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Heather moseyed back into the kitchen and rifled through a cupboard. “Orange pekoe? Peppermint?”

“Anything with caffeine,” Eve said. The lack of a morning coffee was already hitting. Hard.

“Hmm… Earl Gray,” Heather replied, still rummaging.

Eve hung up her winter coat and, once again, kicked off her boots. She wandered into the living room and flopped into the wicker chair. After all the traipsing around, it felt good to sit, necessary even. Shylo sauntered over and curled up at her feet, grumbling. The dog just wanted to be outside again. Fair enough.

Eve looked around. From here she could see—mounted beside a glass cabinet—more photos. Dozens in all, but one stood out. It featured the man with the handlebar mustache, but he looked younger in this one, late twenties perhaps. And he had a full head of hair, black and tangled, long enough to reach his shoulders. He was perched behind a drum kit, pounding away, playing to a half-empty dive bar. Neon lights. Hazy smoke. In the foreground, slightly out of focus, was a guitarist with neck tattoos and a full beard belting into a microphone. A lot of passion packed into a single frame. Eve could almost smell the sweat, the booze, the pot. All things that, funnily enough, brought up a wistful sense of nostalgia. She and Charlie used to frequent such concerts all the time. Unthinking, Eve reached into her pocket and gripped Charlie’s locket, turning it between her forefinger and thumb. Its brass surface was smooth, cold to the touch. Oddly comforting.

Heather filed back in, noticed Eve looking at the photo. “That’s Michael,” she explained. “My better half.”

“The drummer?”

“Mm-hm.” Heather sat down on the couch across from Eve.

“Looks like a fun show,” Eve said.

“It was.” Heather did not elaborate; that was all she had to say on the topic. “Water’s just heating up.” She reached into her shirt pocket and produced a stainless steel cigarette holder. Flipping it open, she jostled out a smoke. “Just started these damn things a few months ago.” She pinched the cigarette between her lips and began fumbling through her pockets. “Figured, at my age, I got a good five, maybe ten years left. Might as well see what all the fuss is about, right?” After a few more seconds of digging through her pockets, she huffed, unable to find what she was looking for. So instead, she slid her hand between the cushions below, shimmied around, and yanked out a lime-green BIC lighter.

“Huzzah.” She held it up like a trophy.

Hunching forward, she sparked the lighter and brought the flame to the cigarette, inhaling with short, sporadic puffs until the tip glowed orange. She took a slow drag and exhaled. “Turns out I’m not missing much…”

“Yeah,” Eve said, “I used to smoke.”

Heather’s eyes fluttered in thinly veiled disbelief. “You?”

Eve almost smiled. “Hard to imagine?”

Heather cocked her head. “Don’t take this wrong, but you look too… too sweet for it.”

Eve shrugged. “Well, I quit, so maybe I was.”

Heather seemed to find that answer amusing. She leaned forward, tapped ashes into an empty soup can. “How are you liking the property, by the way?”

Eve considered the question. “Still getting used to it. It’s just a little…”

Heather finished the sentence: “Isolated?”

Eve had meant to say “creepy,” but that worked too. “Yeah, it’s pretty far out of the way.” Shifting her weight, she added, “How much do you know about it?”

“3709?”

Eve nodded.

Heather’s expression turned vaguely pitying, somber, an echo of that look she’d given outside. “It’s… old?” She shrugged. “Older than me if you can believe that.” She chuckled, and took another puff. “Might be the oldest structure on the mountain…”

Somehow, that didn’t surprise Eve. When she’d first laid eyes on the house, it had almost seemed ancient. An absurd thought to be sure, but somehow it felt older than the surrounding trees—many of which, according to Mr. Dayton, had been there for nearly three hundred years. Maybe it was the way the pines swayed gently in the breeze while the house stood motionless, locked to the earth.

At first, this strange feeling had unsettled Eve. But over the weeks, her unease gave way to a sense of melancholy. The many people who’d worked on the place over the years had considered every detail. From the stained glass window to the hand-carved patterns on the crown molding. The house felt like a fragile heirloom, passed from generation to generation, each person adding their own ideas—contradictions and all—only to have the whole project unceremoniously discarded. Abandoned in the woods. Waiting to be torn down by reckless house flippers.

Eve glanced down that hallway, still hoping Charlie would call back. She looked at Heather. “Do you know when it was built?”

Again, uncertainty clouded Heather’s face. Her eyes scanned the room as if she were about to broach a touchy subject in a small-town diner. She opened her mouth to say something, then stopped short and leaned back into the couch. She exhaled a puff of bluish-gray smoke. The haze lingered, illuminated by a thin sheet of light beaming through the shuttered windows. Noir vibes.

Eve herself was starting to feel like a noir detective, trying to crack the secrets of the past. Though on second thought, with all her paranoia, she felt less like a cool private eye and more like an anxiety-ridden, Rear Window shut-in.

She tried a different angle. “My partner and I… we’re just trying to learn more about the property. Apparently, most of the records were lost in a fire and—”

“Nope.” Heather shook her head.

“Pardon?”

“Fire’s a myth. The records were stolen.”

“Oh…?”

“Back in the early fifties,” Heather continued. “Some nut broke into town hall. Pilfered most of the paperwork for Yale and Kettle Creek Mountain. Zoning information, deeds, even plats, and surveys. I don’t know where that fire story came from, but you’re not the first to bring it up. Michael, my own husband, was convinced of it, said my memory was going. We had countless arguments on the topic. Not even a web search could clear it up.”

“But the bank told us—”

“Bank doesn’t know shit,” she interrupted. “Just… Don’t worry about it. People misremember things. Accept it. Move on.” In the kitchen, a kettle began to shriek. “Took long enough.” Heather ditched her still-glowing cigarette into the empty soup can. With a slap of the knees, she got up and made her way to the kitchen. She mumbled to herself, barely audible. Eve only caught the words “little Tommy,” “Alina,” and “stray mutts.” Heather slipped out of sight and started rifling through cupboards again, still muttering, “Thieves, fire.”

Then, from somewhere deeper in the house, came a faint thud, followed by a short scrape. Like a rusty hammer, dragged across plywood. So subtle, it might’ve been imagined. But Shylo’s head was perked up too, eyes fixed on that dark hallway. All the doors were still closed. The vague noise could have been anything, but…

To Eve, it had sounded like a single footstep, followed by a dragging heel. Once again she wondered, were they alone? What if—

“Careful now, it’s hot.”

A little startled, Eve turned. Heather was standing right there, holding out a steaming cup of tea. Eve had been so distracted by the noise, she’d almost forgotten where she was. “Thanks, uh, thank you.” She took the cup and glanced back down the hall. Whatever that sound was, even Shylo had lost interest. It was probably just the house settling.

Eve took a careful sip. The tea’s warmth waved through her, soothing. Heather settled back into the couch and sipped from her tea as well.

Eve, a little awkwardly, asked, “How long did Thomas’s family live up here?”

“The Fausts?” Heather narrowed her eyes, thinking. “Hm…” She ran the numbers in her head. “A little over half a decade, I think. They left rather quickly after some, uh, family troubles.”

Family troubles.

As much as Eve hated to admit it, this was the real reason she was drinking tea with a stranger—she wanted to know what had happened to Thomas’s sibling. Normally, Eve would’ve let it be, especially in such a private matter, but… “I hope his sister ended up getting the help she needed.”

Heather looked at her, puzzled. “Sister?”

“Yeah, his, uh, older sister?”

Heather shook her head. “Thomas was an only child.”

Eve blinked. Was she joking?

She wasn’t.

Recognizing Eve’s confusion, Heather added, “Oh, unless you’re referring to Alina?”

Eve thought back to Thomas’s story by the fireplace. Hadn’t the name been… “Alison?” she questioned.

Heather tilted her head, again trying to remember. “This was all well over four decades ago now, but—there was a girl. Alina, or maybe it was Alison—I’m terrible with names… In either case, she lived with the Fausts for the better part of two years.” Heather took another sip of tea and grimaced. “Hm, Alison,” she murmured. “Let’s go with that. She was a drifter, a lost child. A runaway? An orphan? We never found out. She’d wandered onto the Fausts’ property on a cold Sunday morning, dressed in a nightgown. Aside from her name, she didn’t know who she was, where she’d come from. Can you believe that? All the way out here? Even the police couldn’t find any records on the poor thing; it was like she’d materialized out of thin air. Then Thomas’s parents, after filling out all the necessary paperwork, jumping through the hoops, they ended up taking Alison under their wing. Too kind for their own good, the Fausts.”

Eve sat back, absorbing everything. Why hadn’t Thomas included any of this in his account? Sure, she wasn’t entitled to his complete traumatic backstory, but…

Eve said, “So they ended up adopting her?”

Heather crossed her legs, shook her head. “No. Only temporary guardians.”

“It’s just—Thomas told me she was his sister.”

Heather’s brow wrinkled. “In spirit perhaps, but they never officially brought her into the family…” She trailed off, then added, “I mean, maybe they had been considering it, but after the incident with her and Thomas, they—”

She went quiet, as if she might’ve said too much.

Eve nudged. “Incident?”

“No, I shouldn’t, I…” Heather swatted the air, a nervous gesture. She took another sip of tea, diverted the topic. “Anyway. Have you spent time down in Yale yet? You should really check out the lumber museum. It— It’s really something.”

Mo, the devil on Eve’s shoulder, whispered, Pry further.

“I won’t share anything,” Eve promised. “I’m just—I’m a little worried about the house is all. If something came out about its history, might affect the resale value. Better to know up front.” Not a lie, just a dressed-up version of the truth.

Uncertain, Heather tapped a finger on the armrest. Eve could tell part of her wanted to share more. If only to relieve some dark burden from her shoulders. “How much do you know?”

“About what happened?”

Heather nodded, staring down at the floor.

Eve shrugged. “Just—Thomas said Alison believed the house was changing, people were changing… in ways only she could see.”

“That’s all he said?”

“More or less…”

After another long and silent deliberation, Heather relented. She leaned closer and lowered her voice to a near whisper. “Alison—she started to believe there was only one way to make it stop, to get her supposed old life back, and… One winter night, Thomas, eight years old, awoke to find her standing at his bedside, clutching a fountain pen…” Heather leaned back, her face a grim mask. “She stabbed him thirty-seven times in less than a minute. She would’ve done more, if his parents hadn’t dragged her away.” She shuddered. “Thirty-seven times. Can you imagine?”

An image, sick and jarring, flashed through Eve’s mind. A moonlit room. Yellow wallpaper. A gaunt, white-knuckled hand gripping a silver-tipped pen, stabbing into pale flesh, up and down, again and again, faster and faster.

Heather sighed. “It’s a miracle he survived. Truly.”

Eve looked up.

Heather’s eyes were wet now. “Just a terrible tragedy. An absolute shock…”

Eve was stunned silent. She had assumed the unspoken details of Thomas’s past were bad, but…

“Unsurprisingly,” Heather continued, “Tommy was never the same after that. He used to be so energetic, so imaginative, talkative, but the few times I saw him after the incident, he barely said a word, just stared at the floor, silent.”

“What happened to Alison?” Again, the question left Eve’s mouth without her brain’s approval.

Heather looked at her, shrugged. “The state took her away, and, well, after that—I don’t know. Frankly, I don’t want to…”

Eve guessed Alison ended up either in prison or some kind of criminal psych ward—assuming she still walked among the living.

Heather rose from the couch. “Do you want a top-up?” Her pointer finger drew Eve’s gaze to the ceramic mug in her hands, now half-empty and lukewarm.

Silently, Eve gave it over.

Heather withdrew into the kitchen and turned on the sink, musing aloud, “But it’s good to hear Thomas is doing all right now. Family and all. The human spirit prevails, don’t you agree?”

Eve managed a meek “Yeah…”

As Heather clinked around out of view, something else caught Eve’s attention. Nestled at the foot of the couch, peering out from that pile of colorful toys: eyes. They were cartoonishly wide, unblinking, a fiery hue of orange. Is that…? She found herself leaning forward, her hand reaching into the pile to retrieve it. It was a Jolly Chimp, sporting a yellow vest, pin-striped pants, brass cymbals. But one detail was wrong: its fur was white, just like Mo’s.

Aren’t they supposed to have brown fur?

She turned the toy over, scrutinizing it—as if it were a mysterious artifact from another world. Unthinking, she flicked the switch on its back. It whirred to life, banging the cymbals with manic zeal, almost lurching from her grasp—clash—clash—clash—

“Oh.” Heather leaned out from the kitchen. “That’s my grandson’s favorite. God knows why.”

Eve powered it down and set it back among the other toys. “I used to have one kind of like it…”

“Yeah? Creepy little guy.”

Eve gave a noncommittal grunt.

Don’t lie to yourself, Mo said. For a second, you thought it was me.

Mo was right. For a fleeting moment, she really did. Still, the sight brought up a core memory: the day, at seven years old, when she lost Mo. It had devastated her. In truth, even now, it still bothered her more than she cared to admit. Not the fact he was gone; rather, the way he went missing.

The memory was crystal clear. Every little detail. On a camping trip to Montana, she sat in the back of her parents’ rusty hatchback. Mo was buckled into the seat beside her, staring blankly ahead, eyes wide, reflecting the procession of trees outside. Every bump in the road jostled him, rattled his metallic innards. The car pulled into a backcountry gas station. Young Eve hopped out, stretched her drowsy limbs. The morning sun was just peeking out over the horizon, streaming through the trees and…

… when she turned back, Mo was gone. His seat empty. Belt still buckled. The image didn’t quite register. In fact, it took about seven seconds of stunned silence until the panic set in. Eve, frantic, inconsolable, rushed to her mother.

After a solid half minute, her parents finally got her to slow down and explain, word by word, what happened. “Somebody stole Mo,” she practically screamed. “Mo was KIDNAPPED.”

Mom and Dad, under the reasonable impression he was only misplaced, searched the car. They checked her backpack, the trunk, beneath the seats, everywhere. But Mo was nowhere to be found. Because Mo had been stolen. Kidnapped. Abducted by thieves and forced to do tricks in an unholy carnival. Forever. She couldn’t even cry; she just stood there, shocked, motionless, staring at Mo’s empty seat. The world was ending.

Worse still, there was no way to replace him. Her parents tried everything, but the company that made this knockoff brand, Riley’s Fantastic Toys, had long gone extinct. And even if they had found a new Mo, it wouldn’t have been her Mo, with all the scratches and dents he’d collected over the years. To Eve, those were the things that made Mo, Mo. Anything else would’ve been nothing short of an imposter. Brand-new and shiny, but an imposter nonetheless.

Eve rose from her wicker chair, suddenly feeling the urge to leave. As if the mere sight of this toy had triggered some kind of primal instinct to retreat. “I…” She headed to the foyer. “Sorry, I have to go,” she said. “C’mon, Shylo.” The dog trotted over. Eve started tying up her boots, mumbling an excuse about the weather getting worse.

“Oh?” said Heather. “So soon?”

Eve didn’t respond, just kept tying up her boots.

Heather, a hint of sadness back in her eyes, said, “Well, if you ever need anything, I’m always around. You and your partner should come over soon, build puzzles with an old woman. I’ll keep the conversation lighthearted next time. Promise.”

“Hm.” Eve pulled on her coat, started buttoning up.

Heather said, “It was nice to meet you, uh…” She narrowed her eyes, coming up short.

“It’s Eve.” She turned for the exit.

“Eve, right, I’m so sorry. Eve. Like I said, terrible with names.” Heather chuckled.

Eve had reached for the door when, down that hall, around the corner, the rotary phone started ringing. Shrill. Insistent. She glanced to Heather.

“Oh,” said Heather, “that’s probably your partner. I rarely get phone calls.”

Boots still on, Eve started over, but as she stepped into the hall, she froze. Something was off. Something had changed… It took her a second, but one of the doors was open now. Down at the end, just before the corner, a white door was cracked. A thin slit of shadow. The kind of dark that suggested a watcher on the other side. A watcher with heinous intent.

Eve remained motionless. All the while, that phone continued ringing, as if trying to lure her into a trap.

Heather asked, “Is something the matter?”

Eve looked over her shoulder. “The”—she turned back—“door…”

“Hm?”

Eve pointed. “That door was closed before…”

“Oh, I think the latch is broken…”

The phone kept ringing, somehow louder, more insistent.

Heather frowned. “Aren’t you going to answer that?”

She’s trying to trick you, Mo whispered. If you walk down that hallway, you’ll never come back.

The phone gave out one last ring.

Eve, letting her paranoia win out, turned to the foyer. “I— I need to get home.”

As she pushed out the front door, Heather called after her, “Don’t be a stranger—”

She said something else, but Eve didn’t hear; she was already halfway across the yard.