Night has fallen once again. Its been days since we'd moved here, and yet am still not used to the sudden passing of time here in Panhandle. One moment, it was daylight and the sun is in full display since morning. And now, night has cast it shadows again.

Its only been 18 hours since the last time I hang up the phone. And I still clearly recall Mrs. Fremont's voice as she informs me of Hailey's date night with my on-again-off-again (but now its officially) EX-boyfriend. So my bestie stole my bae and began dating, huh? HOW DARE THEY!

If I knew that Hailey Fremont would b*tch me out, I should've rip her free mont! Such a WH*RE! GGGGGGGGGRRRRRRRR! I never thought that she's gonna stab me at the back like this. To think that we'd just move about a few days ago, there she goes stealing my beau already?!

I always know Colin's cheating on me— I've got receipts!. It happened a lot of times in the past. But with my BFF?! He'd just spit me on my grave for doing it.

"What have I done to deserve this universe?!" I mumbled. I'm trying to make light of the situation but deep inside, I couldn't contain my emotions. Tears kept pouring down like streams of water through my cheeks.

My hands shake as I open Henry's journal to the second poem. I don't know what to do, and most kids my age would probable go and hang out with their friends. But I can't for obvious reasons, Hailey is the only friend I've got. And we're on the smallest town in Texas Panhandle. Plus I don't have so much friends here, we're just like strangers in this place! And I doubt if I would ever have one, not after what happened in the Longhorn Cafe. So, I guess, the only option I've got is to... read? The only solace I can ever find. Is not from any fiction book. But a handwritten poem from the 1960's.

"Don't believe the words they speak

When they look into your eyes,

When they swear to stand by you

Till the sun falls from the sky.

Don't believe the hollow vow

Said with ease to humor you,

Woven stories sewn to please

But the golden threads aren't true…"

Henry. I swear he is speaking directly to me! Reaching out from the page, through the years. How can someone who lived and died here so many decades ago know exactly how I feel?!

I jerk up from bed and sleepless rest. I blink until my eyes adjust to the darkness. The curtains hang limp in the stale, stuffy air. Earlier, before I turned out the light, I opened the window just enough to let in a little of the cool, blustery air. But the wind has finally stopped blowing and the room is sweltering hot. Mom said she'll have air-conditioner units installed soon, so we can survive the Texas heat.

Somewhere in the distance a train wails, the sound reminding me of some of the lonely harmonica tunes Papa Dan used to play. I kick off the sheet, and a breeze sweeps across me, pebbling my skin with goose bumps. Weird. Where did such a cool draft come from on such a hot, still night? My door is ajar, but I remember Mom closing it long before I turned out the light. Could the wind have blown through the window earlier and forced the door open? Even though the latch is as old and worn out as the rest of the house, that doesn't seem possible. Besides, the door opens into the room, not out of it. Mom might've looked in on me again before she went to bed. That explains the door but not the breeze.

Too tired to worry about it, I glance at the clock on my nightstand. 12:22. I burrow deeper into the pillow. Outside, a bird whistles then breaks into song, the warble low and strangely sad. For a moment, I recall the bird that I saw on the windowsill through my camera's viewfinder. Then my thoughts drift to Hailey and Colin and I squeeze my eyes shut, fighting tears. Right now, Henry Peterson feels like my only friend. Some social life I'm going to have here—me and a dead guy hanging out on Saturday nights.

I read his second poem several times after I talked to Hailey's mom. I don't really believe his words were meant for me—advice from the grave. Yeah, right. But shaking off that uneasy feeling is hard to do, anyway. I think of him living in this big, gloomy house, walking the narrow hallways, maybe even sleeping in this room. Did he leave the window open in the summer? Did he lie awake and listen to a night bird's song, the train's sad wail, the monotonous hum of cicadas? I wonder if he found comfort in the dark isolation, in the creaks and whispers, the quiet sounds of a country night. Or did he feel as lonely as I do?

The bird's shaky lullaby relaxes me. But just as I'm in that twilight place between reality and dreams, the singing stops and I'm snapped awake again by the sound of a man's voice. It drifts to me from the direction of Papa Dan's room. Could it be him? Eight months have passed since my grandfather has spoken more than a mumbled word or two at a time. But now I hear full sentences delivered in a steady stream. I can't make out what he's saying, just his quiet angry tone, rising…rising, then falling to a low, rolling mumble. I don't remember Papa Dan ever sounding so tense or hateful. His tone of voice scares me.

Sitting up, I strain to hear more clearly. I tell myself he must be talking to Mom, but my stomach tilts anyway. Why don't I hear her? The muscles in my legs twitch as I push from my bed and tiptoe to the door. Standing at the threshold, I count to three, draw a breath, and hold it. Then I poke my head into the dark hallway and look toward Papa Dan's room. No light shines beneath his door.

"I won't," he says in a quiet, threatening voice that doesn't sound like him at all. He must be talking in his sleep, having a nightmare…. I should wake him. The hallway between my room and Papa Dan's seems a mile long as I make my way to his door. Pausing, I reach for the knob.

"Listen to me…." a ghastly voice says.

Now that I'm closer, Papa Dan sounds more like himself. But then I hear two voices at once…almost overlapping!. Then comes a sharp tone "LEAVE!" A pleading, "I SAID LEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAVE!" "NO, Watch out!" "NOOOOOOOO!"

Panicked, I step back. What I heard…what I think I heard…is crazy. Impossible. Still, the echo of those two separate voices speaking at the same time reverberates inside my head. Someone is in the room with my grandfather. I know I should go downstairs and get Mom, but I can't leave him alone and defenseless, even for a minute.

Poised to pounce on a burglar if necessary, I grab the doorknob and turn it, pushing open the door. Cool air rushes past me then disappears, leaving me standing in the same fog of heat that hangs heavy in my own room. A yellow moon spills enough light through the gauzy white curtains to highlight my grandfather's silhouette. He's sitting alone at the edge of the bed, facing me, his back to the window, quiet now. Still.

"Papa Dan?" I whisper. "You okay? I'm going to turn on the light." I flip the switch, squinting against the sudden glare.

My grandfather blinks and glances at me. His eyes flash confusion at first, then recognition and relief.

I scan every corner, look under the bed and in the closet, relaxing little by little when no one jumps out at me. I tell myself I only imagined two different voices speaking at once. But I'm still trembling when I sit beside Papa Dan. I hug him and notice he's trembling, too. "You're afraid, aren't you?" I squeeze his shoulders, hoping he'll answer me, but he's not talking now. "It's okay. This place freaks me out, too!" I remarked.

His arms come around me. Against my chest, his heart thumps hard and fast.

"It's okay…it's okay. Everything's fine..." I said trying to assure him that all is well, as he always used to reassure me whenever I was afraid. But it's all a lie. Everything isn't fine. Something is wrong with this house. Papa Dan knew it the minute we arrived. "You don't want to live here, do you?" More than once, Mom has mentioned that before he got sick, he told her he wanted to take a trip to Cedar Canyon. Now I wonder why he would want to come back after so many years away. Did he want to dig up a memory—or bury one?

My gaze settles on a photograph on the nightstand: Papa Dan and my grandmother with my dad between them. I study their faces, remembering an album I found in Papa Dan's closet when I was about six years old. Inside were black-and-white snapshots with yellowed edges, images of people from another time, faces I didn't recognize. Surrounded by his shoes, I sat on the floor and flipped through the pages. When Papa Dan found me there, he took the album away. That was one of the few times he ever scolded me.

He has other photo albums that he leaves out for anyone to see, and on a night months ago when his mind was still clear, we looked through them together. Papa Dan talked about places he had lived and visited. He didn't mention Cedar Canyon, though. Not once. Most of the pictures were of him and my grandmother, a few of my dad. Some were of his parents and Papa Dan as a boy. He didn't show me the photograph of this house that Mom found, and there were no shots of his childhood friends. No school group pictures.

In the photograph on the nightstand, my grandparents' shoulders press together; my dad clings to Papa Dan's leg. Sitting back, I take my grandfather's hand in mine, startled by how weak his grasp has become over the last few months.

I can't remember my dad's touch. Even so, I've mourned losing it. How much worse will it be to know a touch and have it taken away?