Light suddenly spills from the first-floor windows of our new house. Minutes later, the second story glows, too. Mom appears at a window—a city slicker in an old Victorian house on the West Texas prairie. Leave it to her to set such a scene. I don't think she sees me, but I'm sure she's watching me. Rain sprinkles down. I run around to the side of the house and duck beneath the mulberry tree. Becoming a human lightning rod isn't my thing nor have any plans to be one. But I can't just go straight in that spooky old house. Not now. Not just yet.

I stare at the house and wish that I was back in my tiny San Francisco bedroom, curled up on my bed, surrounded by every stuffed animal I've saved through the years. But now, I'm just here. *SIGH* is this a punishment for surviving the accident with only a broken toe while the others were gravely injured? I wasn't the one driving that night. I was at the back, watching as the other two sings to the tune of A thousand miles as they glide and swerve the car along the street.

But here I am...

When the rain dies out a little bit, I began walking. Trying to find some interesting piece in this worn, dried out landmass with grey grass that seems to be untouched or trimmed for loooooong decades. I saw an old-fashioned windmill sits off in the distance beyond the barn. It towers over the dead grass like a giant, fat-stemmed metal flower. The dark gray petals rotate slowly in the wind, moaning with each turn, complaining like Papa Dan does when his joints ache.

As I walk halfway to the barn, my heel hits something solid, and I'm thrown off balance. Steadying myself, I look down and see a wooden door in the ground. The entrance to hell, I think. Fitting, since our house could easily serve as the reception area. I kneel, grasp the damp, rusty handle, and pull. The door rasps and lifts an inch. I tug harder and it swings wide, revealing stairs that drop into a pitch-black hole. The second step has a gap in it, leaving only a shoe-width piece of board on which to step. I've never been inside a cellar and don't have a clue what I might find. Possibly some great material for Mom's research.

Leaving the door open, I run to the van, dig through the boxes packed in back, and find my camera and a flashlight. Then I hurry back to the cellar, switch on the flashlight, and point the beam into the darkness below. Taking cautious steps, I start down the stairs.

The cellar is about half the size of my bedroom in San Francisco. It could hold a twin-size bed and maybe a chair, but not much else. When I reach the bottom step, I set my camera bag on the dirt floor and sweep the flashlight beam across the cement walls, down at the floor, then up at the ceiling. Cobwebs stretch from corner to corner. Something makes a scratching noise beneath the steps and I jump, the transfer of my weight causing the board beneath my flip-flops to shift. I take a breath, step down, and crouch to lift the loose plank, surprised to find a container the size of a jewelry box beneath it.

Sitting on the stairs, I balance the flashlight on the step beside me and pull the box onto my lap. I aim the beam so that I can see every nick and scratch on the rose-tinted wood. Beneath the lid, I find a worn leather book, a gold pocket watch, and a tear-shaped crystal pendant. A tiny wire loop connects to the top of the crystal. I search the box for a necklace chain but don't find one. The crystal pendant feels cool and smooth as I hold it up and twist it left to right. The cut glass catches the light, throws it at the opposite wall, scattering colored dots across the cement.

Thunder rumbles quietly outside the cellar as I remove the pocket watch from the box. Etched into the gold on back are the words: To Henry on your 17th birthday. From Mother and Father. 1939.

One push of a tiny button opens the cover, revealing the timepiece inside. The hands have stopped at 12:22. Placing the watch on the step beside the crystal, I lift the book from the box, open it, touch pages yellowed at the edges. I position the flashlight so that I can read the poem scribbled in black ink on the first page, the tiny cursive letters sharp and tight—a guy's handwriting. And it says...

Down in the cellar, under a stair

Covered with cobwebs

Nobody cares

Withered and pale, forgotten it seems

That's where I hide them,

Yesterday's dreams.

Shake out the memories, blow off the dust

Smooth out the wrinkles

Rub off the rust

Remember the times they sparkled so bright

Then put them away

Far out of sight

Down in the cellar, under a stair

Covered with cobwebs

Nobody cares

Withered and pale, forgotten it seems

That's where I hide them,

Yesterday's dreams.

"TANSYYYYY!"

Startled by Mom's shout, I drop the journal and push to my feet. "I'm here!" I hurry up the stairs, careful of the rotting boards, and poke my head through the cellar's entrance.

She stands at the door of a screened-in porch at the back of the house. "Some neighbors just dropped by. Come say hello."

"I'll be right there!"

The poem plays through my mind like a familiar song, as I speed walk to the house's front lawn.

"Eloise told us you write books, Miz Piper."

"That's right," Mom answers the man. "Horror novels. I write under the pseudonym Millicent Moon. And please, call me Millie. Everyone does."

I enter the living room in time to see the old man's gap-tooth grin disappear. "You mean like those chain-saw movies?" His upper lip curls over that rancid possibility. He glances at the short, round woman beside him, but she just keeps staring at Mom and chewing her gum, her face a wrinkled blank page.

Mom laughs. "I don't think I've used a chain saw in any of my books yet. I like to dream up my own unique methods of dismemberment." When she motions me over, I walk around a couch with a flowery sheet draped over it and stop beside her. "I'd like you to meet my daughter, Tansy," Mom says to the couple. "Tansy, this is Mr. and Mrs. Quattlebaum. They live in the farmhouse across the way."

"Howdy-do, young lady." The old man tugs the brim of his John Deere hat.

"Hi," I murmur.

"We was driving back from town and thought we'd stop by. Already said 'hello' to your grandpa. I remember him from when we was kids. He was five or so years ahead of me in school, though." Mr. Quattlebaum shifts back to Mom. "Guess y'all don't mind the rumors about the house, seeing as how you write scary books and all."

"Rumors?" Mom asks.

"The house is haunted." The farmer's voice drops. "So they say. Didn't Mr. Piper tell you?"

"No." Mom leans forward, a slow smile spreading across her face. "Really?"

"Eloise don't usually tell newcomers about the ghost." Mr. Quattlebaum pauses to scratch the beard stubble on his chin. "News has a way of gettin' around, though. Been six years since she's found somebody to rent the place. Before that, nobody ever stayed long."

"Why?" I ask. "Did something happen?"

"Imagination got the best of 'em, I'd guess," he says. "Back in the twenties, a rich rancher name of William Peterson built the house. When his son was a teenager, he killed hisself. Jumped off the old wagon bridge into the canyon that borders this property. His folks left town afterward. Couldn't sell the house, though." He pauses, then adds, "Rumor has it the boy's ghost still hangs around here."

A fluttery feeling fills my chest. Touching the camera case hanging from the strap over my shoulder, I feel the sharp edge of the journal inside and think of the poem scribbled onto an old yellowed page.

"Oh, I hope the ghost shows up," Mom says, scanning the room. "I've written about restless spirits, but I've never actually met one. Except Tansy, that is." She laughs at her own joke, and I roll my eyes. She's the restless one, not me.

Somewhere upstairs, Papa Dan begins whistling shrill and fast. Mr. and Mrs. Quattlebaum look up at the ceiling. His brows tug together. She chews faster.

"Mr. Piper might recall the tragedy," Mr. Quattlebaum says. "He would have been close to the Peterson boy's age."

"What was the boy's name?" I ask.

"I think it was Herman," says Mr. Quattlebaum. "Isn't that right, Myra?"

The old woman stops chewing, her puckered lips twitching as she meets my gaze. "His name was Henry," she says in a raspy voice. "Henry Peterson."