DigitalHappiness: Thanks, man, hope it keeps you in.
When life gives you lemons, you make lemonade...or lemon meringue pie, maybe.
Sitting in the back of the Caravan on the morning of August 29th, her stuffed rabbit Mr. Bob perched on her lap, Meagan stared out the window at the passing countryside and scrunched her lips from one side to the other, a nervous tick she didn't even realize she had until people started making fun of her for it. She tried to not do it, but, hey, I mean, might as well try not to be half-blind without her glasses, right?
Tom and Julia - calling them Mom and Dad still felt kind of weird, but good too, if that makes sense - chatted in the front and music whispered from the speaker next to Meagan's head. Mr. Bob - named because he looked kind of like a Bob - gazed sightlessly ahead, a toothy smile frozen to his furry face, and though Meagan obviously knew he wasn't real, she pretended that he was just as edgy as she was. It made her feel better to not be alone.
They were following a winding, two-lane highway through low foothills, and every so often, a sign flashed by, the distance to Rossville closing a little at a time: Twenty miles, then fifteen, then ten. With each revolution of the van's tires, the anxious churning in the pit of her stomach increased until she was one rough jostle away from hurling. The air in the van, cold because the A/C was on, was impossibly hot now, and breathing was a little difficult. It was almost like the asthma attacks she had when she was little: Chest tight, lungs aching, head swimming. If she didn't know any better, she'd say she was going to launch into one, but she outgrew those years ago, and thank goodness, because they suck.
She did her best not to show how messed up she was, and, not to brag, she thought she was doing a pretty good job of it. Her reflection in the window was drawn, but not a queasy shade of green, so win there. Her slender fingers picked absently at Mr. Bob's fur like a Catholic praying the rosary for strength, and one foot jittered a restless jig.
You'd think that with all the times she'd been the new girl she'd be used to it, but you'd be very wrong. Very, very wrong. Oh, she was accustomed to it, sure, but it still made her a little weak in the knees. See, every time she'd done this before, she went in with high hopes, promising herself that things would be different this time, no one was going to call her names or bully her, and guess what: Things were never different. The other girls, usually all older than her, were always B-words and the staff was always authoritarian H-words (H here meaning Hitlers). Every new start lead to the same old pratfalls as the last one and no matter what she did, she wound up being unhappy.
But things really were different now. She had two parents who were pretty great (don't tell them that or it might go to their heads) and soon, they'd be getting a dog. With all that stuff, could she be nervous? Could she really?
Yes.
Yes she could.
In the group homes, anonymity was her best friend; when you blend in, there's less of a chance people will pick on you. Starting a new school...well...how much more conspicuous can you get? Walking through the doors on the first day, she'd stand out like a big, yucky sore thumb. Might as well wear a flashing neon sign that said HI, EVERYONE! LOOK AT ME! WAHOO, BRAND SPANKIN' NEW.
That was just her pessimism rearing its ugly head again, the same pessimism that she swore off when Tom and Julia adopted her. Gee, she thought as she sat in this very spot on that first, glorious ride to her new home, things are sure looking up. Maybe she didn't think it in those exact words, but the spirit was the same, and for the first time in as long as she could remember, she allowed herself a spark of hope. A spark that turned into something bigger over those first few months. She was happy and she learned something about herself: She liked being happy. Cynicism, therefore, had no place in her life any longer. Nope, none. G'bye, see ya, you are not welcome here anymore, buddy.
She just had to think positive. Things aren't always bleak and glum and all that other stuff, so why act like they were?
She was so lost in thought that she didn't notice Julia twisting around in her seat to look at her. "You excited?"
Meagan's head bobbed up and down just a little too quickly, her ponytail tickling the back of her neck. "Yep," she said, "really excited." Her voice sounded shaky to her own ears, and she searched her mind for something to qualify her statement. "I can't wait to see my room."
"It has a nice view," Tom said and flicked his eyes to the rearview mirror.
Julia nodded her agreement. "The way the sunlight filters through the tree outside the window is really pretty."
A few miles later, the hillock running along the southbound shoulder fell away, and Rossville appeared in the valley below. The thin summer haze lent it a dreamlike quality, putting her in mind of theatrical backdrops painted on canvas. A wide, still river defined its northern border and thick forest spread away in the south, the terrain gradually getting steeper and steeper until it officially entered mountain territory. Narrow streets dotted with trees ran east to west, a green church steeple towered from a stand of trees, and a red brick schoolhouse looked down from a hill like a strict headmaster keeping watch over his rambunctious flock. In the distance, the blue mountains separating Virginia from West Virginia melded with the dusty azure sky.
Meagan's jaw dropped and she pressed her face to the window. It looked like something from one of the books she read. She swept her gaze left and right, picking out every little detail. "It's pretty," she said earnestly.
"That's what I said," Julia commented.
Rossville reminded Meagan of a postcard you'd find in a gift shop, the kind that people buy and send home because they're just that picturesque. When she was in the group home, she imagined living in a place like this, and being here now, as the highway curved to the left and then down to the green truss bridge over the river, her chest clutched in pleasant anticipation. The roiling nerves faded away, and in its place came the giddy excitement she just moments ago claimed but didn't actually feel.
She liked the house on 1-81, liked her school and the few acquaintances she'd made (she couldn't really call them friends since they didn't get to know them too well), but something told her she'd like it here even more.
The bridge carried the road across the river, and Meagan craned her neck to see the water through the framework; it swirled, rippled, and eddied around jutting rocks, and along either shore, fallen tree trunks broke the surface like prehistoric bones. A couple of men fished from one muddy bank and further down, a group of shirtless boys splashed in the shallow water. "Perfect for swimming," Julia pointed out.
Meagan didn't really like swimming, but if there was a big, shady tree surrounded by soft grass to sit in, it would make the best reading spot ever, with the lulling chug of the river, the quiet rustle of the warm breeze slipping through the trees, and the warming light of the sun.
Oooh, mama, that sounded nice.
In town, Route 29 turned into Main Street and flowed past low brick buildings screened behind well-manicured trees, the bank here, the barber shop there, town hotel, feed store, cafe, everything a small town should have as far as Meagan was concerned. People in light, summery clothes made their way up and down the sidewalks, on errands or just enjoying the weather, and Meagan studied them as the Caravan rolled past. They looked okay, but Meagan's hackles were up, and when that happened, she was like a dog that wouldn't trust you until it sniffed your hand and made double sure you were nice.
People, she had learned, can be kind of mean sometimes.
But they could also be pretty great sometimes, like Tom and Julia. Gotta look on the bright side, Meg, stop being such a Gloomy Gus, jeez.
At the corner of Main and Pine, Tom turned left. A gang of teenagers stood against a brick wall, texting on their phones and talking, while a boy in a knit cap and an AC/DC band shirt did kickflips on a skateboard. On the right, a man-sized door stood open - inside, it was a pit of shadows from which loomed clunky things like filing cabinets. When she saw the single word above the entrance, white on faded red, she understood. "Huh," Julia said with evident interest, "they have an arcade."
"Do they?" Tom asked and glanced over, but they were already past. "I wonder if they have laser tag."
Once a month, sometimes twice, Tom and Julia took Meagan to the Chuck E. Cheese in Harrisonburg for a night of pizza, games, and ducking from the kinda-sorta-scary mouse suited mascot. She wasn't very good at some of the games (like skee ball...skee ball was the enemy), but she dominated at laser tag. She was so good, in fact, that she let Tom and Julia be on the same team so they had a fighting chance.
Julia hummed thoughtfully. "It looks a little small for laser tag," she said, then looked in the rearview mirror. "We can check it out later if you want."
"Sure," Meagan said. She was already itching to explore Rossville. No one would instantly recognize her as new just walking around, and if they did...well...like Spongebob said: A stranger is just a friend you haven't met yet.
Heh.
Yeah.
Let's go with that. Better than thinking they're a bully you haven't met yet, though to be entirely fair, she'd known more bullies than she had Tom and Julias.
A lot more.
They turned onto Chestnut Street and Meagan shoved that thought aside. Big, spreading chestnut trees from which the lane derived its name overhung the pavement, sunlight falling through their boughs and dappling the asphalt with golden coins of summer brilliance. A woman in black yoga pants and a white tank top walked a shaggy dog along the sidewalk, and Meagan turned to look; its mouth hung open and its tongue flapped in the wind, making her giggle.
That reminded her.
"When we can go to the pound?" she asked.
"Uh...tomorrow," Julia said at length, "I guess." She looked at Tom for confirmation, and he nodded.
"I don't see why not."
The house, a two story Cape Cod with grimy windows and a single dormer,and sided in a mix of wooden shakes and weathered gray half rounds, stood on an overgrown corner lot, unruly brushes growing along one wall. A chain link fence chest high to Meagan enclosed the front yard, and a splintered wood stockade fence of similar height wrapped around the back. A brief porch provided access to the front door, and a flagstone walk lead to the gate, beside which a crooked mailbox leaned heavily to one side like a stooped old man resting after a long day of being elderly. Shingles peeled back from the roof, one wavering in a strong breeze as if in sarcastic welcome, and the brick chimney rising into the heavens was so scoured by the elements that it looked like it would fall over if you so much as breathed on it. What she could see of the cement foundation seemed okay...if you ignored the moldy green stuff.
Meagan's brow knitted as Tom turned onto the side street, and she cocked her head to one side as if to rattle her brain into working properly.
Okay, she had no right to complain about anything - which is why she never did (out loud) - but, uh, why is the house all...corpsy? From the way Tom and Julia talked about it, it was basically a mansion. The little bungalow in front of her, on the other hand, was...not.
A gravel alleyway bordered by tall wooden fences and lined with trash cans abutted the backyard. A lot big enough to fit two cars served as a driveway and a tumbledown detached garage with twin green painted doors huddled beneath a giant oak tree on the right, its side window crisscrossed by thin vines that reminded Meagan of the arteries on a cross section of the human body.
Tom cut the engine, and dust hung in the air around the Caravan like smoke. "Here we are," he said.
"It's...it's nice," Meagan fumbled.
"It's a fixer upper," Julia said into the rearview mirror. "It's going to take some work, but on the plus side, we get to decorate it from the ground up."
Tom unclasped his seatbelt. "We'll start in your room. We can design it anyway you want."
Anyway she wanted, huh? Hmmm. "Can I have one of those window seat thingies to read in?" she asked hopefully.
"You sure can," Tom said, "and built in bookshelves, if you want them."
That could be nice. She'd have to see her room before she made any major decisions, though. Like Julia taught her in regards to drawing, every scene has its own character, and to keep in harmony with said character, you don't add anything to disrupt that character.
Throwing open their doors, they got out and stretched their legs. The gritty, early afternoon heat swaddled itself around Meagan like a desiccated hand, and the dry breeze blew dirt into her glasses and mouth, making her gag. A hushed pall hung over the neighborhood, broken only by the distant whine of a lawnmower. The tang of fresh cut grass found Meagan's nose and she drew a big breath only to choke on more dust. Ugh, it's in my lungs! She fisted her hand to her mouth and coughed deeply. "You alright?" Tom asked with a touch of concern.
"Just...getting used to the air," she lied.
Tom arched his brows. "It's the same air as at the old house."
"Could have fooled me."
A wooden gate with rusted metal hinges and a shattered latch opened into the backyard. The grass reached Meagan's knees and teemed with late summer grasshoppers. One landed on the back of her hand and she lifted it to her face in order to inspect it more closely. Maybe she was a weirdo, but grasshoppers were kind of cute.
Until they spit on you...which this one did in short order. Alrighty then, back you go. She flicked it off with her finger and climbed the steps. They creaked under her feet, and nails heads that had worked themselves loose tore at her Keds. A glass patio table anchored by a big canvas umbrella riddled with tears occupied a space immediately to the right of the back door and a couple plastic lawn chairs sat in an uneven row, inviting the meek and weary to come have a seat...and probably fall when the fragile legs gave out.
"First thing we have to do," Julia said, "is cut this grass. What time did Jason say he'd be here?"
Tom thought for a second. "12;30, but knowing him more like 1:30."
Jason was Jason Turner, Tom's best friend. Tom was, to put it nicely, kind of straight-laced: He always wore his shirts tucked in and followed all the rules to the letter. Jason was the complete opposite - he was like the fun uncle who let you stay up all night eating ice cream and chocolate bars, but when the time came to be serious, you couldn't exactly rely on him. Not because he was bad or anything, he was just basically a big kid himself, and not a particularly responsible one at that.
Before they left the old house that morning, Tom hooked Julia's Prius to the U-Haul ad put Jason in charge of bringing it over, since driving such a big truck made him nervous and Jason had experience handling honkin' big land whales. Meagan was just a teensy weensy bit leery; all her stuff was in that truck and who's to say Jason wouldn't wreck it playing chicken with another car or something? She could totally see him doing that.
"As soon as he gets here, I'm cutting the grass," Julia said, "God only knows what's in it."
Probably snakes, spiders, and vampires. Meagan saw this movie in the group home once where a vampire popped up out of really tall grass and attacked this boy, and it scared her so bad she peed a little.
Vampires aren't real, though. Snakes, on the other hand…
"I'll do it," Tom offered, "I just want to get some of the furniture in first." He came up the stairs, fished the keys out of his pocket, and cycled through them while Meagan stood on the sidelines looking up at the kitchen window. Finger prints, probably older than she was, smudged the glass and dead bugs clung to the screen.
Tom found the right key, inserted it into the lock, and opened the door. He went in, and Meagan followed, braced for it to be just as messed up inside as it was out.
It wasn't.
Thankfully.
The floor, yellow linoleum, was cracked in places and popped beneath her tread, but it looked clean. Floral paper covered the walls, ripped here and there, and to her left, a bulky old refrigerator stood next to the countertop. Ahead, an open archway led into the dining room and the living room beyond, both of which seethed with shadows cast by the wavering foliage without. Meagan sniffed the air like a tiny field mouse for hints of danger, and her nose crinkled at the pungent scent of mildew. Ew. It wasn't overpowering, but you know how sometimes a blunt edge hurts worse than a keen one? It was slight, but the more it clawed at her senses, the more off putting it became.
Julia slipped in from the deck and closed the door behind her. She tested the light switch, and the overhead light came on with a low electrical sound. "Power's on," she said.
"It kinda stinks in here," Meagan said, which was the most critical assessment she would allow herself. You don't look a gift horse in the mouth, and her entire life right now was a gift horse...a gift horse with really bad breath.
In the middle of the room, Tom sighed and nodded. "Yeah, it does, but we'll take care of it. Wanna see your room?"
Well, she did, but now she was a little apprehensive; if it was anything like the kitchen…
"Sure," she said.
The stairs were off the dining room and through a door that hung askance on hinges that weren't much better than the ones outside. The treads were bare wood and the plaster constituting the too close walls were stained yellow with nicotine. Light cascaded through a window at the top, but it barely reached down here, leaving most of the stairwell in gloom.
Gulp.
She suddenly wished she didn't leave Mr. Bob in the car.
For a moment, her resolve flagged, then she steeled it and started up, her fingers trailing the wooden handrail and her little heart beginning to pound. Dust motes swirled around her like phantoms and tickled her nose, and pausing halfway up, she sneezed. Yeah, she already missed the old house. What did Tom and Julia call this? Their dream home? A bad dream, maybe.
Sweat sheened her face and her glasses began to slip. She pushed them up her nose and went on. At the top, she rounded the newel post and stopped. Three doors opened off the hall, every one of them standing open. To the left was Tom and Julia's, ahead was the bathroom, and to the left and down, hers. The floors were bare save for a thick layer of dust and overhead, the single light fixture peered emptily down at her like an all-seeing eye.
Stop being such a baby, there's nothing to be scared of.
Right. Nothing at all.
She went the rest of the way and stepped tentatively into her room. Two large side-by-side windows framed by vegetation looked out onto the side yard and the neighbor's house beyond; bright sunshine soaked every square inch, and for that, Meagan was thankful.
As far as bedrooms went, it was kind of on the bland side. There was a closet on her right, door firmly closed, and an electrical outlet to the left. It wasn't much to look at, but as she floated through it, she could see all of the possibilities within: Pink walls, a desk by the window for drawing and doing homework, a big, comfy bed against the wall, and, ooh, that built in bookshelf Tom mentioned would look great -
In the closet, something thumped.
The smile that had begun to lift Meagan's face drained away, and she halted mid-step.
Uh…
Maybe it was -
Thump.
Now her chest clenched, and her fists curled reflexively to her breast. It was nothing, she told herself, just Tom or Julia moving around on the first floor.
As if to confirm her suspicions, the sound came yet again, and this time, the door shook in its frame, as if whatever was inside was trying to get out.
Okay, that wasn't Tom or Julia. It was…
A ghost? A vampire? Some other, equally horrifying third option?
She didn't know, but her legs were already carrying her toward the door, and her heart fluttered. Oh, no, I've seen way too many horror movies to fall for this one. She tried to wrench away, but an unseen force tugged at the front of her dress, drawing her forward, and her feet refused her brain's frantic demands to stop.
Abruptly, the atmosphere was different, heavier, darker, charged and crackling like the air before a violent summer storm. Just a moment ago, the space was warm with sunlight, now, in the twinkling of an eye, it was inexplicably cold.
At the door, she stopped and looked up at it, feeling much smaller and vulnerable-er than usual. She sucked quick, rasping breaths through flaring nostrils and brushed her teeth worriedly over her bottom lip. Every instinct she had screamed at her to run, but she could only watch helpless as her arm reached shakily out and her fingers closed around the burnished brass knob.
She turned the handle, and something shoved the door open from the inside, ripping it from her hand. A black mass with blazing eyes and sharp teeth hurled itself at her, and a high, skull cracking scream dislodged from her throat. She staggered back and fell on her butt with a breathless umph, every muscle tensing for attack. Instead, the creature streaked out the door, and a moment later, Julia cried out in alarm nearby.
A moment later, just as Meagan started to cry, Julia rushed into the room, her eyes big with worry. "Are you okay?" she asked as she knelt and took Meagan into her arms. "Did it scratch you?"
Meagan shook her head, trying hard to get a grip on herself and largely succeeding. Her heart blasted into her ribs with such power it ached, and the cold terror in the pit of her belly washed through her like sludge. She recalled the brief glimpse she'd gotten of the creature's face and trembled like a small, frightened animal. "W-What was it?"
"A cat," Tom said, having come in without Meagan noticing. "A hissing, spitting, feral cat."
Just a cat?
Relief came over Meagan like a soothing tide. Whew, for a second there, she thought it was a girl-eating monster. "What was it doing in the closet?" she asked, her voice still not entirely steady. "The door was c-closed."
Frowning, Tom went over and leaned into the closet, looking up. "There's a hole in the ceiling," he sighed in a tone of defeat. He turned away and closed the door behind him. "It must have gotten into the attic and come through when it heard you walking around."
"Where is it now?" Julia asked and brushed her fingers comfortingly through Meagan's hair.
Tom shrugged. "Somewhere."
"Well...go get it," Julia said, "God knows what it has. What if it bites Meagan?"
Sighing, Tom slumped his shoulders. He looked like he wanted to argue, but instead he took a deep, resolute breath. "Alright," he said, "you two stay here."
With that, he disappeared, and as Julia continued to console her, Meagan made up her mind.
She did not like this house.
The boy hated summer.
Striding down the sidewalk flanking Elm, his hands shoved into the pockets of his black hoodie and his head defensively lowered, he fumed with two months' worth of pent-up loathing and frustration, the length of his step increasing as his mind wandered farther afield until he was practically goosestepping like a Nazi in an old newsreel. He was blind to the houses lining the way, their antiquated facades stately and calm; he was blind to the occasional car passing in the street; he was so wrapped up in the rage coursing through him that he wasn't even aware that he was sweating and panting for air.
Twelve, almost thirteen, and tall for his age with lank black hair, sallow skin that never seemed to flush, and flat, listless eyes that stared through you rather than at you, Cody Miller was the most hated boy in Rossville. His father hated him, his mother hated him, the other kids at Rossville Middle hated him, and even the adults in town hated him. They whispered among themselves about how "bad" he was even though he'd never done anything wrong. When someone broke into the school last year after hours and slicked the hallway floors with lard from the kitchen, he was the first, and only, kid Principal Stone questioned. When someone burned down Old Man Johnson's chicken coop at the beginning of the summer, he caught the blame, even though he was home that night. His mother knew that, but his father, passed out drunk, was convinced he snuck out and punished him...with his belt. Mom didn't even say anything...she just let it happen like she always did.
"The boy's not right," he overheard Mr. Gantry, the barber, say once, "you can see it in his eyes."
And that was one of the nicer things they said about him. They acted like he was some kind of crazy madman who was always one step away from hurting someone, and you know what? These days, after all of the hell he caught at home, all the times the kids called him names and shoved him into lockers, all the whispers, all the stares, all the bullshit...after all of that, maybe he was one step away from hurting someone. Every day, the gaseous ball of anger always simmering in his chest burned a little hotter, grew a little bigger. Sometimes as he lay in bed at night and listened to his father tearing down the house in one of his wanton rages, he imagined himself hurting the people in town, starting with the kids he went to school with and ending with Dad. He never allowed himself to think too deeply on the topic, because if it did, it would disturb him. In his heart, he didn't want to hurt anyone, he just wanted to be normal like everyone else. The other kids at school, even the geeks, had friends. He had nothing.
It was all too easy to envy them.
By now, though, he didn't. He didn't even hate them. Once, being outcasted hurt, but now he was used to it. As long as they left him alone, he was fine. Most did...but some didn't.
Like Zeke Harper.
Zeke was just as big a prick as you'd expect the captain of the football team to be. Toned and handsome with brown hair and perfect teeth, he made the lives of everyone below him on the social food chain miserable, but Cody was his favorite target. At lunch, Zeke would walk behind him and "accidentally" spill his tray down his back (whoops, sorry, Miller) and whenever Cody had to get up and walk past him in class, he always stuck his foot out, making him trip.
Oh, and how everyone laughed. Was it really still funny after the fifty thousandth time? Telling didn't work. Zeke's dad was the sheriff and everyone knows sheriffs play favorites with their kids.
Even if Sheriff Harper didn't, everyone else did. Rossville, like many small towns across the country, was obsessed with football. Every Friday night from September to December, everyone crowded the high school athletic field to watch the Raptors play, and every Saturday, their exploits were splashed across the front page of the Rossville Review in bold black and white. Middle school ball wasn't as important as high school ball, but the kids on the team were still revered as minor celebrities, and Zeke was the star of the show. One day, they said, he'd go all-state, whatever that meant. The teachers let him get away with everything, the principal let him get away with everything, and everyone in town just looooved how wholesome and All-American he was. They didn't see the side of him that Cody did, but you know what? They didn't want to see it, so they never would.
It was probably him who broke into the school and torched that coop. In fact, Cody would bet money on it.
Zeke Harper and the others weren't what was bothering him today, however. It was summer. Most kids loved being out of school for two and a half months, but not Cody, because as bad as school was, being at home with his parents was even worse. Dad worked the night shift at the Tyson plant in Harrisonburg Monday through Thursday, and the rest of the week, he was home, sitting in his recliner, sucking down one beer after other and cultivating his own anger - anger because they were poor, anger because Cody existed, anger over nothing at all. No matter where Cody went in the house or what he did, Dad would eventually track him down and start badgering him, picking apart his every move and criticizing every little thing: Shutting a door too hard, flushing the toilet, opening the door to go outside and letting the A/C out. Mom was just there, like a piece of furniture. She took pills from an orange bottle with no label and Cody was beginning to think they weren't from her doctor.
Since having peaceful days at home was almost impossible during the summer, Cody spent most of him time out. He walked the trails crisscrossing the forest surrounding the park, sat by the river and thought, and wandered the streets of town like a lost spirit. If he found enough change on the ground, he'd go to the arcade, even though all the games sucked and the guy who ran it, Mel, was a jerk. If Cody got a soda or a hotdog, Mel would shout the order to his sole cook. "It's for the future school shooter." Every once in a while, Zeke and some of his cronies would drift in just to pick on him then leave, and if there were other kids in, they stared at him and whispered to each other.
It was almost as bad as being at home.
One of his favorite places was the library. It was cool, quiet, and always empty, save for people using the free computer terminals or old ladies trawling for Danielle Steel novels. No one ever bothered him there, so he'd stay for hours, just sitting in one of the overstuffed chairs in the reading nook and paging through magazines. A few times, he set out on an idle mission to find the oldest book there, but got bored and gave up every time.
His absolute favorite place was the abandoned house on Chestnut Street.
There was something about the place that pulled him, like steel to a magnet. If he set out from his own house with no destination in mind, his feet would carry him the eight blocks to Chestnut of their own accord. He didn't know why the house attracted him so, but it did, and the closer he got to it, the more he could feel its presence in the air, waves of power like those emanating from a transformer, calling to him, beckoning him, dragging him ever to it. A few times, he crawled in through a broken basement window and walked aimlessly from floor to floor with bated breath, the certainty that something was going to happen weighing down his stomach like a pile of rocks.
The feeling was strongest in the back bedroom on the second floor, the one looking into the neighbor's yard. The air was colder than it was everywhere else, and the wind, when it blew in the eaves, sounded like a stir of whispers. The place creeped him out, but the compulsion to trod its floors and know its secrets compelled him as surely as a pyromaniac's obsession with fire.
He wouldn't go there at night, though.
Never at night.
Presently, Cody crossed Elm and started down Birch, his body on autopilot and his mind faraway. The houses here were smaller and shabbier, their lawns not as well-kempt as the ones on Elm. Car parts and trash littered a few, and in one, a fat woman in a bikini sunned herself next to an inflatable pool where three toddlers squealed and splashed each other. Cody stared down at his rotting Nikes and nibbled his bottom lip. The house was two blocks away, but he could already sense it, and his step subconsciously quickened. When he got there, he'd go in through the window and probably sit in the middle of the living room with his back to the wall; there was a perfect corner where two walls met that was out of sight from any window. He could log his phone onto someone's WI-FI (UNSUSPECTING VAN wasn't password protected, but it also wasn't very strong) and have complete and total peace.
Except for the maddening urge to climb the stairs and follow the whispering wind.
Ten minutes later, Cody turned right and followed the gravel alley running along the backyards of the houses on Chestnut. Tall stockade fences flanked the road and clusters of trash cans waited for tomorrow's pick up, flies buzzing around them like planes landing and taking off. The stench penetrated the misty fog in his brain, and he wrinkled his nose.
He came to the house and stopped.
An orange and white U-Haul was backed up to the gate, its cab blocking the street. A puke green Prius and a red Dodge Caravan was parked beside it, the latter's back hatch standing open. Cody missed a step, then lowered his head and hurried past, his mind reeling. Was someone moving in?
That shouldn't surprise him - that's what houses are for, isn't it? - but it did, and even before he reached Chestnut, his chest twanged with loss. He crossed the street and cut west, back the way he had come, and stopped directly across from the front porch. A woman in black slacks and a white blouse pushed up on her tippy toes to hang a potted plant from one of the beams, and a girl with glasses and blonde hair in a ponytail stood dutifully by, holding another. Cody stuck his bottom lip sullenly out and blew a puff of air that stirred his bangs. His soul cried out for the house, like a dehydrating man for cool, blessed water, but instead, he wheeled around and stalked off, his hands curling into fists. Great, some dumb family took his house away. What's next, his bedroom at home too?
His anger was short-lived - a block from the house, it drained away and he deflated.
I'll just go to the library, he thought with a sigh.