"Is this it?" I ask, glancing back at my dad as our car rolls to a stop in front of a large, almost castle-like house.

My father nods sheepishly, looking at me but not meeting my eye. Before I can open my mouth to speak, he raises his hand and says, "I know, I know. It's a little rough around the edges but with a little love and care, a little hard work, it could be-"

"Absolutely gorgeous," I finish his sentence, smiling up at him and seeing his eyes light up. "It's beautiful the way it is, Dad," I say truthfully, gazing up at the old, imposing building. It's rather grand, and definitely larger than we need for just the two of us, but there is something that gives it a sense of decay in the vines wrapping around the house and the front gates, in the overgrown rose bushes. When you take it all in at once, though...All of it kind of adds to the charm.

"You really like it?" He asks in a small voice so unlike him that I'm a bit taken aback, snapping my head around to read his expression.

I nod enthusiastically, biting my lip as I try to understand what he's thinking.

"Wait until you see the inside!" He exclaims excitedly , opening his driver side door to grab our bags. I push my door open and follow him to the back of the car.

I can't decide if his excitement is just a show for me or if he is genuinely excited about the prospect of a new home. The past few months- the past year, at that- have been extremely difficult for us, and I've gotten good at telling the difference between fake enthusiasm and the real deal. This time, though, I don't know what to label it, but I don't think the move was entirely for me.

When my dad came home from work a few weeks ago with a new, almost suspicious spring in his step, this house is the last thing I would've guessed. As it was, I didn't guess, just followed what he wanted without a world, picking up on his postitive attitude, and now I'm here, standing in front of my new home and it seems unreal. Unreal that we uprooted our lives and that we even get a chance to have a fresh start.

Terrible things happened to us. Terrible, unspeakable things that made everyone look at us differently, and made things really awful for a while. Terrible things I don't want to think about, so I push the thouights aside and pick up a stack of boxes from the back of our SUV.

"Where's my room?" I ask, trying to keep my tone light, to not let the sadness creep through. I see my father's jaw stiffen and know that I haven't succeeded- like me, he's gotten good at sensing when my mind is stuck dwelling on an unhappy past.

He smiles slightly- a more controlled, tight smile than before- and gestures up the stairs as we walk through the entrance to the house. "Just head up the stairs. It's electirc blue, very spacious. Can't miss it. I think you'll like it."

I nod, throw a cautious smile his way and then trudge up the flight of stairs, stopping only when I reach the doorway of what is now my bedroom. I walk in slowly, taking in the shockingly bright color of the walls, my eyes adjusting to the change of lighting. Everything about the room is bright- kind of overdone, with the walls and the pale pink bed frame in the middle of the room. The trim around the windows is painted a light, lilac and honestly? I don't like it. Any of it. I wish everything was white. I sigh heavily, setting down my pile of boxes and sinking to the floor. I rest my head on my knees for just a second and then jump up to my feet. I'm determined to be positive about this new life, to dwell in the negative space inside my head that's been there since everything happened.

I dig into the first box with gusto, coming across my many books of poetry- classical poets, contemporary ones and even a few journals with work of my own. Peering around the room, I decide the best place is to store them in the closet in the corner. Balancing my books in one hand, I shove the door open with my other and step inside.

I turn the light on as I go in, finally able to see the vast expanse of the storage space. I start walking toward the back of the closet, where there are a few garment bags still hung up on a rolling clothes rack in the corner. Fingering the zipper of the first one, I contemplate opening it, getting a glimpse of the previous owner's life, but I know their tragic story and I'm not sure I want to delve into that dark tale.

In my hesitancy, I notice a sound behind me, soft and cautious. Footsteps. One two one two one two. I count them. They're not my dad's. After the incident last year, he limps, with one foot a much heavier step than the other. No, these are even, healthy.

"Trust me, you don't want to learn about their lives." It's an unfarmilar voice, husky and interesting.

I spin around suddenly, coming face to face with a boy. In my surpise, I drop my books and they clatter to the floor, thumping and echoing loudly as they go. My fingers grab for the object I've held in my pocket since everything happened a year ago.

I point it at the boy's throat, saying, "Make one move toward me and I won't even hesitate."

The boy, almost a full foot taller than me, looks surpised- startled by my hostility. He takes a single step back, but doesn't look afraid, instead just openly examines my face with his dark eyes peering into mine. "That wouldn't really do anything to me, you know. It can't anymore."

I laugh at him, at his act of invincibility. "Yeah, I'm sure you've been through a lot and you're strong and whatever. But a knife to the thoat will hurt anyone, trust me."

"Trust me, you can try, but the only thing it'll do is get some blood on your floor and I'll be back within five minutes," he says, pushing his curly blonde hair out of his eyes, smirking at me at the thought, "You can do it if you want. I promise not to haunt you."

I roll my eyes at him. I'm still not sure if this boy is dangerous, but I'm getting the sense that he's got some mental problems. "I'm not going to murder you to see if you'll come back."

"Fine. Give me-"

"Feb?" My dad calls up the stairs. "What was that thump? Are you alright?"

I shoot the boy a look, putting my knife in my pocket and whispering, "Stay in here and I'll deal with you in a minute."

I leave the closet, shutting the door behind me and cracking my bedroom door to yell down to my dad. "Yeah, I'm fine. I just dropped a few books." I head back to the closet, taking a deep, calming breath before I open the door.

There's no one in there. Just the pile of dropped books on the hardwood floor. Confused, I peer around all the crevices and cornerns in the closet, but he's nowhere to be found.

I turn around to go downstairs and screech.

He's laying on my bed, just lounging there like it's his job. "You know, the wall color in here is awful...Might have to call the gays in on this one."

"Get off my bed now. Why are you in my room to begin with?" I screech at him, careful to keep my voice low enough that my dad won't hear it. I reach for my knife, but it's no longer in my pocket.

"Oh, are you looking for this?" The boy asks, standing up with my knife in his hand. "You wouldn't slit my throat, so..."

I gulp, waiting for him to come over and stab me, but then he turns the knife on himself and runs it along his throat. I stop breathing as a pool of blood seeps out and he falls, half onto my bed. Luckily, it doesn't make much noise, but my eyes can't leave the blood pouring onto my floor. He's finally still and I close my eyes, trying to block it all out. Clearly, this isn't happening and I'm hallucinating. What could've caused that? I think back on it. Stress...And I took four Motrin in the car earlier. Are you supposed to do that?

"Don't worry, we can get Moira to come clean this up." It's his voice. I don't understand. It's not possible. But it's his voice, clear as a cool summer night, with the pleasant lulling timbre.

"Am I dead?" I ask him, keeping my eyes closed. "Did something happen and I'm completely, totally dead? I saw what happened and it's not possible you're alive. You were bleeding everywhere." Why am I even entertaining the idea? Of course he's not alive. Of course I'm hallucinating.

He laughs out loud, chuckling at my words. "I'm not. I haven't been for a long time, almost three decades." I can hear the smile in his voice, almost a proud tone to his words.

"I don't understand..." I mumble. I open my eyes and he's sitting there, in the pool of his own blood, but there's no mark on his neck- not even a scar. Not anything. And he's fine, just talking to me like everything is normal.

Almost three decades? That would be...in the 1990's. How...?

"Oh, gosh," I say. "I don't really..." The room starts spinning and I find myself out cold before I can say "feel well".