I don't know why I bought this house knowing what had happened here. Perhaps because the past's formerly harrowing events seem to sink in the quicksand of time. Newspaper articles fade, the corners tear and the ink runs. Children no longer stop on their bicycles at the end of the driveway to stare.
Now I believe that something called me to this place; a deeper sensitivity that I feel here, something resonating. The girls are in my dreams. Some nights they stand at attention, frigid. I walk among them and their eyes are not diverted. Other nights I watch them play and they give me warm looks. When I awaken I can still hear their laughter like ghoulish echoes that stalk the hallways and staircases.
I would give anything to feel alone in this house. But instead I sense the girls everywhere. I know that they are there. I see them. They spread their muddy footprints through the kitchen and let the cellar door slam shut. The bathroom sink is always covered in water.
It's too much. They are all I see. Their clothes are hanging on the line. The kitchen sink, it's full of their hair. The sink is clogged. Where are my highball glasses? I have to unclog the sink…