautiful colorful drawings.

Dr. Bryant said, “You can’t tell anyone what you can do.”

“Why not?”

“Because people are afraid of what they don’t understand. You know how your family gets upset when you’ve seen your mother or Savannah?”

Hazel closed the book, set it on the table, and met Dr. Bryant’s eyes. “Yes. But my Dad said I should never keep secrets from him. That it’s his job to take care of me, and he can’t do it if I keep secrets.”

“I’ll need time to get your father ready so he can understand without being afraid.”

“I don’t know.” It churned Hazel’s stomach to imagine lying to her dad about two things now — this and the cellar.

“If you tell anyone, you and your family won’t be safe. You have to keep this a secret, even from them. Just like your mother had to keep it secret from her family, including your father.”

“Why didn’t she tell anyone?”

“She couldn’t,” Carter answered. “There are dark things out there that want what she had, what you have. That want to get into our house. It will be you and Hudson’s job to keep that from happening.”

Hazel felt as if a missing puzzle piece had finally slid into place. She couldn’t quite make out the whole enigma yet, but felt like she was closer to truly seeing it.

“Wait. Is this why one of us always has to be on the property? Those dark things?”

“Yes,” Carter said. “And I must prepare you, then your brother and father. But I can’t do that if you tell them ahead of time. They’ll be scared. And if they’re frightened, then they may not let you do the job you’re meant to do.”

“My job? I’m just a kid. Hudson’s older than me, shouldn’t he be first?”

“He’s not ready yet. But you, like your mother, are. You are so much like her.”

Hazel smiled. Carter continued.

“I promise, the house will protect you if you let it. So will I and Sandra. But you must always tell us the truth, and let us help you. Can you do that, Hazel?”

Hazel wondered if they somehow knew about her mother asking Hazel to get the cellar key to the cellar. Were they testing her honesty?

She was tempted to say something, but then thought better of it. Maybe she would tell them, but not yet. First, she’d need to talk to her mother again.

“What do I need to do?”

Dr. Bryant said, “Nothing yet. Just meet with me and let me help your powers flourish. Nothing will harm you so long as you’re ready. Trust me. This isn’t dangerous, and there’s no need to be scared … as long as you’re prepared.”

“I have powers?” Hazel giggled. “Like a superhero?”

“If it helps you to think of it like that, then yes.”

“Cool. What else can I do?”

“I don’t know yet. We’ll learn more about that later. Right now, I’d love to know anything else your mother said when you saw her. Can you tell me more?”

“I already told you everything I remember,” Hazel said, chewing her lip.

Dr. Bryant looked at her for a long moment, as if she could see through her lies. “You must be careful with what you believe, Hazel.”

“What do you mean?”

“You might be seeing your mom, but you can’t believe it simply because she says it’s true. Ghosts can play tricks on you. They can do things that we can’t, like change their shape, the sound of their voice, whatever they need to do in order to trick you.”

“So, you’re saying it might not be my mom?”

“I don’t know, but … just be careful. And tell us anything that it tells you or asks you to do.”

Now it really felt like Dr. Bryant was testing her, but Hazel had to be strong.

“How can I know if it’s really Mom? Can I ask her questions only me and my mom would know?”

“No, because ghosts can see into your mind. If you know the answer, so will they.”

“So, how do I know? What do I do?”

“If the ghost tells you to do anything, don’t do it until you talk to me or Carter. This entity might be trying to drive a wedge between you and your father by having you say these things. Stay smart, Hazel. And don’t be afraid to call me.” She pulled a card from her pocket, just like the last time, and handed it to Hazel. “For anything. Okay?”

“Okay.” In light of the new information, Hazel wondered if she should tell the doctor about the medallion, but wasn’t sure. She also remembered her mom saying to be careful who she trusted.

How could Hazel know who to believe?

The doctor said that the ghosts could trick her, but Hazel was pretty sure she could tell if she was being tricked. A girl knows her mother. And while Dr. Bryant had been nice so far, she was still new. When it came down to a new person and her mother, Hazel would always have to side with her mother.

So for now she’d stay silent.

“Do you have any questions before I go?”

“Is there anything I should do until next time we meet? Try and move other stuff?”

“No. Not yet. Maybe Carter will help you if you two have any alone time, but we’ll definitely work on this during our next session. In the meantime, please don’t do anything the ghosts tell you, okay?”

“Okay,” Hazel said, already planning to disobey.

* * * *

SCOTT

As the family sat down to dinner, Scott was trying not to hate himself for losing control.

Holly always said that anger was a normal emotion, a part of humans since they were living in caves: Necessary for survival. Not good or bad, or something to beat yourself up over, anger was merely another emotion. One problem, Holly said, was that he was using anger as a response rather than channeling it into something productive. The other was that he used it to cover up vulnerabilities, perceived weaknesses he never wanted exploited again.

“You don’t need to use anger as a shield with us,” Holly had said. “We’re your family. Not the one you grew up with, but a real, loving family. But in order for us to succeed as a family, you need to work at it, show our children the right way. You are not your father.”

Those last five words had cut through the armor, and hit him where they needed to. Holly had always been good at saying exactly the right thing to change his mood or perceptions.

You are not your father.

Scott remembered a time when he was ten and some bullies had beaten him up. He went home crying to his mom. She’d told his dad, who came into Scott’s bedroom and sat him down.

He put a hand on Scott’s shoulder and asked, “Did you hit them back?”

“No,” Scott had said.

“Why not?” his father grilled him.

“Mom said that fighting is wrong.”

“Your mother doesn’t know what she’s talking about. The only way to survive in this world is to never be vulnerable. To be stronger than your enemy. The minute you show a vulnerability is the minute they’ll kick you. The next time you see those punks, you hit first. You make ‘em wish they never messed with a Dawson.”

Scott worked hard to get his emotions in check. It was always easier when he stopped getting drunk. He wasn’t ever an alcoholic like his dad, at least he didn’t think he was, but from time to time he would overindulge, and it was like fuel to his anger’s fire. But Scott managed to get his shit together, he found ways to funnel his anger into positive things — like improving himself, working harder to be a better father and husband.

But as Scott looked across the table at Hazel and Hudson’s faces, he didn’t see a loving family. He saw a family cowering in fear.

I am my father.

He closed his eyes, trying to gather strength lest he break down and cry in front of the kids.

No, I am not my father.

Dinner, so far, had felt like an eternity of dancing around the elephant. Small talk between the kids with silverware plinking too hard against porcelain, passing time until they could get away from him.

He was grateful to have the children alone for a meal, even if they weren’t happy to be alone with him; he was glad that, for once, Carter had found something to do or somewhere to be that didn’t require a quiet intrusion on his family. Scott needed time alone with his kids to repair what he’d damaged.

He opened his eyes, dropped his fork on the plate, and looked around the table. When no one looked up, he cleared his throat, then cleared it a second time, louder, waiting for his children’s attention.

Hudson and Hazel finally looked up.

“I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry. About whatever happened. You guys can tell me what I did, or keep it to yourselves. Whatever makes you most comfortable is fine with me. But you have to know — I’m sorry. I know my anger is back, and getting out of control. I know I’m blowing up for no reason. And I know that none of it’s your fault.”

He looked at his children, hating how their eyes said they didn’t believe him, and how they weren’t really looking back. He hated how he knew they both wanted to be anywhere but at the table with him. Scott thought of his own father, and how he could never really look his old man in the eyes, or stand to be near him.

He waited for someone to speak, not trusting another word to himself. Hudson went first. Hazel still seemed unwilling to meet his eyes.

“I think maybe we should leave, Dad. Get out of this place.”

“No, we can’t leave,” Hazel whined.

“Your sister is right. We can’t leave. Right now, this is the only home we have. Davenport says they’re making arrangements to buy our old house, but it’s still owned by the bank. Right now we have nothing.”

“That’s crap, Dad. If you wanted to leave, you could.”

“We’d still need money. And with the crap economy and everything else, I don’t know how we’d make it. Do you really want to leave right now, and give this all up?”

“How long are you going to keep using the economy as an excuse, Dad? Look around, there’s lots of people doing well now. There’s no reason you can’t.”

“Yes, some people are doing well. But it’s not as simple as you’re making it out, like I can just go out there and start a new business or get a job that’ll pay anything close to what we need to live on.”

“Do you really think there’s no way we can take some of the money? There’s a fortune, and we don’t need a lot. Just enough to get our house back, buy ourselves a head start. There has to be some work out there, something. Stuff will be settled with the bank soon, then we can move back home, and if we own the house, income matters a lot less, right? Hazel and I don’t need much.”

Scott wanted to laugh. Oh, yeah, you don’t need a Playstation, iPhone, or iPad? Gonna sell your shit and help us out, son? But that sort of sarcasm was the path of anger, not reconciliation.

“Theoretically, yes, we might be able to do that. But that’s a lot of assumptions. And it’s just as likely that we’d walk away with nothing, and find ourselves in an even worse hole than we started, since we’re already out of the house and can no longer squat while waiting for a miracle.”

“I think we should go, while we still can,” Hudson said, melodramatically enough to make Scott wonder what in the hell he’d done to so sharply change his son’s mind — and if Hudson was serious, or being a contrarian to further test his patience. He considered bringing up Iris and the fancy house he could use to impress the girl, just to gauge his son’s sincerity. Was he really ready to leave all of this behind? To leave Iris? But that felt like a low blow, and maybe something happened between Hudson and the girl, so bringing it up would only throw more fuel on the kindling already surrounding them.

“I know it’s hard being in a new place,” Scott said, again resisting the urge to point out how fucking lucky they were to have landed in this particular new place. “But these are growing pains. I don’t know if I shared with you all just how bad things were at the old house because I didn’t want you to worry, but we were a knock on the door from being homeless. I want you to think about that for a moment, homeless.”

He watched as they considered the reality of living on the streets.

Once he felt like he’d put things into proper perspective, Scott said, “Things will get better. I will get better. I promise.”

A long moment of silence stretched among them, a moment where he felt like maybe he’d won his children back over — convinced them to have faith in him, believe that he’d be better, that things would improve.

He looked at his kids and asked, “Are you with me?”

Hazel said, “Well, I don’t want to leave. I love it here. I want to stay as long as we can. Besides, Mom knows we’re here now. I think she’s coming back to us soon.”

Hudson slapped his palms on the table and shot to his feet. “Figures, crybaby liar would make up a bunch of bullshit so we’d have to stay in Creepy Hollow for the rest of our lives.”

He spun from the table and marched out of the dining room.

Scott said, “Hudson,” with barely any breath behind it.

The room was silent.

Hazel and Scott sat together, saying nothing.

She ate slowly, mostly staring at the plate.

He thought she’d forgiven him, but now he wasn’t so sure.

Scott wanted to say something — anything — but had no idea what. Things felt like they were going well, until Hudson threw a fit and fucked things up again.

Now it was like they were all sent back to Start.

Hazel could be hard to figure out when things were normal. He could accept her anger, but the way she’d been acting all day, like he didn’t, or maybe shouldn’t, exist was something worse than that, and like nothing he’d ever seen from her before.

He wondered how long Holly had been poisoning Hazel against him. It didn’t seem like her, and fit none of her patterns, but there was no other logical explanation. The truth hurt more than he could have imagined: betrayal that bit to the bone.

Hazel was exactly like Holly in so many ways. He couldn’t pry to get to the truth inside her. She was too stubborn. He could only sit and wait for her to reveal her thoughts, unveil whatever was really happening here. And eventually Hazel would tell him because — Scott was certain — that was how Holly had designed it. She’d never ruin their daughter without a plan.

That was the only way to explain why Hazel had stayed silent about Karla until now, why she’d waited until they reached the manor.

Scott swallowed his lump and rubbed his arms.

How was she still getting information?

Was Holly here in the mansion?

Was their new life a setup? And if so, were Carter, the staff, and even the doctor in on the whole thing?

As he sat across from his daughter, shoveling cold dinner into his hot mouth, Scott chewed on his anger.

Then something happened.

Hazel looked up at him, her eyes wide, reminding Scott of when she was a toddler, looking up to him with those same big brown eyes. Eyes that revered him. He was her daddy! She was his princess.

Finally, shame doused his anger.

Hazel smiled and said, “Everything will be okay, Daddy.”

And in that moment Scott began to doubt his anger’s narrative. Began to wonder if Hazel was right all along.

What if Holly’s ghost is here in Galloway Manor?

* * * *

HUDSON

Hudson sulked in his room, stewing over his father’s idiocy.

What would it take for Dad to say enough of this place? Hazel was seeing ghosts, he was freaking out and attacking his daughter, and Hudson had seen something in Savannah’s closet. This felt like one of those horror movies where the ghosts do everything to scare people away, and yet the idiots never leave until the poltergeists leave most of them dead!

Yet, if Hudson was being honest with himself, he’d admit that he didn’t really want to go either. He just wanted his Dad to be willing to leave for his kids.

Did this unwillingness to leave the manor make Hudson one of those horror movie clichés? In his mind, no. Hazel was getting “visits” from Mom long before they came to Castle Creepy. Also, Hudson wasn’t sure what he saw in the closet. The mind can play tricks when you’re scared. He also couldn’t be sure about the diary’s message. Maybe he imagined that, too. It wasn’t there the last time he looked.

Oh God, I’m no better than Hazel!

As much as Dad had pissed him off, and as stupid as he could be, Hudson knew most of it wasn’t really his fault.

It was easy to point a finger at Dad. It made him feel better, and miss Mom less. Blame simplified everything. But in truth, Hudson felt bad for his father, more than he cared to admit. His wife had left him. He’d surely done something awful, bad enough that he wouldn’t tell Hudson or Hazel. If it wasn’t his rage, then he’d probably cheated. Then Mom left, or vanished. Either way, Dad was left to deal with a mortgage, two children, and endless unknowns.

Hudson could appreciate, even if he couldn’t fully comprehend, what Dad was going through.

Yet it was hard not to be mad at him. Because when it came down to it, Dad should’ve done something. Hudson wasn’t sure what that something was, but something to either find Mom or find out what happened to her. Something instead of the nothing he seemed to be doing in response to his world falling apart.

If it hadn’t been for Alastair Galloway’s will, the family would’ve been doomed.

But hell, Hudson was mad at him, too.

What kind of asshole gives you the world with such extreme limitations? You can only keep the house and money if you stay here forever and ever, ha ha ha ha! He could picture the old bastard laughing while writing the will.

Hudson tried to ignore his growling stomach. He wished he’d eaten more before taking off. If he went down in the kitchen to get food now, he might run into Dad, and he did not want that. It was nearly ten o’clock. He hoped his father would be heading to his room soon, likely getting drunk again, then Hudson could sneak down and grab something to eat without running into his old man.

He thought about the medallion he’d found and had considered going back into Savannah’s room to see if he could find any other diaries or maybe something else. But he was scared. Hudson wasn’t sure if he was more afraid of being caught again or of whatever it was that had been in the closet with him.

The worst part of it, other than Carter losing his shit, was how embarrassing it was to face Mara now. He could hardly look her in the eye.

He lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking about the manor as a prison.

Then a light bulb went off in his mind.

He didn’t know much about prison other than what he’d seen on TV and in the movies, but prison was often what the poisoner made of it. It could either be a punishment, a removal of all of your freedoms, or it could serve as a place of rebirth — a place to get in shape, to get educated, to make yourself a better person upon your release.

Why not use the manor in the same way?

There was a gym in the eastern wing where he could get buff, and the place had plenty to read. He would hole up in the house. Hudson’s next few years would be hell when it came to a social life, so why not spend them preparing for the rest of his life? He could leave the house at eighteen, rich, knowing how to talk to women, and ripped.

Hudson was already smiling as he pulled out his iPhone and started searching for apps. He wanted one of those habit apps, like the kind Ronald Gorman used to do a hundred pushups. It took him six months, but a week before summer Ronald did all hundred in the quad, right in front of everyone.

He swiped the glass, surprised to see that he’d missed seven texts in a row, all from Iris.

Hey.

You there?

Hudson?

Sigh …

Hudson … my parents aren’t home.

Okay. I guess you don’t want to talk.

Or see what I look like without a shirt.

Hudson’s heart was pounding by the final text. He wanted to call back, but his hand was shaking. He stood and started to pace.

He texted: Sorry! Just saw these. Was at stupid dinner with my stupid family. You still around?

One long half minute, then: Yay! You’re alive!

Heart racing, Hudson tapped: Should I call?

His phone rang instead. “Hello?”

“I’m bored. Will you come over and play?”

“Where are your parents?”

“In the city. They won’t be back until super late. Like probably tomorrow.”

“Where’s your brother?”

“With Josh. At his house.”

“Oh. Cool.”

“So, are you gonna come over?”

“I don’t know.” Hudson swallowed. “What are we gonna do?”

“Whatever. We could watch TV.”

Hudson didn’t know if he was supposed to ask about the thing she’d texted, about seeing Iris without a shirt on, or if he should pretend she never said that. Play it cool. Even if he wanted to say something, he couldn’t imagine moving the words from his mouth.

“What’s on?”

“I don’t know,” she laughed. “Who cares? We have Netflix and Hulu. We can stream whatever.”

“Oh. Cool.”

Hudson was working hard to keep from losing his shit. He felt stupid, and wasn’t sure what to say. He wanted to act like it wasn’t a big deal, but it was. Iris was inviting him over without her parents or brother home. She’d texted him seven times.

She wants to have sex!

“Are you sure you want me to come over?”

“Why would I ask you if I wasn’t?”

Because I’m an idiot who is trying his hardest to scare you away!

“What if your brother finds out?”

Oh, my God, did I really just say that? What the hell, Hudson?

“He won’t. And who cares? He’s cool.”

Hudson thought of Ronald, the only kid he knew who’d had sex for sure. Lots of kids said they did, but Ronald was too cool to lie about anything. He’d shown Hudson one of his apps: Daily Positions. He also showed Hudson four different positions and said those were the ones he’d already tried. They all seemed basic to Hudson, which made it even easier to believe that Ronald had actually “baked his cookies” and “buttered her muffin” like he bragged.

“Does a girl have to beg?”

“No.” Hudson stuttered: “I … I’ll get there as fast as I can.”

“Hurry. Every minute you’re not here is another one closer to my parents coming back. I’ll text you my address.”

“I’m on my way.”

Hudson hung up, put on a pair of clean underwear and his favorite jeans — the loose ones that hung slightly lower than his waist — and a loose-fitting tee that said, Whatever Doesn’t Kill You Makes You Stronger. Except For Bears. Bears Will Kill You.

He opened his door, peeked out, and slipped out of his room. He closed the door behind him and crept down the hallway, fists clenched, hoping no one would stop him. He made it to the foot of the stairs, down the stairway, and outside onto the grass, barely breathing on his way.

He couldn’t risk leaving through the front door, so he took the long way, circling the manor out to the garage. Hudson was sitting on a motorcycle before realizing he had no idea how to ride it. He killed his embarrassment by telling himself it didn’t matter. Even if he knew how, a motorcycle would be too loud. He should take something easy to drive, and quiet.

The more timid, and sensible, part of Hudson thought he should take the ten-speed. He could pedal into town, then if he got caught he would have committed a much lower infraction. Stealing exponentially worsened the crime, and virtually guaranteed his discovery. Hudson’s timidity was told to shut the hell up by the part that knew he was about to get laid. That part didn’t want to show up sweaty, and wanted to look cool driving up in an awesome car.

He settled on a Land Rover — at least he’d likely be safe if he got in an accident — and grabbed keys from the wall. He climbed inside, turned the engine, then clicked the garage door opener, praying nobody would hear it and come running.

He stared in the rearview mirror waiting to see the door behind him swing open, waiting for his father to appear, red-faced, ready to beat the hell out of him.

The garage door opened.

Hudson pulled out, drove past the gate, then turned onto the road.

Oh, my God, this is actually going to happen!

**

Iris was waiting for him on her front porch, sipping water from a bottle. “Wow,” she said, eyeing the Land Rover. “That yours?”

“No, but I figured no one would mind since the drive is so short.”

“Yeah,” she smirked. “I’m sure no one gives a shit that you stole an expensive car.” She laughed and gestured back toward the open front door. “Come on. Let’s get inside. We’re letting bugs in.”

He followed Iris into the house. The door closed behind him. “Wanna watch TV?” Her words were slurred. She was obviously drunk.

“Okay.”

She handed him a bottle of water as he sat on the couch. The seal was broken, but the bottle was full. He twisted the lid and sipped, then spit it out. Iris laughed. “It’s vodka. I put it in the bottles. That way I can drink in front of my parents. It’s more subtle than my brother’s weed.”

“Are you kidding? You drink vodka in front of your parents?”

“Totally,” she slurred.

“And they have no idea?”

“They can’t tell,” Iris shook her head. The gesture was so exaggerated she looked like a bobble head.

“Look.” Iris lifted her shirt. She wasn’t wearing a bra, which meant Hudson was looking at his first pair of naked breasts not online. They were more beautiful than he’d imagined, with small, light-pink, barely-there nipples.

Iris lowered her shirt, and Hudson looked away, embarrassed. He didn’t like that she was drunk and probably doing things she might not do sober. He wanted her to want him as much as he wanted her.

As if reading his mind, she said, “You need to drink. Then we’ll be even.”

Hudson nodded, sipped his vodka, then quickly started drinking faster, practically pouring it down his throat. He hated the burn and how it made him wince, but wanted to reach the other side. He’d had a little to drink before, of course, but had never been drunk. Hudson didn’t really want to be drunk now, but he did want to have sex, and not feel weird about it, like he did knowing that Iris was inebriated while he wasn’t.

Hudson drank too fast. He lowered the bottle. His head started to swim.

He counted two Irises, then four.

The room was divided. His stomach was sick.

He had to vomit.

Hudson suddenly remembered that he’d had nothing to eat, almost all day.

He started to wobble, and felt too much space in his head.

“Oh my God!” Iris cried out. “Hudson, are you okay?”

It was the last thing he heard before he fell over.

Everything went black after that.

* * * *

HAZEL

Hazel woke up standing in a dark forest, cold and shivering, wet grass like ice on her bare feet. The air was thick with wetness and strong scents of grass, earth, and trees.

How did I get here?

This has to be a dream.

Right?

Above her she heard a ruffling.

She looked up to see a large black bird perched atop a dead, twisting, skeletal tree.

The bird looked like a crow, but much, much larger.

It looked down at her, its eyes gleaming a bright yellow in the darkness. Its beak opened as it pierced the still night air with a cracked version of her name:

“HA-ZIIIIIL.”

Behind it, dark clouds raced across the sky, suddenly choking the full moon.

The bird violently shook in the darkness, thrashing its wings, looking as if it were fighting with itself.

It split into two, the second bird seeming to push itself from somewhere inside the other’s body, coated in a thick embryonic sac as it plopped out onto the branch.

Hazel cried out and fell back, scrambling to her feet and running away, deeper into the woods.

As Hazel raced through the forest, she could hear the pair of caws turn to many behind and above her. She dared to turn back then wished that she hadn’t. The birds numbered in the hundreds, still splitting into more as they flew.

Birds whizzed by, banging hard against her head, pelting her arms, and her back, almost knocking Hazel down.

As they hit her, they fell like suicidal attackers, twitching, dying, but still replicating, gross wet birds emerging from the fallen, then taking flight.

She kept running.

Caws behind her swelled into the thousands, shrill shrieks screaming for her blood.

More slammed into her.

She thrashed wildly as she ran, trying to fend them off, but it was impossible to defend herself in flight.

And if she stopped, Hazel knew she was dead. She was wearing thin pajamas — if she stopped it would only take seconds until they tore through her clothes and into her flesh.

She ran harder and faster, ignoring the pain of rocks and branches cutting into the soles of her feet. More bumps, coming in hard, like rocks pelting her.

Wake up, wake up!

Ahead, the forest grew thicker and darker. She plunged ahead, hoping to lose the birds.

The tiny beasts followed, now numbering in the tens of thousands, shrieking, cawing, calling Hazel’s name, and hitting her.

And then the pain came — beaks poking her in the head, back, and legs.

She screamed as she ran, as if someone might hear her, as if someone could save her.

But there was no fighting this.

She was suddenly surrounded on all sides, a swarm of beaks piercing her like knives. The pain was too much, and she dropped to the ground, rolling into a ball, trying to protect her face and belly.

The birds descended on Hazel, blanketing her, tearing into her, biting her, filling her eyes and mouth with blood.

They somehow managed to flip her over, pinning Hazel’s arms and legs to the ground as they continued their assault.

Haaa-zzzzeeeeeelll

She screamed, and the angry riot of crows raced past her lips, shoving their bloody feathered heads into her mouth. She tried to spit them out, as her arms were bound and lacerated into limp ribbons of meat at her sides.

She bit down to crush the birds’ skulls. More blood filled her mouth. She tried to keep it closed, but claws ripped at her lips, peeling them back, along with her teeth. More crows forced their way — impossible — down her throat, swarming down into her lungs.

Haaa-zzzzeeeeeelll

She tried to move, but blackness was swelling around her, coming to claim her.

“Hazel!”

The final cry didn’t sound like a crow.

She woke up.

“Hazel!”

The voice had turned softer, and she instantly knew it: Mom. Hazel sat up in bed, rubbing her eyes, listening, waiting for Mom to call again.

Hazel was trembling, drenched in sweat, pajamas painted on her skin by the horror of her dreams. She pulled the covers up around her, staving off the chills and shaking the last of the horrors from her mind.

“Hazel?”

The voice was different now, less demanding. More like a question.

“Yes?” she whispered.

“I need you, Hazel. Do you need me?”

“Yes. I need you, Mommy.”

Something about the room’s texture confused her, and Hazel wasn’t sure whether she was still in the dream. There were no crows or horror, but the world felt eerily silent, as if she and her mother were the only ones inside it.

“Can you come meet me, Hazel?”

“Of course, Mom. Where do I go?”

“Can you go out by the gazebo? Where we met the last time?”

Hazel nodded, somehow knowing her mother could see her response, and climbed from the bed. She stepped out into the hallway and felt nearly bowled over by a strong gust of her brother’s energy, left behind like stains from a ghost. She could tell that he’d been there, not terribly long before, doing something he wasn’t supposed to do. He’d been sneaking around the garage, she could feel, though she didn’t know what he was doing.

She thought to look for him, but Hazel’s body obeyed her mother’s call.

“Hazel.”

She made it outside to the gazebo but was only in it for a moment before she saw Mom standing farther out, on the other side of the gate along the manor’s edge.

Hazel ran to join her.

She stood at the gate, looking to see her mother waiting on the other side. She looked just as beautiful as she had the other night, moonlight bathing her in a white glow like some sort of angel.

“Are you really here?” Hazel tried reaching through the gate to touch her mother. But she couldn’t stretch that far, and her mother didn’t move closer.

“Step through the gate.”

Hazel looked at the iron bars then shook her head. “They’re not wide enough. I can’t slip through.”

“Bend the bars.”

Hazel reached out to grip the bars and see if they were loose, or maybe weaker than they appeared.

Mom spoke again. “Not with your hands.”

Hazel smiled.

“You know about my powers?”

“Yes, Hazel, now use them on the fence.”

Hazel narrowed her vision, focusing on the black iron bars, imagining them spreading apart.

Suddenly one bent, ever so slightly.

“Yes!” her mother cried out. “You can do it!”

Hazel smiled, then renewed her focus.

The bars didn’t just bend this time. They broke apart, four of them ripping right out of the fence.

They flew behind Hazel and dropped to the ground with soft thuds in the grass.

“Now step through, Hazel.”

Hazel was about to do just that when she realized. “Wait a second. If I come out there, I’m leaving the manor. And if Hudson is already gone, I can’t go.”

Her mother frowned. “I need you to come here, now.”

“Why do you want me to leave the manor?” Hazel wasn’t questioning her mother’s decision; she simply wanted to know why.

“Because I need you where I’m strongest.”

“Where are you strongest?”

Mom didn’t answer, at least not exactly.

“Do you know the old church cemetery?”

“The one on the way into town?”

“Yes, Hazel. That’s the one. I need you to go there. That’s where I’m strongest.”

“I don’t know,” Hazel said, pausing at the opening, looking back at the manor and guest house, wondering if anyone had noticed her or Hudson missing.

Mom flickered.

“Mom! Where are you going?”

“I’m too weak to stay here. Come to the cemetery.”

And then she was gone.

Hazel stared at the opening, heart racing as she weighed her decision.

She thought about what Carter had said about ghosts trying to trick you. But this wasn’t a ghost, it was her mom. She could feel it as certain as she could feel the cold grass on her feet.

Hazel stepped through the hole and left the manor behind her.

**

Hazel followed a path to the road then walked along it on her way to the cemetery.

It was dark and cold, and Hazel wished she’d thought to put on some actual clothes, or at least some shoes. Fortunately, the grass was relatively soft, so her feet weren’t hurting. She couldn’t help but think of her dream — the rocks cutting her feet and the murderous crows.

A chill ran through her as she walked along the dark and quiet urban road. She felt vulnerable, exposed on the open road in the middle of nowhere. It was also so dark she couldn’t see anything.

What if a car drives by, doesn’t see me, and hits me?

Or what if someone does see me, and kidnaps me?

“Just keep walking, honey, you’re almost there,” her mother’s voice spoke in her head.

And then, about a hundred feet from the old cemetery, Hazel saw her mother’s faded apparition like a flickering television signal.

Mom stood neatly between two large headstones, beneath a giant oak. She was beautiful, surrounded by wisps of blues, greens, and yellows, just like those Hazel had seen on her fingers before they sent her father across the room. Again she thought of her mother looking more like an angel than a ghost.

“Mom?” she whispered.

“Yes, Hazel. I’m here.”

She wanted to hug her, but wasn’t sure if she could.

“I miss you so much!”

Hazel didn’t know what else to say. She wanted to seem strong. But it was hard to feel strong, being the only one who ever talked to Mom, and having no one believe her.

“I miss you, too, Hazel.” Mom paused then added, “I have something to tell you, and must hurry. I’m strongest here, but still too weak to come back with you.”

“Wait, you can come back?”

“Yes, Hazel … if you help. Will you help me?”

“Of course, Mom. I’ll do anything. Just tell me what to do.”

“First, I must tell you a secret.”

“What is it?” Hazel involuntarily leaned toward her mother’s colorful shape.

“Carter isn’t who he says.”

“What do you mean?” Hazel looked at her, puzzled. “Who is he?”

“Carter is, or was, the manor’s caretaker. But he died last year. The man you know as Carter is actually your Great-Uncle Alastair.”

Hazel gasped. Her hands found her cheeks.

“Why would he lie?”

“Because he wants something from you, Hazel. And no matter what, you can’t give it to him.”

“What does he want?”

“He wants to use you. He knows you’re special, and wants to use you to get what he wants. That’s why I had to bring you out here. He feels me in Galloway Manor. But out here he cannot. I’m sorry about the dreams, Hazel. With the crows. I can put things in your mind, but have no control of their shape once there. But I had to get your attention, to wake you up.”

“It’s okay.” Hazel was doing her best to understand. “How is Car—, um, Alastair trying to use me, Mom? I don’t understand. What’s special about me?”

“Everything.” Mom smiled, then reached out to touch her. Hazel felt warmth, starting at her neck and seeping down her arms and back. It felt good, especially considering how cold the night was. “I cannot tell you what Alastair is after because it would take too long to explain, and after I did you still probably wouldn’t understand. Explanations are for later. Can you trust me for now?”

“Of course, Mom,” Hazel repeated. “Just tell me what to do.”

“First, you must promise you’ll do whatever I ask.”

Hazel nodded. “I promise.”

“Good, I knew I could count on you. I’m trapped in the cellar, and need you to let me out. Hudson is hiding the key that looks like an amulet. You need to get it and open the cellar door, but … don’t let anyone catch you. If you do, you might end up like Savannah.”

“What?” Hazel said.

But Mom was already fading.

Hazel turned around and headed back to the house hoping she could summon the courage to do as her mother asked.

* * * *

SCOTT

Carter pounded on the bedroom door, waking Scott from his drunken stupor.

“Open up, Mr. Dawson!”

“Coming,” Scott grumbled, then climbed from his bed and walked to the door.

This had better be good.

The door swung wide. Carter marched into his room.

“Where are your children, Mr. Dawson?”

“Excuse me?” Scott was instantly alert. “You must have a better idea than I do since you’re the one banging on my door. What are you actually asking?”

“Your children, Mr. Dawson. Do you have any idea where they are? Because as of right now, you have one in town and another off premises.”

“What do you mean off premises?”

“Your daughter isn’t here, Mr. Dawson!” Carter said, coughing hard into a cloth.

“Did you check the gazebo?”

“I haven’t checked anywhere yet, but trust me, she is not on the grounds.”

“How can you possibly know she isn’t here if you haven’t even looked?”

Carter barked, “Because the bloodline boils, Mr. Dawson. Because the bloodline boils!”

Carter’s own blood seemed to be boiling, and the old man’s words made about as much sense as his manner. He seemed sweaty, out of breath, hair plastered in stringy lines to his forehead, clumps jutting from just above his ears. He coughed again, looking like he might hack up a lung.

Scott had never seen the old man look so … old.

Scott’s heart began to race as he tried to think of where Hazel could have run off to. He figured Hudson must’ve gone to see Iris, not only because she was the only person he knew in town, but because she was a girl and Hudson was a boy.

But Hazel, where could she have gone?

A dark thought crossed his mind, one he felt ashamed to even be thinking in the moment, but it came nonetheless.

“So, if Hudson and Hazel are both off the property, does that mean we’ve voided our inheritance.”

“Yes, but believe me, Mr. Dawson: that is hardly our most pressing worry.”

Something about the old caretaker (everything) said not to argue. His eyes were wide and hollow, furrowed brows sinking low above them. The usual youthfulness in his otherwise elderly face was gone. He seemed drawn and haggard, worried to death.

“What do you mean not our most pressing worry?” Scott sensed too much behind the man’s wild eyes.

“Nothing you can understand.” Carter snarled, then turned, waving his hands in the air. “You have broken the covenant, Mr. Dawson. You have no idea what you have done, the damage you’ve caused.” His voice became hoarse, cracked as he added, “And what might happen now.”

Scott ignored Carter, turned from him, walked to his nightstand, and picked up his phone to dial Hudson.

No answer.

Scott hung up on the voicemail and dialed again, then a third time after that. On the fourth call he left a voicemail.

“Hey Hudson. Where are you? Where is your sister? Call me back the second you get this!”

Scott’s left fist was clenched as he killed the call and threw his phone on the bed. He didn’t know what Carter was hiding, but there was definitely something. The will’s restrictions had always seemed odd, the bloodline argument barely making sense. Hudson was right about that. But Carter’s wild eyes over Scott’s children missing was definitely crazy. There had to be something more.

Carter paced the room. Scott grabbed him by the shoulders and looked him in the eyes.

“What the hell is going on here? What is it you’re not telling me? What is it you think I won’t understand?”

Carter’s crazy started to fade. In his usual, calm voice he said, “I cannot tell you anything right now, Mr. Dawson. We don’t have time. We must find Hazel. Your son is here.” He pointed at the green glass tablet — which had a map of the town on the screen — and the blinking red light on the same street where he’d found Hudson before. “Do you know where this is?”

“Exactly.”

“Then go. I will get Jacquelyn and Mara, see if they’ve heard from or seen Hazel yet.”

Scott nodded, turned from Carter, and got dressed.

He was heading straight for the garage, certain he’d see a missing car — probably the roadster since Hudson didn’t know how to drive a motorcycle, or whatever the flying contraption was.

Scott was a half-minute walk from the garage when he saw Hazel clomping through the grass up the driveway. He was deep enough in the shadows that she couldn’t see him. She was obviously startled as he marched up beside her.

“Where the hell have you been, Hazel?”

“I had to take a walk,” she said without flinching.

“In the middle of the night? Outside the manor? You know the rules, Hazel.”

“Exactly,” she said, holding his eyes. “It was the middle of the night. Hudson was home. I just wanted to go for a walk. Isn’t that alright?”

“No!” he screamed. “It’s not! Your brother got the same fool idea, and now I have to go get him!”

He looked at her. Something felt off. She looked even guiltier than she should.

“Wait a second. This place is huge. Why would you need to leave the manor? Where were you, really?”

She gritted her teeth.

“I was with Mommy.”

Scott stared at her, feeling helpless, angry, and wanting to explode.

“I can’t deal with this now.”

“I’m not lying!”

“Just go in the house. Find Carter and tell him you’re okay. Then find Jacquelyn or Mara. Stay with them until I get back home with Hudson. Can you do that?”

Home.

She nodded, eyes wet, then turned toward the manor.

* * * *

HUDSON

Hudson was in their old Las Orillas kitchen, searching the cupboards for cereal. Anything was fine, though Cinnamon Toast Crunch was his favorite. He was starving, but the cupboards were bare. The bank had come to empty them: four men in matching suits.

He turned from the empty cupboards, stomach rumbling, and saw that all of their furniture was gone. The house was empty.

Except for a voice calling his name.

Savannah.

“I’m here, Hudson.”

Her voice sounded like it was coming from upstairs.

“Please, come find me.”

“I have something to show you.”

Hudson desperately wanted to see whatever Savannah wanted to share. But as he approached the stairs, furniture collapsed on itself while the floor unfolded around him, turning feet into yards, making the stairway a sudden half-mile away.

“Please hurry.”

“I’m not very strong.”

“Without you I’ll fade into nothing.”

Hudson ran toward the stairs, even as the floor continued to unfold around him, laying even more space between him and his destination.

What the hell is happening?

Finally, he reached the bottom stair, and bent over, out of breath.

“Hurry, Hudson.”

He forced himself to run up the stairs. The walls on either side of him started to squeeze in, but at least the stairs didn’t start unfolding and multiplying.

He found the top of the stairs quickly, turned the corner, and bound into his old bedroom.

He threw the door open, then stopped dead at the sight of Savannah standing there.

He gasped at her beauty. She was tall like a statue, with beautiful blue eyes, full pink lips, and a heart-shaped face peeking out from behind her long blonde locks. She wore a long white shirt over a long, flowing white dress.

“What is it?” he asked from the doorway. “What do you want to show me?”

“Me,” she said, lifting her shirt to show Hudson her bare breasts, just like a girl had done to him before. But his memories were hazy, and he suddenly couldn’t remember that girl’s name.

Hudson crossed the room. He couldn’t reach her fast enough. He needed her. He was still a step away when Savannah reached out, wrapped her arm around his back, and pulled him toward her.

“I’ve been waiting so long.”

Her shirt was high, and her breasts were pressed to his body. She kissed him. He kissed her back. It was wet and wonderful.

Better than Iris.

Iris.

Only then did he remember her name, and that he was at her house, which turned this into a dream.

Hudson felt himself getting aroused in his old bedroom, and somehow knew he was aroused on Iris’s floor, back in the real world.

As if in response to the knowledge of his true self, Hudson’s dream shook and crumbled to pieces around him. His phone rang, jerking him from a shredded dream and dropping him right beside Iris. He scrambled to answer, but reached a dead call.

He looked at the screen: four calls, one voicemail.

Hudson swallowed, feeling himself sweat as he pressed the voicemail button and raised the phone to his ear. He listened to his father screaming. Iris was staring, clearly concerned. He finished listening, then listened again.

He looked around, trying to clear his head. He was still in Iris’s living room, a few feet from where he’d collapsed, yet he felt Savannah’s presence haunting his soul.

“That bad?” Iris said as Hudson hung up.

“Yeah. That bad.”

“Never snuck out before?”

“It’s not just that. Apparently my sister is missing.”

“What? Is she sneaking off to meet some townie, too?”

Hudson laughed. “I’m sure she’s just hiding somewhere in the house, probably trying to get me in trouble. God forbid I have a fun night out! I’ll call you later if I can, though I might end up dead. I’ve gotta go.”

“You don’t have to. You’re safe here. Maybe you can wait for your dad to cool off and go home in the morning. If you need to stay longer, you can. My parents are cool.”

“I can’t. My dad is gonna kill me. Besides, he’s probably on his way to Josh’s house right now, and then he’ll be knocking on your door.”

“Okay then. I kinda hate you for leaving right now. I was excited when I knew you were coming over.”

“Me, too. I’m so sorry.” I have to go! “I’ll call you soon, okay?”

“Okay.”

They awkwardly hugged — too quickly for her, judging by the way she held tight, and too lingering for him — then he tore from her house, into the Land Rover, and onto the road, still slightly buzzed.

Hudson raced toward Galloway Manor, weighing consequences in his head. He was totally, thoroughly dead. Dad had said Hazel was gone, too. What the hell was she doing out of the house? He couldn’t have seen that coming.

And then he realized the implication …

They lost the house and the money.

They were screwed.

CRAP!

Hudson looked down at the phone and wondered if he should call Dad, then figured that no, that would be a definite mistake. He should use his drive time to think up a decent way out of this mess. There had to be one. He didn’t want to lie, and knew how much worse it would be if he did, but this was the screw-up of all screw-ups — one he might have to pay off forever.

His phone rang on the seat. Hudson ignored it and pressed the gas pedal harder.

No lies: He would march straight up to Dad and apologize. Admit what he did, and why he did it. Dad was fifteen once, too. He would’ve done the same thing if he’d had the chance to hook up with a seventeen-year-old girl, especially one as pretty as Iris. Hudson didn’t have to say that, exactly, but maybe Dad would at least sort of understand, and maybe only sort of kill him.

But what about the money and the house? Maybe they could get Carter, or whoever oversaw these things, to give them one more chance?

Dad was pulling out of the manor, just passing the gates as Hudson approached. Dad stopped, rolled down his window, and yelled, “Garage. Now!” as if Hudson had anywhere else to go.

Hudson drove slowly up the winding drive and pulled into the garage. He killed the engine and got out of the Land Rover, holding his hands out in front of him, palms out as his father marched toward him.

“I’m sorry, Dad! So, so sorry! I was totally wrong. Iris texted me and …”

“WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING?”

Hudson backed away, past the Land Rover until toward the back wall of the garage. He’d seen his dad plenty mad, but never like this. If he was a cartoon, an egg would have been frying on top of his head.

Maybe this is how he was when he went after Hazel!

“I’m sorry, Dad! You’re totally right. Let’s just talk. Did you find Hazel?”

He fell another step back. Dad was huffing and puffing, very clearly about to blow the manor down.

“Yes, she’s back! Don’t you worry about her. Now, I want to know what the hell you were thinking?”

“I wasn’t! I wasn’t thinking at all. I was being a stupid teenage kid, thinking with my you-know-what. I did the wrong thing, and I’ll make it up to you however I can. Just please, stop looking so mad. You’re scaring me.”

Rather than slowing him down, this sent Dad deeper into a rage. He launched himself at Hudson, fist balled and swinging.

He punched Hudson, connecting hard on the shoulder. It barely hurt. The second landed much harder on his chest.

Hudson winced, spit, and fell to the floor, bracing for further attack. Nothing came. His father was glaring at him, growling, held back by a surprisingly strong Carter.

“Mr. Dawson!” Carter shouted. “Stop! We have what we need. Your son is back home, safe.”

Hudson had never been so frightened of his father. Dad had been scary mad, plenty of times. But this was different. Worse. Uglier. Insane.

Hurting, pride shattered, Hudson wanted to retaliate — hit his father, call him a crazy bastard or something to injure him back. But Hudson only had himself to blame, and everyone knew it. Instead, it was all he could do not to cry.

Hudson looked down, avoiding eyes as he pressed past his father and Carter on his way out of the garage. He marched into the manor and up to his room, slamming the door behind him.

He dropped into his bed and screamed into the pillow.

“Fuuuuuuuuuuck!”

Everything had turned to shit. And now they would probably lose it all because of him. The house, the money, everything. His family would be on the streets.

As Hudson lay there feeling sorry for himself, he started thinking more about the stupid rule, how someone from the bloodline had to always be there.

What kind of stupid restriction is this?

What kind of crazy fucking family makes these kinds of edicts?

What the hell are they up to?

He remembered Savannah also bemoaning the Galloway’s odd rules in her diary. How unfair it seemed. How absolutely insane to be a prisoner on one’s own property, and for what?

Too many things didn’t make sense. Hudson suddenly knew (with a marrow-deep certainty), where the answers were buried.

He went to the hiding spot beneath the bottom drawer of his nightstand.

But the medallion was gone.

Hudson felt a chill, wondering if he’d been caught. Why else would the medallion be gone? Someone found him out and reclaimed it. Unless …

Hazel!

He crossed the hallway to her room, knocked once, didn’t wait, then opened the door, asking, “Have you been in my room?”

She wasn’t there.

“Hazel?”

Hudson looked around his sister’s empty room. Nerves piled on his chills. He backed out and turned toward the stairs.

A girl’s voice whispered, “She’s in the cellar.”

He jumped, looking around, but Hudson was alone.

The voice spoke again in his mind. “I need you, Hudson. Please help me.”

“Savannah?”

* * * *

HAZEL

The medallion was exactly where the voice promised it would be, hidden beneath the bottom shelf of Hudson’s nightstand.

It might have been Hazel’s imagination, but she could swear it had a pulse: warm in her hand, warmer as she stepped toward the cellar door and set it into the lock’s hollow.

Emerald green bled through the metal somehow, and the lock appeared to grant her permission as it clicked. Hazel pushed the door, and it felt almost soft to the touch as it opened.

She managed to hold her gasp as she entered the cellar, but had to swallow hard. The room was deep and narrow with stone walls and floor, all bathed in a dark-green glow coming from the farthest wall, which had some sort of rectangular — almost door-shaped — light in its center. Swirling, green and black, like water moving within the wall.

This is the room I saw through the hole. That is what was making the room green.

She stared at the light, awestruck. Even though it was just swirling lights, not unlike those that had surrounded Mom or her hands, it was maybe the most beautiful thing that Hazel had ever seen. If it was a doorway, as it appeared to be, she wondered what beauty lay on the other side.

But then she remembered the other thing she’d seen in the room, the ugly thing.

And there it was in the center the stone fountain with its giant crow spewing an endless stream of crimson.

She backed away, clutching her stomach as she retched from both the sight and the stench. She could practically taste the copper of blood in the back of her throat.

She turned back to the doorway and started to leave.

“Wait,” her mother’s voice called.

Hazel turned, looking for the source of the voice. All she saw was the fountain and the green swirling doorway. That was where her mother’s voice seemed to be coming from — the other side of the door.

A door to what, though?

“I’m scared.”

“You don’t need to be scared. I’m close, Hazel. Very close. Just follow my voice.”

She looked at the fountain again, not sure she could walk around it without vomiting.

Why would anyone have a blood fountain?

Where does the blood come from?

As curious as she was, Hazel wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answers to either.

She turned from the fountain, hypnotized by the shimmering green beauty before her, and realized that there was something within the green light, or more accurately, on the other side.

Mom?

She stepped forward and heard her mother’s voice call.

“That’s it, Hazel …”

“I’m here, Mom! What do I do? How do I get to you?”

“The hard part is over. Just step through the Threshold, through the light. It’s okay, Hazel. It’s safe over here.”

“Where’s over here?”

“Where you belong.”

Half of Hazel knew that was true, the other thought it was probably a lie. She thought of Carter’s warning about how the ghosts could trick her into doing things.

“How do I know it’s really you?” Hazel could think of no test she could give the person on the other side of the Threshold. Carter had said that ghosts could read your mind, so they knew everything you knew.

“You have to trust me, baby. Once you’re here, I can explain everything, and we can be together again — all of us. You, me, Hudson, and your father. But first I need your help.”

“I don’t know,” Hazel said, shaking her head, afraid to make the wrong choice, her eyes welling up with tears. “I should go get Dad.”

“No, Hazel! Your great-uncle has tricked you all. He trapped me here, along with Savannah. I need you to help me set things straight. But if you go to your father, or to Alastair, I might be trapped here forever. Is that what you want?”

Hazel’s heart pounded as she looked back at the cellar door, then to what her mother had called the Threshold.

Beyond the cellar door was her family, the manor, and the world she’d known all her life. But it was also a world of pain these past six months, ever since Mom had vanished.

Beyond the Threshold was the unknown, the terrifying, and possibly even lies. But it might also be a way back to their past, to reunite their family, to be happy again. The Threshold felt right with every ounce of Hazel’s heart. And if there was one thing life had taught her so far, it was that when in doubt, listen to your heart.

“I’m coming,” she said, slowly approaching.

She held her breath, moving toward the emerald light. The first three steps toward the Threshold were the hardest of Hazel’s life, but the fourth was a reward. Every cell in her body seemed to sing as she stepped into the warm glow. It was like coming home on a cold rainy day and dipping into a nice hot bath.

“That’s right, Hazel. I’m right in front of you. Keep going.”

Hazel kept walking until she was through the Threshold, and on the other side.

She was no longer in the cellar, but rather, somehow, outside, at the top of a hill looking down on a small town which reminded her of an Old West town like she’d seen on TV.

Her eyes were drawn away from the town below to the sky above her.

It was purple and orange with swirls of lights in colors she’d never seen, looking like splattered melting flavors of ice cream against a canvas of eggplant and tangerine. Even more surreal than the weird-colored sky were the giant moons. One was circular like her own moon, but the other was fat and half-gone like someone had blown half of it up. Both moons cast a milky white light onto the town below.

She looked at the cobblestone street beneath her feet and followed it to the tiny town. Small wooden homes with slanted roofs and tall narrow frames lined either side of the road. Tall trees loomed beyond them on both sides. The road seemed to end where the houses did, as if someone had decided nothing else mattered and the people who lived here would never need to go anywhere else.

She looked back to see where the road went on the other side.

It ended at the Threshold.

Except the Threshold on this side wasn’t glowing green. It was a bright red, like a stop light warning the world away.

Beyond the Threshold, she saw a small hill. Atop it stood Galloway Manor, but from what she could see it wasn’t the Galloway Manor from her world, it was a shoddier looking version of the one she knew — made with wood instead of stone, vines creeping up the decayed facade, a few broken windows, and a bunch of twisted looking trees and rough looking grass rather than a beautiful garden. A thick fog hung over the entire place.

A chill ran through her as a cold wind whipped at her hair.

The feeling of her mother was gone from her side, and her heart began to race as she felt suddenly all alone.

“Mom?” Her voice echoed back in multiples, almost mocking her. “Are you here?”

She thought about running back through the Threshold, into the safety of the cellar and the familiar world with its normal skies and singular moon. But something about the red light scared her, as if it would hurt her if she even tried to go back through.

Hazel turned back to the empty road ahead, searching for any sign of her mother. The town was strangely quiet, not a single light in any of the windows.

The world was silent, absent of the sounds of bugs, birds, traffic, or any signs of life.

She began to walk toward the town, her feet clomping on the cobblestone street, echoing as she went.

Hazel made her way down the empty road, and as she reached the first few houses, she began to feel the presence of something watching — then the presence of many somethings.

“Hello?” she called out, over and over, to her mother or anyone who might listen. But no one returned Hazel’s cry, save for the mocking echoes.

Though certain she was being watched, Hazel saw no one in the windows. At the end of the street, the shack on the right parted its door, and a yellow light spilled onto the road, obscured by a shadow.

“Hazel!” she heard from the doorway as the shadow grew larger.

Her mother stepped out from the small house.

Hazel’s heart felt like it would explode from her chest. There she was, and not in some half-there ghostly or angelic form like at the gazebo. It was Mom, in flesh and blood — just like old times.

“Mommy!” Hazel cried out, running into her mother’s arms.

* * * *

HUDSON

Hudson entered the cellar just as Hazel vanished into the green light.

He gasped, staring in horror, unsure of what to do. He wanted to run back upstairs and find his father, but was scared that if he waited too long, Hazel might be gone forever.

He raced forward, but the sound of bubbling liquid stopped him cold, drawing him toward the stone fountain in the room’s center. He looked down and nearly puked as the reek of blood assaulted his nostrils.

Hudson didn’t know what was weirder: Hazel disappearing, or a fountain of blood in the cellar.

What the hell is going on here?

“Hazel!” he cried out, hoping she’d hear him and come back.

But she didn’t.

“Hudson,” Savannah’s voice spoke again in his mind, “get the knife.”

“Knife?” he asked, looking around.

“In the fountain’s base, there’s a knife. Take it and cross the Threshold.”

He looked up at the green light Hazel had stepped into. Threshold? To where?

Hudson traced his fingers over the fountain’s base, searching for any sign of a knife. As his fingers touched the cold stone, the bubbling grew faster, the acrid stench became stronger, and the fountain turned warm to the touch.

He found a faint oval outline in the stone base. He touched it and found that it clicked as he pressed. The stone then slid out and revealed a stone dagger that resembled an ancient relic. He looked it up and down in the emerald light, seeing a string of weird glyphs slithering from hilt to blade.

“Come, Hudson. Hazel needs you.”

The blade felt right in his hand, making him feel stronger, braver.

He stepped toward the Threshold. It began to hum, the air around him seemed to vibrate, creating ripples like a mirage. As Hudson stepped closer, the light brightened.

He gripped the blade tighter and stepped into the light.

Hudson passed through, and it felt like a crackling fire. His every cell felt touched.

His old reality was gone. Hudson was no longer in a cellar, or even underground. There were towering mountains in the distance, and a sprawling purple sky with two moons, one giant and broken.

But neither the sky nor landscape mattered.

He had to find Hazel.

His eyes followed the cobblestone road downhill toward two rows of small wooden houses, and there he saw the impossible.

No … it can’t be.

Mom and Hazel were standing in front of the last house on the right.

What the hell is going on?

Is that really Mom?

Is Savannah here, too?

He ran, knife in hand, trying to reach them before Hazel followed his mother into the house, but he was too late.

Hudson considered calling out to stop them, but then thought better of it. Best if they didn’t see him coming — just in case the woman wasn’t really his mother. In case she was something horrible. There had to be something horrific to explain the fountain of blood.

As he raced down the street, he felt eyes upon him, hidden behind dark windows.

He ignored their stares.

Kept running until he reached the final house.

He slipped the knife from his right hand to his left, then rapped his knuckles hard on the wooden door.

He waited through several knocks, then pounded the door with his closed fist.

He heard movement on the other side.

His heart racing, Hudson slid the dagger back into his right hand, preparing for whatever might happen next.

“Mom! Hazel! Somebody open up! It’s Hudson!”

Another half-minute, then the door creaked open.

Hudson found himself face to face with Hazel and Mom.

He felt dizzy, as if the world had pulled the carpet from beneath him, and he had to wrestle for balance. He fell three steps back, wobbling as his legs turned to jelly. He stared at Mom, then Hazel, trying to reconcile the impossible.

How can she be alive?

Where are we?

Mom smiled and gestured toward his dagger. Sweetly she said, “Do you really need something like that, in a place like this, Hudson?”

He looked down at the blade, and for the life of him couldn’t understand why he would need it. He felt foggy, confused, out of his body. Perhaps the purple sky made it hard to breathe and even harder to think straight.

“Um … no,” he said, or stammered, as he lowered the blade and relaxed his grip.

“Good. Come in. There is so much to tell you.” Mom turned to Hazel. “Would you like to tell your brother, or shall I?”

“Carter isn’t really Carter,” Hazel blurted as Hudson entered the house and Hazel closed the door behind him. “He’s Great-Uncle Alastair.”

“What?” Hudson asked, confused by both Hazel’s words and why he still felt so dizzy, as if he’d swallowed a bottle of cough syrup. He looked around the sparsely furnished house — a couch, chairs, table, and other basics, all antique. There were no lights or anything electric. The room was lit by candles. He wanted to ask where they were, how his mother had come here, and if Savannah had really led him to them, but Hazel kept talking.

“That’s right! And … our family is evil.”

Evil?

“That’s not what I said,” Mom corrected. It seemed odd, the warmth between them, like Mom had never gone missing. “Alastair is evil, and has been for centuries.”

“Centuries?” Hudson laughed. “The guy isn’t that old.”

He had no idea how he had managed to stay standing. Surely, he was seconds from collapse. Mom looked at him and smiled. Hudson wondered why she wasn’t noticing that he was so dizzy. Why she hadn’t asked him to sit?

“I’ll explain everything, Hudson. You deserve to know. But now isn’t the time. Alastair will be coming. You’ve breached the Threshold.” Her eyes flickered with what Hudson figured was fear. “He’s on his way.”

“Why is he on his way? Where are we?”

“Great-Uncle Alastair has been keeping them locked up here for centuries,” Hazel said. “We have to stop him!”

“Stop him from what? And kept who where for centuries?”

Before either Hazel or his mother could answer, the strange world sparked with the sound of several sharp clicks, then the harmonized tone of many turning knobs. Outside, a loud squeaking: parting doors, loud on whining hinges.

“Come,” Mom said, taking his hand and leading Hudson back outside. He stepped into the front yard and looked to see open doors along every house on the street. There was a long moment when the doors were all open, though no one had stepped outside. Then, one by one down the row, people — no, not people, creatures — stepped out beneath the purple sky.

In less than a minute, Hudson was staring at two rows of creatures, maybe two dozen in total, all staring back at him and his family.

The things were perhaps seven feet tall, rail thin, dark-skinned, naked, with long black hair to their waists, reminding him of some sort of cross between movie aliens and Native Americans he’d seen in history books.

Hudson couldn’t tell if they were men, women, or a mix of both. While some seemed a bit taller, with slightly more pronounced jaws, none had breasts or genitals, so far as he could see. Their eyes were large dark ovals. Instead of noses, they had a pair of slits. Their mouths seemed normal, slightly wider than a human’s.

Again, Hudson’s legs wobbled beneath him.

He nearly fell, but his mother saved him, throwing an arm around him. “There’s nothing to worry about, Hudson, they won’t hurt you. I promise. They’re aliens, stuck here in the The Hold.”

“What’s The Hold?”

“They’re friendly,” Hazel said, instead of answering her brother.

Hudson wasn’t so sure they were friendly.

He felt weak, and weird. Something was definitely wrong, and he couldn’t help but think that they were somehow responsible.

He heard movement behind them, from the house his mother had been in. He looked in the doorway and saw another human exit: Savannah.

She stepped out into the yard wearing a long white shirt over a long, flowing white dress, smiling at Hudson as if in recognition. As if she had been talking to him.

“Your mother is right,” Savannah said. “The Umlai are friends.”

* * * *

SCOTT

Scott had been arguing with Carter in front of the garage for five minutes that felt like an hour. He found the old man increasingly annoying, and now he wanted to punch him. There was too much he wasn’t saying. He was either a crazy coot, or a downright liar, and Scott was reasonably sure the old man was too sharp for the first.

“I want answers. I want to know whatever you’re not saying.”

Something in Carter’s face seemed to relax.

“I can see that you are upset, Mr. Dawson. I understand, and sympathize. You do deserve answers, and it is almost time.”

“There’s no almost about it.” Scott cut him off before he could make more excuses. “I want to know now. The children are back, so your Depends don’t need to stay in a knot. I want to know why my daughter thinks she’s seeing Holly’s ghost, how she knows things she couldn’t possibly know, and why you don’t seem surprised by any of it!”

Scott wondered if he’d ever felt angrier.

“I want answers, starting with Hazel: Why is she seeing things?” Scott swallowed, then asked the second, harder question. “And are any of the things she’s seeing real?”

“Mr. Dawson, now is not the time. Tomorrow, the four of us will sit and have a long — and you are quite right I am willing to concede, overdue — chat. Tonight, I cannot grant that. Right now, we must account for the children and keep everyone from danger.”

Grant that?

“Keep everyone from danger?” Scott felt a growl thicken in his throat. “What danger?”

A loud buzzing came from Carter’s pocket. It seemed to rattle his body. He stepped back from Scott, thrust his hand into his pocket, fished for a moment, then withdrew a thin glass tablet. He looked at the screen, peering down at something Scott couldn’t see, then slipped it back into his pocket and — his face twisted into something awful and sudden — yelled, “Later or never. Your choice, Mr. Dawson. Right now I must go.”

Carter turned to leave, but Scott wouldn’t let him.

“You’re not going anywhere.” He thrust out his hand, grabbed Carter by the arm, and yanked the old man back.

Carter shrugged Scott from his body like an unwanted leaf, and kept marching toward the manor.

“You can’t ignore me,” Scott yelled, then ran forward, fast enough to cut him off. Carter simply pushed passed him.

“I said you can’t ignore me!” Scott grabbed him hard by the shoulder.

Carter reeled around, thrust his hands at Scott’s chest, and sent him sailing across the lawn, at least twenty feet, before Scott slammed into the ground.

He sat up, stunned, trying to catch his breath.

What the hell?

Scott had no idea how an old man could have so much strength. He tried to stand but a sharp pain in his back stopped him.

He ignored the pain, forced himself upright, and gave chase.

Carter raced into the manor.

Scott quickly followed, eager to finish this battle of wills. If Scott somehow managed not to lose the manor, his first order of business would be to fire the old fucker.

He followed Carter through the ground floor until finally seeing the man step into the cellar.

What the hell is he doing in the cellar now?

The old man left the door open, and a faint green light lit the stairway.

Scott followed, running right into Carter, who was making his way back out. The two men collided; Carter looked up, his eyes wide and afraid.

In a voice that was mostly gravel, he rasped, “Where are your children?”

* * * *

HAZEL

Hazel was back with Mom and Hudson. Everything almost felt better.

She had missed her mother deeply, in a way that was worse than loss because it never healed. She had no scabs to flake and forget. Even though Mom was always there, a voice in her head, a whisper that never faded and always promised more, it hadn’t been the same.

Now Mom was in front of her, no longer like a dream. She had proof of her faith, holding her hand. Hazel was warm and happy. Alive. More than she’d been in a long half year.

Her soul had ached, now it didn’t.

Hudson stared up at their mother with an even brighter wonder. For Hazel, Mom was affirmation, for Hudson, surprise or revelation. He thought she’d abandoned them, or was dead. This third thing was never considered, because to him it was impossible.

As Savannah stepped from the house, Hudson fell back, shaking his head.

“Are you all ghosts?”

Mom smiled, like when Hazel had asked her the same thing. She said, “No, Hudson. I’m not.”

“What are you then?”

Mom looked thoughtful. “It’s hard to explain, but I’ll try.”

“Wait!” Hudson held up his hand. “I don’t want to know if you’re a ghost. I want to know if you’re really my mom.”

“Hudson!” Dad suddenly yelled from somewhere far, far away. “Hazel!”

Hudson looked startled. “What is that?”

“Dad!” Hazel answered.

“Where is it coming from?” Hudson asked, looking confused.

It sounded like a scream from underwater — though it must have been coming from the other end of the street and the shimmering red Threshold.

Mom stepped in front of them, then went to the middle of the road and reached out to grab what looked like empty space, tugging a handful of air tightly enough in each fist for Hazel to see the ripple. She widened her arms’ arc and drew them back toward her head.

The Threshold was suddenly a few feet in front of them. The space between it had packed together like an accordion, then melted into a swirling crimson swath of nothing. She released her hands, then grabbed another two fistfuls and stretched them apart. Hazel could see into the cellar — Dad and Great-Uncle Alastair approaching the Threshold.

Hazel wanted to call out for her father again, but was scared to also attract Alastair.

“Are they really that close?” Hudson asked.

“Close enough,” Mom said. “We must run.”

“Why would we run? That’s Dad! Can’t he come over?”

“No, Hudson. It isn’t your father we’re running from. It’s Alastair. If he finds us, he will kill us all.”

Hudson asked, “Why? Why would Great-Uncle Alastair want to kill us?”

“Come with me,” Savannah said from behind, “to the Dark Manor.” She turned and pointed toward the foggy patch just up the mountain beyond the Threshold.

Before anyone answered, Savannah pinched the air and brought the house a few feet away, landing them at the false castle’s front door.

Mom opened the door and stepped through.

Hazel and Hudson followed.

Savannah came last, then closed the door behind her.

* * * *

SCOTT

The moment he saw his wife and children in the green light at the end of the cellar, Scott tried to race toward them.

Carter grabbed him, stopping him.

“Let me go!” Scott tried to shrug him off, but failed.

How the hell is he so strong?

Carter yelled, “You don’t know what you’re doing!”

“Let me go!”

With an overwhelming force, Carter shoved him toward the fountain. Scott turned to the bubbling water, then saw, and smelled, that it wasn’t water, but rather blood.

He turned to Carter. “What the hell?”

“Yes, Mr. Dawson. As I have said, there is much to discuss.”

Scott ignored Carter and made another break for the light, making it one step before the old man reached out, grabbed him, and threw Scott hard to the floor.

“You will wait!” Carter thundered. “Go now and die. Do you presume to know better than me, Mr. Dawson? I have spent a lifetime around a scent that you are now inhaling but for the first time. Do you understand?”

“No! No, I don’t understand. I have no idea what any of this means. What is this place? Why is there a fountain of fucking blood? What is … that?”

Scott pointed at a heaven’s worth of light, oozing from the rectangular shape in the wall — somehow also an open window to a cobblestone road trailing down to two rows of houses. Though he’d seen his wife and children just moments ago, they were no longer in view. Instead, he saw many shapes, too long to be anything human, in the way and staring back.

“Why can’t I go there? I saw them there.” His voice climbed higher, “Holly is there!”

“Of course, you saw them. We will go through the Threshold, but we must wait. If we step through now, we will die.”

“Why can they go but I can’t?”

“Because they were invited, Mr. Dawson.”

“Invited by whom? Are you going to tell me what in the hell is happening?”

“This,” Carter waved a hand at the light, “is the Threshold, or a portal if you will. On the other side of the Threshold there are things waiting to infiltrate our world.”

“Infiltrate our world? What are you talking about?”

It wasn’t funny, the old man messing with him.

“There are creatures over there.” Again, Carter pointed to the light. “Those things in the road, they are waiting to return here. I do not know how many there are — there might be millions — and they are far stronger than us. If they come through the Threshold, all is lost. Humanity will be annihilated.”

“If you’re messing with me, I’m going to kill you, Carter!”

Carter gave Scott a cracker-thin smile. “No. I am not messing with you, Mr. Dawson. And please, let us end the pretense. I am not Carter. Carter is a good man who died earlier this year. It was easy to become him, because you all had not yet met me.”

Scott felt like someone had knocked the air out of him.

“Who are you?”

“I am Alastair Galloway, Lord of Galloway Manor.”

Scott stared as pieces clicked into place, not yet making sense, but at least on their way.

“Go on then, Alastair.”

“In the late seventeen hundreds, James Cook explored the Oregon Coast. A man on his expedition, Montgomery Galloway, never left. He and a man named Étienne Lussier became the first European farmers in the state. Lussier and Montgomery parted ways almost immediately, and Montgomery settled here in what became Clovis Point. He said he was drawn to this place, though it didn’t seem any more fertile than other, flatter lands. Surveyors on his team advised against it. But Montgomery insisted that Clovis Point was special. He said he felt an energy here. The energy he felt, Montgomery soon discovered, came from a small tribe of aliens living in the hills a few miles from their settlement.”

The story sounded impossible, but so did the Threshold staring Scott in the face.

“These creatures looked like people, but different. They were tall, with pointed ears, delicate features, and long raven hair. They called themselves the Umlai. They knew many things that the settlers did not, and helped them to prosper. In exchange, the settlers said nothing of the Umlai’s presence, keeping their existence a secret from people who might otherwise harm or exploit them.”

Alastair gestured toward the Threshold’s glow.

“Turns out, the Umlai lived near a portal linking other worlds. They were colonists, not too different from Montgomery and the settlers. They were here on Earth, testing the land, and seeing what it was like to live alongside humans. Apparently, there are only so many species with compatible DNA. The Umlai were looking for a suitable planet, and a harmonious species to breed with.”

“This is all … true?”

“Yes, Scott. Every word. And we have yet to reach the good part.”

Scott looked from the Threshold to the Lord of Galloway Manor.

“All the settlers had to do was keep the Umlai a secret. In exchange, their crops were perfect, and life was easy. Well, relatively so. Unfortunately, this was an alien ruse designed to earn the settlers’ trust. Humans far outnumbered the Umlai, and had they not been so relaxed, what eventually happened never would have.”

“What happened?”

“One night, when the settlers were sleeping soundly in their village, Umlai warriors crept into town like thieves and massacred nearly every man, woman, and child.”

Scott didn’t — couldn’t — believe it, but said, “Oh my God” anyway.

Alastair erupted into a coughing fit, his face turning red and eyes bulging. For a moment, Scott was sure the man was going to die.

Then he settled down and continued, “There was no God with the settlers that night, Mr. Dawson. The entire town, save for a few fortunate souls, were murdered by these things. The massacre lasted only moments. There were blurs and screams, then nothing. One survivor managed to strike back, reaching the Umlai camp. He killed many of the aliens, and sealed the Threshold. This,” Alastair pointed to the portal, “was the center of the Umlai camp. Now, the Umlai patiently await their return, biding time for the moment when the barrier’s thin enough to permit their crossing. The only way to keep the portal closed is with blood magic from a Galloway.”

“A Galloway,” Scott repeated.

That’s why the children can’t leave.

“Yes. A Galloway must shed his blood into the fountain each day to keep the portal closed, to bar the monsters in The Hold. My father is the man who defeated them, who pushed them back and sealed the portal. It has been my blood keeping the aliens at bay all these years. It’s both the Galloway blessing and curse.”

“Are you saying that Hudson and Hazel will have to … shed their blood?”

“Yes.”

Scott’s fist flew toward Alastair’s face, but the old man caught it halfway, then gently lowered it to Scott’s side, shaking his head in admonishment. “I am trying to help you, and really, I am your only hope. We can discuss the rest of this later. I will assume in the meantime you would like to get your children back?”

“Yes.” Scott swallowed his rage. “How do we do that?”

“It will not be easy.” Alastair didn’t look nervous, exactly (Scott wasn’t sure if he was capable of that particular expression), but the old man did look unsettled. Alastair looked toward the fountain. “I am not strong enough to do what must be done. I will require your help.”

“My help doing what?”

“You must guard the Threshold while I go over and try to negotiate to get your children back.”

Scott stared at the Threshold’s shimmering colors. “What if the negotiation fails?”

“Then I’ll kill every last one of them.”

Scott looked the old man up and down. Yes, he had just thrown Scott across the lawn, so he was obviously stronger than he appeared, but defeating God knew how many of the creatures? Was it even possible?

“And if you fail?”

“Then you kill anyone who tries to cross over.”

“That’s it? That’s your plan? What about my kids?”

“I will retrieve your children, Scott. You have my word. Now, can you do what I asked? Can you guard the Threshold?”

Scott nodded.

“This may require you to kill?” Alastair rested a hand on Scott’s shoulder. “Can you kill a man, Scott?”

He was surprised by the speed of his reply. “If they try to come between me and my family, then yes, I can kill a man.”

“You have to be careful. Your eyes are now liars.”

“What?” Scott asked, sick of the riddle-speak.

“The Umlai can change shape, they can look like anyone. They can look and sound just like your loved ones and use your memories as weapons against you. Like they tried to do to me, like they’ve been doing with your daughter.”

“So you’re saying Holly isn’t really there? That Hazel’s been seeing one of these … things?”

“Precisely.”

“Wait, I thought you said they were stuck over there. How can they be messing with Hazel if they can’t cross the Threshold?”

“The Umlai’s true forms are stuck on their side of the Threshold, in the The Hold. But they are able to project a part of themselves in the forms of people close to us. But they can’t physically cross over unless they somehow breach the Threshold or if the blood magic that runs through the fountain fails, but they can possess a soul if they’re weak enough. Can get into their head and make them … do things.”

The way Alastair said “do things,” Scott could tell he spoke from experience.

Savannah!

Alastair continued, “Don’t worry, I can see through their guises. But you mustn’t let anyone pass until I confirm their identity. Not even your children. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Scott nodded, though he didn’t mean it. There was no way in hell he’d reject his children if they approached the Threshold, trying to come home. But he wasn’t about to tell Alastair.

“Good,” Alastair said, coughing as he bent down, messing with one of the stone decorations in the fountain base. A panel opened in the floor beside it, revealing two large black metal boxes.

Alastair opened one of the boxes, and retrieved a gleaming black sword from its sheathe. Inscribed on the blade, in gold lettering, were odd symbols that looked similar to those on the fountain.

“Here,” Alastair said, handing the sword to Scott. The hilt was wrapped in gold-colored shagreen. It felt heavy in his hands, and seemed to vibrate with some sort of power.

Alastair opened the second box, revealing a matching sword for himself.

He stood up and met Scott’s eyes.

“These swords are made to kill the Umlai, blessed with blood magic to quickly destroy them. Have you ever used a sword, Scott?”

Scott nodded, a lie.

Scott’s heart was racing, his mind barely able to keep up with the craziness spinning out of control. He’d never held a sword. But he was pretty sure he could kill anyone if it meant saving his children.

Alastair’s eyes narrowed on him. “Remember, no matter what, do not let anyone pass through. I will talk to the Umlai. I need you to stand guard at the Threshold, in case I fail.”

“And what if you do fail? What happens to my kids then? What happens to Holly if she’s over there?”

Alastair locked eyes with him. “I won’t fail.”

He then turned and stepped into the light, leaving Scott to stand guard against the alien horde.

* * * *

HUDSON

The Dark Manor, it turned out, was what Savannah called a “dark shadow” of the Galloway Manor, created from her memories in order to train the others how to escape the real thing should they ever make it across the Threshold.

While the layout was the same, it was furnished much like the shacks, with antique-looking furniture. Candles burned from lanterns lit along the walls.

They stood at the front window, looking down the hill toward the town they’d fled. In the dark, the Threshold looked like a shining red beacon.

They stepped away from the window and sat at a table in the front room where Mom had prepared a pitcher of water and glasses. Hudson wondered if she lived here, or had been planning to bring them. Either way it seemed odd, the water being conveniently ready for them. Then again, she’d just pinched the distance between town and mountaintop to nothingness.

“Thirsty?” Mom poured them each a glass.

“Thank you,” Hazel said, taking the water and gulping it down.

“No thanks.” Hudson still felt dizzy, though not like before. Still, not enough to add liquid to his stomach.

“Mom,” Hazel said, “how long do we have to stay here? When can we go home and see Dad?”

“When Alastair surrenders, or after he’s silenced.”

“Dad is with him. What happens to him?”

Mom ignored Hudson and turned to Savannah, still standing at the window. “Anything?”

She looked from the window to Mom. “Nothing, but the Threshold is chafing. Friction has started.”

Mom had no expression. Hudson heard an echo of something she’d said more than once in the past:

Botox is for idiots. I’m a mother. My kids should know what emotion I’m feeling, when I’m feeling it.

Mom had always been easy to read. She was kind, but wore her emotions on her sleeve. Yet as they stood there in the Dark Manor, he couldn’t read her. At all.

She turned to Hudson. “Your father will be fine.”

“What are we waiting for? If Alastair is this horrible man, why don’t those aliens, or whatever they are, go through the portal and kill him? Then let us go back home?”

“It’s not that easy. We need him to come through here. Then he can’t refill the fountain with his blood and the Threshold’s power will fade. But it’s dangerous for you two, which is why I brought you here, where Alastair can’t harm you. Let the warriors handle him.”

“And then we can go back home?” Hudson stared at her stone face and still read nothing.

“Yes,” she said, still giving him that same strange smile that wasn’t quite right.

Nothing about this felt right.

Hudson went to stand beside Savannah at the window, peering through a pane of black glass, seeing nothing but the same flickering red in the distance. But he wasn’t looking out the window, he was eyeing his mother’s reflection. Not only did she seem oddly emotionless despite just reuniting with her children after half a year, she also didn’t share any of his mom’s usual characteristics. Mom always twirled and pulled at the ends of her hair, especially when stressed. She could never sit still. She’d always pace, bounce her leg, or something. Yet here she was, sitting at the table as if at a tea party rather than preparing for some sort of alien war.

Hudson then realized that as he was watching his mother, Savannah was watching him. Her eyes met his in the reflection, as if she had latched onto his thoughts.

He stepped away from the window. “Come on, Hazel. We’re going back.”

“What?” Savannah said from behind him.

“No,” Mom said, “you must wait here. It’s too dangerous to go now.”

“No.” Hudson grabbed the dagger from his back pocket, thrusting it out as he pulled his sister from the table and led her backward toward the door. “I’m taking Hazel, and we’re going home.”

“I don’t wanna go!” Hazel whined, trying to pull away. “I wanna stay with Mommy!”

“She’s not our mother,” Hudson snapped, narrowing his eyes to see if her expression changed at all.

It didn’t.

The woman pretending to be their mother stood from the table, “What? Don’t be ridiculous, Hudson.” The voice sounded right, but the mask clashed with her words.

“You’re not my mother. You’re one of those things, pretending.”

“How do you know that?” Hazel’s voice cracked as she looked from Hudson to the thing calling itself Mom.

“She said she’s our mom.” Hazel turned to the thing. “Aren’t you?”

“Don’t lie!” he bellowed, moving the dagger just to remind her that he would stab her if he had to.

Savannah, still behind him, stepped toward the table. Her voice changed from the soft-spoken girl they’d met to blossom in years and command.

“Shurui. Stop it! Your mask has served its purpose. Show your form.”

Before Savannah finished speaking, their mother’s mask flickered in and out of existence, like a channel clinging to a dying signal. Then the mask was gone, and in its place was a tall, thin alien, with sharp features, endless limbs, long neck, and pointed ears appearing too high on her stretched head.

Hazel cried out incoherently as she took cover behind her brother.

“What are you?” Hudson demanded, even though she, in his mother’s voice, had already said they were aliens. He held his blade higher, stealing backward steps toward the door, slowly turning between the alien and Savannah.

“We’re leaving now,” he said to the creatures. He wasn’t sure if Savannah was also one of the things, or merely working with them. Either way, she could no longer be trusted. “Don’t try to stop us. We’re going back home.”

“You can’t,” Savannah said. “Leave here, and you’ll never make it back.”

The alien that had posed as their mother — Shurui, Savannah had called it — spoke. Its voice was like music, in the way that each sound seemed to lead into and harmonize with the next.

“Perhaps they should all die,” Shurui said, “That would solve our problems.”

“Stop it,” Savannah spit at Shurui. “They are innocent, and you know it.”

“I would argue that none is innocent, regardless of birth or upbringing. Their blood is stained.”

“You’re liars!” Hazel yelled from behind her brother. “And I hate you! I thought my mom was here, but you lied!”

“She is here,” Savannah said.

“You mean she’s alive?”

“Yes,” Savannah nodded.

“Your mother is our prisoner,” Shurui cut in, “and you will never see her again if you take even one step toward that door.”

* * * *

ALASTAIR

After so many years of living above the Threshold, with the constant beckoning from the liars that lived within The Hold, their infiltration into his dreams, and using his daughter to lure him, Alastair had finally surrendered.

They’d won, using the children to get him to cross over. As he stepped into the light, he realized he was very likely living his final moments.

The light was warm on his skin, easing his anxious mind. But he had to be careful. He couldn’t trust anything that caused him to lower his guard. He had to bring back the children.

As Alastair crossed over into The Hold, the sky took his breath away.

It was so beautiful.

Surreal.

The air wasn’t right, not just from the purple hue and bright white moons, but there was a bittersweet tang of burnt cinnamon clinging to the air. He wondered what the scent might be — a flower, a food, or something else.

Focus on the job!

He snapped his attention to what lay down the hill, the small village and the two dozen or so Umlai lined in front of their homes, waiting.

All were armed. Half wielded staffs of gleaming obsidian, or something that looked just like it. Half of the remainders held swords. The last quarter had what Alastair was certain were slingshots.

All stared. None spoke as Alastair approached with his hand on the hilt of his sword, hanging in its scabbard attached to his belt. He was twenty yards away and could feel his gut churning.

He looked around for the children but saw no sign.

He hoped they were in one of the homes. Alastair could feel Hazel’s energy somewhere close by, so she, at least, was still alive.

He approached the largest Umlai, a male, judging by his firmly set jaw and boxy shoulders, standing in front of the others, hand on the hilt of a large violet broadsword at his side.

The Umlai said something to one of the others in a language Alastair had heard plenty, though after two hundred years still didn’t understand. Hand on his sword, the Umlai took three long strides forward, then greeted him in English.

“So, we finally meet.” The Umlai spoke as if Alastair should know him, but they all looked more or less the same. And he didn’t know any of them, save for their attempts to sway him with dreams and visions of his daughter.

“And you are?” Alastair asked.

“I am Son of Mulkailot. I have been waiting my entire life to meet you, though I had hoped it would be under better circumstances.”

“Just give me the children, and we’ll leave peacefully.”

“They were invited here. You, however, were not.”

Alastair could feel the hateful gazes of the other aliens. He laughed with a wheeze. “As if you didn’t use the children to lure me.”

The Umlai moved to surround him, though none were making a move to strike — yet.

Alastair had to assume that they planned to kill him, and would no doubt murder the children as well. Just as he knew some things about them, they knew that his family’s blood was the only thing standing between them and an open Threshold.

He wasn’t sure how he would convince them to not only give up the children, but also let him return home. They had no reason to let any of them go. It simply wasn’t in their interests.

He had to scare them. Convince the aliens that there was a greater threat than letting him return home.

Son of Mulkailot looked him up and down. “My sister’s plan, not mine. But you are here, so I guess she was right.”

“I just want the children, then I’ll leave.”

“And why would we let you?”

Alastair dropped his sword.

Son of Mulkailot and the others looked down. Once distracted, Alastair swiftly drew a blade from his pocket and raised it to his own throat.

That grabbed everyone’s attention.

Son of Mulkailot’s head titled sideways as he looked at Alastair, puzzled. “You’re threatening me by saying you’ll kill yourself?”

“If I die here, the Threshold closes … forever.”

“You’re lying,” boomed Son of Mulkailot.

Alastair met the alien’s black, almond-shaped eyes, then grinned. “Look inside my head. But don’t try anything stupid or I’ll do it.”

The Umlai mumbled in their native tongue, upset, drawing closer around Alastair. If Son of Mulkailot gave the signal, Alastair would be dead in seconds.

He hoped that their self-preservation would override their anger.

Son of Mulkailot closed his eyes, concentrating.

Alastair felt the creature sliding inside his mind. A cold dagger made of ice, slicing into his brain. There was no physical pain. Only an icy loneliness wrapped in coils of sorrow which dragged Alastair’s spirits to depths he had never imagined.

Alastair wasn’t sure if the loneliness was Son of Mulkailot’s that he carried everywhere, or some form of psychic weapon, designed to unravel his mind. Perhaps Son of Mulkailot was going to try and take over Alastair’s body, and make him drop the knife.

Alastair had practiced psychic warfare for many years, though he’d never had to face an Umlai in person, nor on their ground.

He thought of Savannah, the pain he’d felt discovering her body, how he’d wanted to kill himself right then and there, screw his duty to the Threshold.

“So, you truly loved her?” Son of Mulkailot’s voice asked.

Get out of my head!

Son of Mulkailot left, leaving a frosted trail through Alastair’s mind.

He tried to shake off the pain, then repeated his threat, blade still at his own throat. “I just want the children, then I’ll leave you be.”

“And we want our birthright,” said Son of Mulkailot.

“Which is?”

“To return to the home that was stolen from us. And see our dead again.”

“Stole after your people murdered ours.”

Son of Mulkailot laughed at Alastair. “Is that what you were told?”

“I’m not here to debate history,” Alastair said, refusing to break the alien’s glassy stare. “I want the children. Then I will leave you in peace.”

That same bark of laughter cracked from the Umlai’s throat. “I am afraid that will not be happening.”

“You don’t think I’ll do it?” Alastair pressed the blade harder. Any more pressure, and blood would spill.

“The children are staying, unless you wish to do the right thing.”

“What do you want?”

“Open the Threshold.”

Alastair shook his head. “That isn’t going to happen.”

“Then you may as well kill yourself,” said Son of Mulkailot. “The children, as well as their mother, will be stuck here forever with us.”

* * * *

HUDSON

Hudson watched through the window as the aliens gathered around someone in the town below. It was too far to see, but he was suddenly certain that Alastair and his father had crossed over, and were now in danger.

“I think Dad and Alastair are down there. We have to help them.”

Shurui shook her head. “You’re not going anywhere until I hear from my brother.”

“Bullshit.” Hudson turned his back to her, then tried to do the pinch thing and bring them closer to the town.

Shurui let out something like a laugh. “You can’t do it.”

“I’ll help you,” Savannah said, approaching the door. “Follow me.”

She stepped outside and into the night. Shurui squawked in protest, but Savannah ignored her.

Hudson and Hazel followed. As Shurui had done, Savannah pinched the emptiness and widened her arms, stretching the air before her.

A portal appeared a few feet in front of them, door-shaped, though smaller than the Threshold, glowing yellow and purple. Through it, they could see Alastair surrounded by a large cluster of aliens, their weapons all drawn, converging on him.

“Father,” Savannah whispered.

But Hudson couldn’t see his father, and had a horrible feeling that he was on the ground injured. Maybe dead. “Where’s Dad? We need to help them.”

Shurui, now behind them, said, “They deserve to die. They all do.”

Savannah shook her head. “Enough!”

Savannah ran toward the portal, then vanished inside it as Shurui called her name.

Hudson turned to Hazel, now right beside him, both of them only three feet from the portal.

Shurui glared at Hudson as if reading his mind. “Don’t—”

He grabbed Hazel’s hand and pulled her in behind him.

* * * *

ALASTAIR

Alastair’s bluff had been called, his gambit failed.

Son of Mulkailot looked at him and smiled. “Are you really willing to die just to keep us from our home?”

“I’m willing to die if it means preventing another massacre.”

Son of Mulkailot laughed. “You really believe that lie?”

“I’m not the one tricking children.”

Alastair wondered why they were still talking. Son of Mulkailot must’ve seen the truth in Alastair’s mind, that he was willing to die and close the Threshold forever.

Was Son of Mulkailot really willing to risk that rather than accept a temporary loss and give up the children? Or was he also bluffing?

If so, Alastair wasn’t sure how to call the alien’s pretense beyond slitting his own throat.

“Enough!” yelled Son of Mulkailot.

Alastair’s hand was yanked from his throat as if someone had grabbed him at the wrist and pulled the blade away. But no one had touched him. It was Son of Mulkailot, seizing control of his body, and raising Alastair six inches off the ground.

He’d prepared for the creature to infiltrate his mind, but not this.

He watched his arms spread like wings at his side, tried to regain control, but was frozen hovering over the ground.

Son of Mulkailot stepped forward, their eyes now level. The alien smiled, observing Alastair as if he were a captured prisoner. “Tsk, tsk, tsk. After all these years, I expected you to put up more of a fight.”

Alastair spit at him.

The alien ignored the spittle, letting it drip down his face without acknowledgment.

“I thank you for telling me about the Threshold closing if you die. I know you meant it as a threat, as a way to secure your safety. But you needn’t worry about your safety. I’ll see to it that no harm shall befall you until such time that the Threshold opens.”

“I have people waiting on the other side. They’ll stop you.”

Son of Mulkailot laughed, circling Alastair, looking him up and down. “Stop me? Like you did?”

Alastair’s eyes seized on his fallen sword.

He waited until Son of Mulkailot’s back was fully to it.

Then he acted.

He telekinetically called his blade from the ground, turned it swiftly in the air, then drove it straight into Son of Mulkailot.

The sword ripped through the alien’s back, then its ebony blade ripped through its chest, spraying bright blue blood as the alien let out a high-pitched shriek.

Son of Mulkailot fell to the ground, writhing in pain. The alien’s magic disrupted, Alastair dropped to the ground.

Several Umlai moved toward him, weapons drawn.

He threw out his hands, sending a blast of energy at the nearest Umlai.

They fell back, wounded, but not dead.

He had seconds to act, to secure a win, if there was one to be had.

He looked at Son of Mulkailot, face down on the ground, squirming, hands awkwardly trying to pull the blade from his back.

Alastair grabbed the hilt with both hands, planted a foot on the fallen alien, and glared at the others.

“Get me the children now, or I will finish him off!”

They all stopped, gasping.

They didn’t know what to do. This was their leader, and despite their advanced abilities, they were primitive in their tribal ways. Without a leader, they were confused. This was his moment to wrestle control.

“And if anyone even attempts to try anything, I’ll take him with me, so help me God.”

They’d seen what he did with the sword. They knew he had powers, and wouldn’t risk their leader’s life by trying anything stupid — at least that’s what he hoped.

“You have a couple of minutes before this sword turns his insides to stone. Send the children through the portal, now!” Alastair screamed.

He wasn’t sure how long he truly had before Son of Mulkailot was dead. He wasn’t even sure if the alien could be saved after he withdrew the sword. Either way, Alastair probably didn’t have long to live once they realized their leader wouldn’t make it. At that point, he prayed the children made it through the portal.

Then he could close it forever.

Several Umlai turned, frantically, as if about to get the children. But then they froze as four figures approached them: Hazel, Hudson, another Umlai, and … Savannah.

Lie or ghost: Savannah was there, wearing a white shirt and dress, long golden hair flowing over her chest, eyes as big and beautiful as he remembered. His daughter didn’t appear to have aged a day.

He shook his head, refusing to accept the lie.

The Umlai woman screamed, “What have you done?”

She raised her hands, a fiery ball gathering force.

“No!” Savannah — or the thing pretending to be her — screamed, pushing the alien down.

The ball of energy flew over Alastair, barely missing his head.

The Umlai woman shot up, and turned on Savannah, growling. “He killed my brother!”

Hazel and Hudson stood paralyzed between them.

Alastair yelled, “He’s not dead … yet. Let us go and I’ll allow him to live.”

Son of Mulkailot moaned beneath Alastair’s foot, “Don’t do it, Shurui.”

Alastair shook his head, “Give up. You’re not crossing over.”

Hazel flew back with a scream, right into Shurui’s arms. The Umlai had a blade at her throat in less than a second.

She scowled at Alastair. “Let my brother up or I will kill her.”

* * * *

SCOTT

Scott had been standing guard at the portal forever.

Had wasn’t sure how much time had passed while standing in front of the emerald light waiting with a drawn sword.

At least fifteen minutes, maybe a day.

How long did it take to negotiate a deal?

Scott tried again to see if he could spy Alastair, but a fog had settled over the area shortly after Alastair crossed over and now all Scott could see was a lot of empty nothing.

Come on.

He paced, wondering how long it would be before anyone in the house came down to see what was happening. Maybe they knew better. Perhaps there was nothing they could do. Scott figured it had to be the latter since Alastair was entrusting him, a man who’d never even held a sword, as the Threshold’s guardian.

Scott’s stomach made somersaults; he dreaded seeing a shape step through the portal.

Could he really kill an alien?

What if they were more powerful? He might not be able to kill them even if he’d found the mental strength it required.

What if one tried to come through as Hudson or Hazel?

Scott tried to shake the idea away, and wished like hell that Alastair hadn’t planted that seed in his head.

They can look like anyone.

Suddenly, a scream from the other side of the Threshold.

No, no, no, no.

“Hazel?”

Scott kept pacing, waiting for an answer.

Damn it, I knew I should’ve gone over with the old man!

Shit.

“Hazel?” Scott screamed into the void. “Hudson?”

He paced some more, sword in hand, itching to hurt whoever had made his baby girl cry.

Still nothing.

He looked at the door, wishing someone else would enter, someone he could tell to guard the Threshold.

But nobody came.

And he didn’t have time to call anyone down.

If his kids, or the old man, were hurt, time was running out.

Scott had to act.

Now.

He charged into the portal, sword held tight.

**

Scott spun around on the other side, searching through the thick fog for any sign of Hazel.

Not seeing anything, he called out, “Hazel?”

He waited, nervously, shoulders scrunched, anticipating an attack from any side in the blinding, rolling clouds.

“Dad?” Hazel’s voice called out.

It sounded like it was coming from behind him.

He turned back to the portal.

Had she somehow gotten through?

“Hazel?”

“Dad?”

Her voice wasn’t coming from the Threshold. It was coming from somewhere behind. He stepped around the portal and saw what looked to be a Bizarro version of Galloway Manor, cloaked in shadows.

She’s in there.

He ran toward the house, reckless but not caring. If he ran into enemies, he’d slay them on the spot without stopping. That’s what you did when your children were in danger — whatever it took to get them safe.

He reached the doorway and found it open.

In the darkness, he saw a small shape sitting on the ground, curled up about ten feet into the living room, back turned to him.

“It’s okay, honey, Daddy’s here,” he called out, stepping into the house.

The shape didn’t respond.

His heart raced as he took another step inside. His every instinct ordered him to turn around and leave.

It’s not her.

It’s something else.

This is a trap!

But he ignored his instincts and stepped closer, sword in hand, hoping he wouldn’t have to swing it.

“Hazel?”

“Yes, Daddy?” she said, though she didn’t turn to greet him, or budge an inch.

What’s wrong with her?

“Where’s your brother?”

Hazel began to giggle.

The doors slammed closed behind him.

Scott spun around to see who shut the doors, sword still ready.

Nobody was there.

He spun back around to Hazel.

She wasn’t there, either.

Run!

Get the hell out of here.

Now!

“Hazel!” he called out, eyes scanning the darkness.

He could hardly see anything in the darkness and wished he’d brought a flashlight.

Then he remembered his phone.

He fished it out of his pocket with his left hand, found the flashlight app, turned it on and illuminated the dusty, barren living room — some sort of weird antique doppelgänger of his own house.

“Hazel?” he said, sweeping the light through the room, then slowly up the stairs.

His heart nearly exploded when it found something waiting at the top.

Scott nearly dropped the phone, the light falling to the floor before he steadied his grip and swept it back to the spot.

There she sat on the top step, long dark hair hanging in her face, eyes on the ground, humming something Scott didn’t recognize. Maybe an old nursery rhyme.

“Okay, Hazel, you’re creeping me out. Come downstairs.”

She stayed put, still singing.

It’s not her!

Run!

But Scott couldn’t run.

His mind was making too many excuses, insisting it was her, and that she was spooked.

He remembered how Hazel was when sleepwalking, how she was when he’d found her in the gazebo. She crept him out both times. God only knew what she’d seen since crossing over.

He started toward the stairs, one hand on his phone, light on her, the other on his sword, shaking.

“Honey, I’m coming up. It’s me, Daddy.”

Hazel kept singing that song.

Wooden planks creaked underfoot as Scott ascended the stairs.

“Hazel? Can you hear me?”

“Yes, Daddy, I can hear you,” she said, still not looking at him.

“Where’s your brother?” he asked, now ten steps away.

No response.

Eight steps.

“Where’s your mother?”

She stopped singing.

Scott paused, waiting for a response.

The light on his phone sputtered and died.

Shit.

He reached down, thumbed the app back on, then raised the light back to Hazel.

Except it wasn’t Hazel.

It was something from a nightmare — tall, with long arms and legs, big black eyes, and long dark hair.

It screamed and launched itself at Scott.

Scott fell backwards, somehow managing to raise the sword as he fell.

The creature hissed as it landed on him, and the sword.

His bounced down the stairs and cast them in darkness.

The alien shrieked as its weight sent them tumbling behind hit.

Scott screamed as they fell, thrashing and kicking at the thing as it clawed at his body.

They hit the landing, hard.

Despite the bruises to his back, elbows, and head, Scott managed to jump up before the alien could.

He was prepared to run, but then, in the dim edges of the phone’s glow, he saw that the creature was still. The sword had sliced right through its gut and was sticking out its back.

Bright blue blood was dripping onto the floor.

Suddenly, a cry from upstairs.

“Help!”

Scott felt his heart stop.

No.

It can’t be.

“Holly?” he yelled up the stairs.

“Scott?”

* * * *

ALASTAIR

Alastair was paralyzed by the alien’s threat, holding a blade to Hazel’s throat.

Shurui spoke again, her voice practically a hiss, “Get off of my brother or she’s dead.”

Alastair shook his head. “Let the children go and you can save your brother.”

“Don’t,” moaned Son of Mulkailot.

Alastair pressed his foot down harder on the man’s back. “Shut up.”

Hazel screamed, looking down at her arm. Shurui was squeezing it tight, in response to Alastair pressing on her brother’s back.

“Stop it!” Savannah yelled, “This has to end! Dad, pull the sword out and let him up.”

He shook his head, struggling not to heed the shapeshifter pretending to be his daughter.

“You’re not her. Stop using her voice.”

“It is me, Father,” she said, stepping toward him, opening her arms, wanting him to hug her. “Please, let’s end this.”

He caught her sweet scent on the breeze as she stood there, smelling just as he remembered.

Can it really be my Savannah?

Can they fake scent?

He looked at her outstretched hands, tears welling in his eyes.

No, please, stop it.

You’re not real.

You’re an abomination they’re using to hurt me.

Go away!

“Father,” she said. “It’s me.”

He tentatively stepped away from Son of Mulkailot, then reached out to touch her.

His were shaking as her soft hands fell into his old and weathered ones.

His mind flashed back on the many times she’d held his hand as a little girl, how small her tiny fingers felt braided with his.

She felt and looked exactly as he remembered, her large eyes twinkling blue from a porcelain face.

“It’s me, Daddy.”

“No.” He dropped her hands. “It can’t be. You’re dead. I buried you.”

“The dead have different rules here in The Hold. I’m as alive as I ever was.”

She reclaimed his hands and flooded him with memories.

Alastair saw himself finding her at age seven in the garden, hiding with a book. He’d stood behind Savannah for fifteen minutes, watching her slowly turn the pages, not knowing he was there. “Daddy!” she giggled after finally finding him.

He saw them in the kitchen with Savannah, Angelica, and Jacquelyn — barely older than Savannah. Alastair was pretending to make lilac butter, stirring petals in a tin cup, using slight distraction and sleight-of-hand to magically transform the petals to butter. Jacquelyn’s mom pretended to have no idea what he was doing, nor any ability to duplicate his recipe. The girls’ laughter rolled up from their stomachs. Savannah stared up at Alastair as if her father had fashioned the world.

He saw himself setting an egg into his daughter’s palm. “Throw it.” Savannah looked up with her giant eyes: Are you sure? He nodded, and she hurled the egg against the wall. They watched it explode in an eruption of Rice Krispies.

“Savannah?” he cried as he took her into his arms and hugged her, hard, unable to take any more.

If this was a lie, so be it.

Shurui rushed past them, falling to her knees beside Son of Mulkailot, pulling the sword from his body.

Alastair thought, for a moment, to try and stop her, but with his daughter in his arms, nothing else mattered.

Crying, he asked, "Why did you do it? Why did you kill yourself?”

“They told me to.”

Fresh rage boiled Alastair’s blood. He was about to turn around and stab Shurui as well.

“Don’t, Daddy! They did it to help.”

“To help?”

“Yes, Daddy, to help. I’m part Umlai, like you.”

“What do you mean like me?”

“Son of Mulkailot is your brother.”

He wanted to stop her right there. Brother? That didn’t make any sense. But she kept talking.

“We can live here forever, or go to their home world once the other portal is open.”

“What other portal?”

“There’s a portal from Earth to their world, hidden on our property. If we let them through the Threshold, they can finally go home, and reunite with those that they lost, just like you’re reuniting with me.”

“But why did you kill yourself? Why didn’t you just come and tell me.”

Alastair felt desperate and angry. Too hurt to make any words.

“Because you didn’t listen. I tried to tell you when I first started seeing them, but you thought they’d gotten to me, made me ‘evil.’ You were afraid of a lie. You’ve been living under the one your father inflicted on you. But they showed me the truth, and I needed you to see it.”

“What truth?” Alastair barely managed.

“The truth your father hid from you. Or at least the man who called himself your father.” Her tone changed, sharper. “Open the Threshold, Daddy. Or the Umlai will kill you.”

He was right.

This is a trick.

The aliens were trying what they always had, fooling him into opening the portal.

“No!” Alastair growled, pulling away from the monstrosity pretending to be his daughter.

“They’ll kill you,” she cried.

Shurui was standing next to Son of Mulkailot, who was already healing.

Shurui held Alastair’s sword, eager to exact revenge. Behind her, several other Umlai were readying their weapons for bloodshed as well.

This was about to get ugly.

Alastair turned to the children and yelled, “Run to the Threshold!”

He started to raise his hands, preparing a blast to propel them forward, and at least give them a head start.

“No!” Shurui threw up her left hand, lifting the children off the ground, suspending them in the air as her brother had done to Alastair.

Alastair tried to push them, but they stayed put.

He turned to the alien and screamed, “Put them down!”

He raised his hands, balls of energy engulfing them, ready to kill every alien he saw, even the thing pretending to be Savannah.

Alastair met the alien’s cold dark eyes and growled, “I said put them down.”

“Stop!” Son of Mulkailot raised a hand and pulled the children back to the ground. Alastair couldn’t move.

Son of Mulkailot hadn’t lifted him this time, but had frozen him to the spot.

He walked toward Alastair, slowly, one arm holding the not-yet-fully-healed gash in his chest. He was hurt, and no longer smiling as if this were a game.

He looked at Alastair again, but this time seemed to be truly looking at him. “You really believe these words you say, that our people massacred humans?”

Alastair nodded, his hands pulsating with energy, ready to fight the moment the alien released his hold.

Son of Mulkailot spoke again, this time raising his hand toward Alastair’s face.

He tried to back away, but was frozen.

Damned thing tricked me!

Alastair struggled to break free of the trance, but his body refused to obey. He watched in horror as the thing’s hand, and its long spindly dark fingers, came closer to his face.

What the hell is it going to do?

“I’m sorry for the lies you’ve been told, the truth that has been stolen from you,” Son of Mulkailot said, then planted two long digits to Alastair’s forehead, pressing fingertips to skin.

Then Son of Mulkailot showed Alastair the truth.

* * * *

MULKAILOT

April 11, 1781

Mulkailot knocked three times on the Galloway homestead’s front door, then without waiting for an answer, turned the knob and slipped inside the domicile. He crossed a large living area, then ducking low, trudged upstairs, and opened the door to a bedroom.

Dahlia was happy to see him. She smiled, playful and inviting.

“What took you so long?”

“No time for games, Dahlia. I’ve come to take you to camp.”

“No,” she held her waning smile. “You don’t know my husband.”

“I do know Montgomery. That’s why I need you to come with me.”

“It isn’t that easy. Montgomery is vengeful and will make us pay. Nothing is more important than him.”

Dahlia leaned back against the headboard and lowered her arms so Mulkailot could see his son.

He stepped closer to the bed. “He’s so beautiful …”

“Yes, and we must protect him. That means keeping the truth from Montgomery. You must leave, and know that I love you. But I cannot go. You have your people, and I have mine. Let us be grateful that our child is what he is, and that you and I—”

Montgomery burst into the room.

He stood in the doorway and with slow, menacing sentences repeated each of Dahlia’s phrases, one by one. Mulkailot stared at Montgomery, calculating whether he should allow the human to continue intimidating his wife, or do as he deemed necessary: eliminate the threat, then take both woman and child back to his own — damn the consequences.

Montgomery sneered, repeating her words:

“Let us be grateful that our child is what he is.” Montgomery growled, “And what exactly is your child?”

Dahlia hugged Alastair to her bosom, refusing to answer.

Mulkailot stepped in front of Montgomery. “Let her be!”

“Or what?”

“Or this will be your undoing.”

Mulkailot was holding back — it took everything inside him not to end the man with a swat of his arm, like bear to babe. Arrogance fumed from the human’s pores like a wretched scent.

“I’ll remind you, Mulkailot, you’re in my domicile, and in clear violation of our treaty with the Umlai.”

Mulkailot didn’t care about the treaty, but the others would.

“I will go.” He looked from Dahlia to her husband. “But if you harm her, or our child, I vow, you shall die by my hand.”

Mulkailot turned back to Dahlia and promised: “He will not hurt you. If he dares, I’ll return.”

“Get out!” Montgomery yelled at Mulkailot.

“I love you, Dahlia.”

Mulkailot turned and went downstairs, then out of the house and into the darkness.

**

Later that night …

Mulkailot woke to find his home barricaded. Someone had tried to protect him, but who? He could only stare through the window as his people were slaughtered. He made it out of the house as attackers scattered like cowards, running back to the Galloway homestead.

Mulkailot followed, clinging to shadows, but outside the homestead saw nothing. His alien senses, stronger than most Earth animals, felt nothing — only the danger that threatened his human love behind the walls of the Galloway house. He opened the door, and a hundred pounds of something smashed down onto his head.

Mulkailot woke restrained to a chair and found that his fingers had been severed. Bloody bandages covered the nubs. Without fingers, he could not work his magic.

Montgomery stood above him, glaring down.

Mulkailot’s wrists were bound by some metal device designed to crush them at the turn of a crank. Montgomery worked the crank with a gleeful hate.

Mulkailot was strong, but pain was pain, and the thumbscrews were agony.

To escape the torment, Mulkailot followed his mind to somewhere else, drifting in and out of awareness, each time waking to something worse. He was burned — with both boiling water and a cattle brand. He was cut and suffocated. Mostly he was beaten — with leather, wood, and Montgomery’s bruised and bloodied knuckles. Every time he woke, it was to a new spot in the man’s spectrum of conflicted emotions: rage, sadness, wrath, and regret, then often right back to rage.

Mulkailot continued to send his mind far, far away, then kept it there as long as he could. He returned to reality, Montgomery shaking his body like a bag of bones. His face had swollen to twice its size. He was bound at the wrists, and felt thin enough to disappear. Still, Mulkailot smiled, knowing what was happening before Montgomery told him.

Mulkailot said, “My brothers have returned to take vengeance on your town.”

Montgomery nodded. “And more are coming, yes. We must close the Threshold. You must show me how.”

“No. It is time to die in a hell of your making.”

“Close the Threshold, or I’ll kill you!”

“You may wrest my body from my soul, but you cannot kill me.”

“Oh?” Montgomery growled, then vanished from the room.

He returned two minutes later, dragging Dahlia behind him. He threw her in a chair opposite Mulkailot’s, then made her lover watch as he restrained her ankles, wrists, and arms.

Mulkailot stared, waiting for the human to make a mistake.

“You will close the Threshold, or I’ll do to her what I’ve done to you. She won’t last like you. Are you prepared to see Dahlia die?”

Mulkailot thought he could stay strong, patiently wait through the pain of his true love’s suffering, but he had never loved a human and could not have anticipated the ways in which Dahlia’s weakness would become his own. Her pain belonged to him: Every blow to her body or burn to her skin. Mulkailot felt it all, worse than he had when it had been him beneath the blows. Worse, for he could not allow his mind to flee for fear that he would miss her death, condemned to remember it for the rest of what humans called eternity and the Umlai called the beginning.

Montgomery gathered Dahlia’s hand, and bent her middle finger back until it snapped loud enough to hear above her anguished bellow.

Mulkailot was broken.

“Fine. If I help you, will you leave her be?”

“Yes.” From tone and eyes, Mulkailot felt that Montgomery was telling the truth.

He looked at the floor while trying to squeeze the sound of Dahlia’s torment from his mind. “Take me to the wellness fountain.”

The fountain had been a gift from his people to the humans, an eternal magical spring that kept them youthful and healthy.

“We’re not going anywhere.”

“Then we will die.”

Something in Mulkailot’s tone told Montgomery not to argue.

“The fountain in the center of town?”

“Yes.”

“Can it be brought here?”

“If you can carry several thousand pounds. Or, I can carry it.”

“What’s the trick? How many of your people are waiting?”

“If my people were waiting, you’d already be dead.”

“Fine,” Montgomery snarled. “But she’s coming. Any tricks, I put a knife through her throat.”

Mulkailot said nothing as he led the monster and his love toward the fountain.

“Where is my child?” he asked once there.

“Alone and hungry. Hidden. You can make sure he won’t starve if we all get back in one piece.”

Mulkailot drowned the sound of Dahlia’s whimpers, picked up the fountain, and walked faster back to the homestead.

**

Months later…

Mulkailot managed to close the portal and keep the remaining Umlai from crossing over and exacting revenge, but it wasn’t a onetime solution.

Montgomery kept Dahlia and Mulkailot alive for the next several months, but only barely. Dahlia was kept breathing to make sure the alien held to his schedule, adding a single drop of blood into the fountain to keep the Threshold closed when it begged. The spell would last only as long as alien blood continued to bind it. If Mulkailot were to die, the Threshold would collapse and an unholy hell would rain down on Montgomery, a fact Mulkailot reminded the man of whenever he seemed like he’d snap and kill Dahlia.

Montgomery insisted that the alien show him how to close the portal himself, even though he had no alien blood or ability to do so.

“This won’t work long,” Mulkailot often repeated. “I will outlive you, as will everyone on the other side of the Threshold. My people will come. One day you will sleep too long, and I will not add blood to the fountain. One day, something will stop you. You are living a borrowed life, Montgomery. I promise: The longer we wait for our revenge, the more you will suffer. Why not let us go? We’ll take our child, and be gone from you forever.”

For the most part, Montgomery ignored him, until one day he entered Mulkailot’s cell and looked down at the alien lying on the floor, chains binding his arms and legs.

“Good news.”

He dragged a chair and Dahlia both into the room. He threw her into the dirt beside Mulkailot, then sat before them, hands folded in his lap, almost placid.

“I don’t need your blood any longer.”

“No …” Mulkailot realized what Montgomery was saying before he finished explaining.

“I managed to keep the Threshold closed — killed all the bright lights like you do — using a drop of your bastard baby’s blood.”

Dahlia screamed.

“Relax!” Montgomery stood, and turned to Dahlia. “I didn’t hurt your brat. It’s a prick on his finger. Less than he deserves for being born in your sin.”

Montgomery looked from Dahlia to Mulkailot, clearly disgusted.

He leaned down as if to whisper something awful. Dahlia spit in his face. Without pause he drew back and launched a wide open palm across her face.

The room echoed with his smack.

Dahlia sobbed.

Mulkailot strained at his chains as Montgomery walked to corner of his cell, grabbed a large stick, and beat the alien with fury.

“Please, Montgomery,” Dahlia screamed. “I’ll do anything! Just don’t kill him!”

Montgomery paused, then stood straight, looking from the alien to his wife. Something in his body seemed to break as he saw what he hadn’t before: the depth of love between Mulkailot and Dahlia.

Hate and pain flooded his face. He was angry, at Mulkailot, Dahlia, himself, and probably the world. It was a betrayal of the worst sort — knowing she loved the alien rather than him. But the hot glow of that truth broke Montgomery’s expression more than anything before. It made him snap.

Montgomery dropped the stick.

Without a word, he dragged Dahlia away from Mulkailot, toward the door, and began to beat her.

“Stop!” Mulkailot screamed, trying to break the chains and kill the human. But he was too weak. “Please, stop!”

“Why?” Montgomery said, standing over his wife, knuckles bloody, eyes wide and crazy.

“Because she’s your wife! And no matter what happened between us, you once loved her.”

Mulkailot was trying to charm the man. Humans were easily enchanted by magic, but this man was too filled with hate for it to work on him. Mulkailot resorted to begging.

“Please, after all we’ve done for your people. We gave you youth. We taught you magic. We helped you grow crops you couldn’t grow and keep your families fed. And you’re going to throw it all away over a woman you haven’t loved in years?”

Montgomery looked as if he’d been slapped.

“What do you mean haven’t loved in years?”

“She was only with a freak like me because you ignored her. Don’t pretend you haven’t slept with half the whores in town. You did this, Montgomery, not her. If you want to kill me, go ahead. But please … Dahlia is innocent. She was hurt by you, and I took advantage. It’s you she’s always loved. It’s not too late to turn back now.”

Montgomery stood straight, head turned as he seemed to ponder Mulkailot’s words. Perhaps, the Umlai hoped, reason could still win the angry man over.

Montgomery looked down at his wife, then down at the stick he’d been beating the alien with. He bent over, retrieved the stick, looked at Mulkailot and asked, “Kill you, instead of her?”

“Yes,” Mulkailot said, nodding, preparing to die. He would perish a hundred times over to save Dahlia.

Montgomery looked down at the stick, then turned back on Dahlia and thrust it into her gut.

She screamed, her body convulsing.

Mulkailot cried out, shaking his chains, attempting to summon the power that flowed through his blood as Dahlia stopped moving.

He stared at her dead eyes, wide open back at him.

He watched as light left them and the soul departed her body. Human souls looked so much different than Umlai’s. Smaller, less colorful, though no less beautiful — especially Dahlia’s.

Knuckles dripping with blood, Montgomery marched back across the room toward Mulkailot.

Montgomery gave him a lunatic’s smile.

“Time to die,” he said.

* * * *

SCOTT

Scott stood at the bottom of the stairs, sword in hand, standing over the alien that had pretended to be his little girl.

He was pissed.

He wanted to know where his children were.

Upstairs, another alien was trying to trick him, pretending to be Holly. Maybe it was the same alien who had lured his children into crossing the Threshold.

He gripped the sword tight, raised his phone’s flashlight, and headed up the stairs.

“Holly?” he called out, playing along, for now.

“Scott?” her voice came from the end of the hall — from the room that was Savannah’s back on Earth.

Of course. Take a dead girl’s room, take a dead woman’s body. There nothing you all won’t take?

He marched to the end of the hallway and tried the door.

It was locked, though it wasn’t any kind of seal he’d ever seen. There wasn’t even a hole for a key.

“Holly?”

“Yes, Scott. It’s me. Please let me out.”

“Where are the children?”

“They were in here earlier. Rumfrai was with me in this room, though, and wouldn’t let me see them.”

“Where is this Rumfrai?”

“I’m pretty sure you killed him.”

How can she know that?

Scott stared at the door, shaking his head. The alien must’ve really thought he was stupid. But he’d play along, for as long as he had to.

“Where did they go?”

“I don’t know. Let me out and I’ll help you find them.”

He stared at the door.

Yeah, I bet you will.

Scott wondered if he should leave the imposter here and continue his search for the children. Or, run back home and wait like Alastair instructed.

What if they already killed Alastair? What if the aliens used Hazel to lead me away from the Threshold?

That had to be it.

He felt so stupid.

And this thing pretending to be his wife was wasting more of his time.

He turned to walk away.

“Scott?” she called out from behind the door.

“What?” he shouted.

“Are you going to let me out?” she asked, her voice nervous.

Yeah, I’m onto you, bitch.

“Nah, I need to get back to the Threshold. See ya.”

He started to descend the stairs, smiling.

“Scott!”

Her scream wasn’t angry. It was scared, and cut him to the core.

He stopped on the stairway, looking down at the alien he’d already killed.

“What?” he called back impatiently.

“Don’t leave me here. Please.”

“Why not? You left me.”

A long moment of silence. “What?”

Scott marched back up the stairs. He knew it didn’t make any sense to argue with an alien, but he couldn’t help himself from an argument by proxy.

“I said, Why not? You left me and the kids. Six months ago. Or did you forget?”

Another moment of silence, then, “Is that what you thought? That I left you?”

“Um, yeah, what else was I supposed to think?”

“Open the door, Scott.”

“Why?”

“Because I can’t talk with this door between us.” He heard Holly sigh. “Open it, now.”

Scott stared at the door, hating the thing that was pretending to be his wife. She, or It, was doing a good job, even down to Holly’s impatient exhale.

“I don’t think you are what you say you are.”

“What?”

“Come on, I know what you’re doing. You’re one of them, pretending to be Holly so I’ll open the door and you can kill me — just like that thing that was pretending to be Hazel.”

“It’s me, Scott, I swear.” Her voice sounded both annoyed and frightened.

He wondered if it could really be her. If so, how did she get here?

Well, how did Hazel and Hudson get here? The aliens tricked them. Maybe they tricked Holly, too?

Or maybe they’re trying to trick me.

“Stand back.”

Scott waited until he heard her stand back, then backed up, lifted his leg, and kicked the door above the knob.

It crashed open, almost as if made of paper.

And there she was, standing before him, wearing a long blue shirt over jeans. Her hair was a mess, her eyes had dark circles beneath them, her cheeks were sallow, and she wore no makeup. She looked as though she’d been spit out by Hell.

Her eyes were wide, tears welling from them.

She started to come toward him, arms wide open.

He backed away, raising his sword.

She stopped, confusion furrowing her brow.

“It’s me, baby.”

Scott swallowed as they stood face to face.

If the aliens are trying to trick me, wouldn’t they use the best version of my wife to do so? Would they really think it through this far and make her look like she’s been awake for months?

“How do I know it’s you?”

She wiped tears from her cheeks and sniffled. “Please, Scott, can’t you just tell?”

“They can change their shapes. Like the one downstairs pretending to be our daughter.”

“I know they can change shapes.”

“Yeah, is that how they got you over? They tricked you?”

“No, it was Savannah. She begged me to come through.”

Scott nodded. “Is that so?”

“Please. It’s me, Scott. I’ve missed you so much. Missed the kids so much. Missed us so much.”

“You still didn’t tell me why you left.”

“I didn’t leave you. I was trapped here!”

“You didn’t tell me you were coming here. Hell, you never even told me you had a Great-Uncle Alastair!”

“No, you’re right. I didn’t want to tell you.”

“Why?”

“Because I didn’t want this life for our kids.”

“What life? Guarding the Threshold? You knew about it?”

“No, I didn’t know about it until six months ago. But I knew about Alastair’s weird rules. And how he brought in that lady to—”

She trailed off.

“To what?”

“To try and make me use my gifts.”

“What gifts?” he asked, heart racing, wondering if this could truly be his wife.

He thought of Alastair’s warning again.

They can look like anyone.

How could he know if it was her or one of them?

“I have gifts. I can move stuff with my mind. Can see things that others can’t.”

“Like Hazel?”

“I was afraid she had them, too. Afraid Alastair would want to exploit her. Like he did with me.”

“What did he do to you?”

“Always trying to get me to do more and more, and saying that it was very important, but never telling me why.”

“So, what happened?”

“I saw things that scared me. I didn’t ever want to come back. Then, about a month ago, this lawyer reached out to me saying that Alastair was really sick. He asked if I could come out for a weekend, and requested that I bring the children. He said there was good money in it for me. I thought maybe we could use it, that maybe it could help you get back on your feet. But I said hell no to bringing anyone else — that I would only come alone.”

Scott swallowed. It was hard to hear her say that she did this to help solve their problems. Though she didn’t say it, it was his fault that she said yes to coming.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I told you, I don’t want that man anywhere near my children. I figured I’d take care of this, and we’d never have to deal with him again. And, of course, we’d have money to help us.”

Scott stared at Holly, every fiber of his being knowing that this was his wife. It had to be. He wanted to drop the sword and to take her into his arms, but he couldn’t get past the doubt.

Nor could he get past the anger and resentment he’d felt for the past six months in thinking that she’d left him. As stupid as it was, he couldn’t let go, even hearing her say that she didn’t mean to leave him, he couldn’t accept it. Scott wasn’t sure if his refusal to get over the anger was because he couldn’t be sure this wasn’t some alien playing with his fears and emotions, or if it was something else, something he couldn’t quite put a finger on — like when he knew he was wrong for blowing up at his kids, but he’d been unable to truly get past the rage.

Holly’s tears fell faster.

“You really thought I left you and the children?”

“I didn’t know what to think,” he said, his voice cracking. “I thought you might be dead. I had a private investigator looking for you, and they found your car, but not you.”

“I don’t know what happened with my car. I drove it here. Alastair’s people must’ve done something with it. I don’t know.”

Scott finally said what he’d been struggling to say. “I thought maybe you left because of … Karla. And that you were punishing me. And, if I’m being honest, I couldn’t blame you.”

She stared at him, shaking her head, tears still flowing.

“I would never do that. I’m with you because I love you. Because I know that despite the hard times we’ve been through, that you love me and the kids, too. I know that because of how hard you try to change the things you don’t like about yourself. That you trusted me enough to go to therapy. And … that you came through the Threshold to find your family.”

He wanted to hold her, hug her, never let her go.

But there was that small part of Scott that was afraid the moment he dropped the sword, she’d reveal herself as one of the big, ugly, blue-blood spurting aliens.

Holly started toward him again, arms open wide.

Their eyes locked, both of them crying.

They can look like anyone! Don’t trust it!

His heart raced as she closed in.

The only way to survive in this world is to never be vulnerable. To be stronger than your enemy. The minute you show a vulnerability is the minute they’ll kick you.

He tightened his grip on the sword, readying it.

She wrapped his arms around him.

And Scott finally let go.

* * * *

ALASTAIR

Alastair opened his eyes, shaking.

He blinked, absorbing his surroundings, still on the wrong side of the Threshold, standing beneath a harsh purple sky surrounded by Umlai.

His mind was in pieces. Alastair wanted the world to feel like a lie, but it didn’t. He felt foolish for believing an obviously false and soured reality, but couldn’t ignore a churning gut that said this time it was true.

His alien brother had spent a life on the far side of the Threshold, where Savannah’s soul had lived for decades, still clinging to who she was that day like a living, breathing ghost.

Son of Mulkailot looked at Alastair sadly. “It is truth, and now you have seen it through our father’s eyes.”

An odd whistle bit the wind then sat in the air like a haunting.

“Please, Brother, open the Threshold. We merely wish to go home with our fallen brothers and sisters, whose bodies wait to be buried at home. Earth is wretched, yours to do with as you wish. We want no part, but must set foot to sour soil to bring our spirits home where they belong.”

Before Alastair could respond, Shurui said, “I reject this offer! He is not to be trusted. We must kill the Galloways. It isn’t enough to bring our spirits home. We must avenge them.”

She stepped toward Alastair, blade in hand.

Son of Mulkailot planted a large hand on her shoulder.

“No, that is not what our father would want.”

Shurui’s thin lips curled back into a snarl. She opened her mouth, but Alastair cut her off.

“I can’t make up for the things I’ve done. I can’t make up for the sins of the man who called himself my father. I’m sorry, to all of you. I will open the Threshold. Better yet, I will stay here, if you’ll have me, until our blood no longer flows in the fountain.”

Shurui looked like she wanted to say more, to demand vengeance.

Son of Mulkailot nodded. “Thank you, brother.”

He extended his hand and Alastair shook it.

Alastair asked, “Can the children return home?”

Son of Mulkailot met his eyes.

Shurui blurted, “We can’t trust him!”

Son of Mulkailot kept staring. Alastair waited to feel the alien slithering through his mind again to see his intentions.

But the alien didn’t invade his mind.

Son of Mulkailot said, “He’s speaking truth. We’ll let them return, provided he stay here until the Threshold opens for us all.”

“Thank you, I’ve got no problem staying here,” Alastair said, turning to see his daughter standing beside Hazel and Hudson.

The children looked nervous.

Alastair went to them. “It’s going to be okay. Your father is waiting back at the Threshold.”

“What about our mother?” Hazel cried. “Is she really here?”

Suddenly, movement to their right.

Alastair turned to see Scott and Holly walking, hand-in-hand toward them.

Alastair smiled.

Hazel, seeing the smile, spun around and screamed, “Mommy!”

She ran, leaping the final few feet, right into her mother’s arms.

Hudson looked at Alastair as if unsure of his eyes.

“Is it … really her?”

Savannah looked at him and nodded.

Hudson’s lip trembled, but his feet had grown roots.

Alastair gave the boy a gentle push. “Go ahead.”

Hudson walked over, slowly, shoulders slumped.

Then Holly, still holding Hazel, took him into her arms, and pulled Scott into the hug.

Alastair turned to Savannah, who was crying tears of joy.

He reached out to take her hand. “I’m sorry, honey. Can you forgive me?”

She wrapped her arms around him, hugging her father tight. “I forgave you decades ago.”

He cried as he held her, unleashing decades of tears.

* * * *

SCOTT

Two nights.

That was how long it had taken for the fountain to dry and the Threshold’s barrier to fall.

Alastair, Son of Mulkailot, and Shurui came through the Threshold together at midnight on the second night. Alastair showed them around the house, then led them to the portal in the woods a hundred yards from the manor.

Savannah had to stay behind. She could only exist in The Hold, though Son of Mulkailot said they might be able to create another portal once they got home, and then she’d be welcome to come to their realm, which they called Dahnna.

Alastair met the Dawsons in the kitchen where Jacquelyn and Mara had made them all fresh-baked brownies.

As he ate, Alastair told the Dawsons that Galloway Manor was still theirs to keep, and while the staff would stick around, he planned to spend his remaining days in The Hold with Savannah. Then, after his death, their afterlife would be shared.

Scott was surprised by how much he would miss the old man that never seemed to stop eating.

“Can we visit you?” Hudson asked, though Scott was pretty sure he wanted to visit Savannah more than her father. In the two days since they crossed over, the boy had been talking nonstop about her, how he’d found her diaries, and how he felt like he knew her. It was a bit weird, but probably the least weird thing the family had been through in the last half-year.

“Hell, I expect you all to visit. I’ll be offended if you don’t. Maybe you all can help me fix up the manor over there into something more livable.”

“So, what’s the deal with the Threshold now?” Hudson asked. “Can Hazel and I leave the property?”

“Yes, you can leave. And you will no longer have to guard the Threshold with blood magic. But you do need to keep it a secret, as well as the portal to Dahnna. Nobody can know about it — even girlfriends you really really like.”

Alastair winked at Dawson.

“Girlfriends?” Holly asked, eyebrows arched.

Hudson’s face turned red.

Hazel practically sang, “He’s going out with Iris.”

“Who’s Iris?” Holly asked with twinkling eyes.

Hudson shook his head. “Just a friend.”

Holly looked at Scott for confirmation.

Hudson looked at Scott, too, silently pleading that his father not rat him out.

Scott nodded. “Yeah, she’s just a friend.”

When Hudson looked away, Scott winked at Holly. He’d already told her about Iris last night after crossing back over. Holly thought it was cute and was glad that Hudson liked a real girl, given his obsession with a ghost.

Son of Mulkailot stepped into the kitchen with Shurui. He was carrying a big staff that made Scott think of that wizard in The Lord of the Rings. “We’re almost ready to go through the portal.”

“Do you want a brownie?” Hazel offered.

Shurui took one, brought it to her nose holes and inhaled, then made a weird face.

Hazel laughed. “Try it, you’ll like it.”

She lifted it to her mouth and nibbled.

She paused for a moment, and Scott wasn’t sure from her expression whether she liked it.

Then she shoved the entire thing in her mouth.

Hazel burst out laughing. “I guess you do like it!”

Everyone laughed, except the Umlai, who seemed confused.

Then they walked the aliens — thirty in total — out into the woods.

At first, Scott didn’t see any portal.

But then Son of Mulkailot lifted his staff and a circle opened in the world before them. Daylight lit the other side, with flowing multi-colored grass beneath a sky that looked as strange as the one inside The Hold.

“Dahnna,” Son of Mulkailot said, pointing.

Several Umlai were standing there, waiting.

“Who are they?” Scott asked.

“Our dead, who have been waiting for this day for a long time.”

The Umlai didn’t look like ghosts, but neither did Savannah. They looked as alive as any of the others he’d seen.

Son of Mulkailot approached Alastair and said, “Come, there’s someone I think you’ll want to meet.”

* * * *

ALASTAIR

Son of Mulkailot led Alastair to the portal where he saw Mulkailot, looking just as young as he’d looked in the vision Son of Mulkailot had shown him, standing with Shurui.

Alastair turned to his brother, “Is that—?”

Son of Mulkailot nodded.

“If I go through, will I be able to return?”

Son of Mulkailot nodded again.

Alastair stepped through the portal, into the other world.

As he approached this father he never knew, Alastair thought back to what Mulkailot had sacrificed for him and his mother — how he had offered his life to save them.

Alastair wondered if his father would recognize the old man his son had become.

The man Alastair had grown up with — the man he’d thought was his father — was never kind. He’d treated him like hell for much of his life, leaving Alastair to wonder why his father didn’t seem to love him as much as he’d loved the children from his second and third marriages.

A father’s love withheld is the kind of thing that destroys a child and defines a man forever.

He had tried not to let it define his relationship with Savannah. But Alastair was certain it had. It made him less of the father he needed to be. Maybe Savannah never would have perished if he’d been there for her more. Perhaps he could atone for his sins and still make a difference in her afterlife.

Alastair approached his father, nervously, still wondering if he could see through the old man to the son he’d sacrificed for. He also wondered if his father knew how he’d been twisted against the Umlai.

He felt a deep shame when approaching the man.

But his remorse melted as Alastair’s father stepped forward and met his eyes.

“Son!” Mulkailot cried, arms wide.

Alastair embraced him, and for the first time ever, felt a father’s love.

THE END

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ABOUT THE AUTHORS

Sean Platt is the bestselling co-author of over 60 books, including breakout post-apocalyptic horror serial Yesterday’s Gone, literary mind-bender Axis of Aaron, and the blockbuster sci-fi series, Invasion. Never one for staying inside a single box for long, he also writes smart stories for children under the pen name Guy Incognito, and laugh out loud comedies which are absolutely not for children.

He is also the founder of the Sterling & Stone Story Studio and along with partners Johnny B. Truant and David W. Wright hosts the weekly Self-Publishing Podcast, openly sharing his journey as an author-entrepreneur and publisher.

Sean is often spotted taking long walks, eating brisket with his fingers, or watching movies with his family in Austin, Texas. You can find him at sean@sterlingandstone.net.

David Wright is the co-author of several horror series, including the bestselling Yesterday’s Gone and WhiteSpace, as well as the disturbing standalone books, 12 and Crash.

Dave is also the curmudgeon co-host of the weekly Self-Publishing Podcast, he invites listeners along on his journey toward better health on the strikingly personal The Walking Dave podcast, and regularly rants about his many pet-peeves on the ridiculous podcast Worst. Show. Ever. (which should never be listened to by anyone, ever).

Dave is an accomplished and intermittent cartoonist who lives in [LOCATION REDACTED] with his wife and son [NAMES REDACTED]. Dave cultivates the perfect level of paranoia and always carries a decoy wallet in case he gets mugged. You can stalk him at dave@sterlingandstone.net or visit his personal blog at www.davidwwright.com.

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