Page 2

Silently, of course. Because I can’t actually talk. Part of that not being able to move because I’m made of granite now.

The fucking squirrel continues scratching. One day, I am going to move again, and that annoying rodent is going to have a very bad morning.

Admittedly, I have been telling myself some version of this for more than a century.

Optimism was never one of my virtues.

Delusion, however, is apparently immortal.

Another engine approaches. Closer this time. I listen because listening is one of the things I can do. I watch, and listen, and wait.

Those are the three activities available to a man turned into an architectural feature.

Sometimes I sleep.

I don’t know if sleep is the correct word for what happens. Stone doesn’t require rest. But there are stretches where everything goes dark and quiet, and when awareness returns, days or weeks or occasionally months have passed.

Those are my favorite stretches.

It is considerably easier to endure eternity when unconscious.

Unfortunately, I have no discernible control over whether I’m awake or in slumber. I have been awake for nearly three straight weeks. And I’ve had about as much fun as I can stand.

Ever since Eleanor, the woman who had lived in my house for the last sixty years, died.

The squirrel stills. So do I. Not that anyone could tell the difference. But a vehicle has just turned onto the drive. Gravel crunches beneath tires.

Someone is coming to the house.

Interesting. No one has been here since the attorney and some woman with a clipboard walked through two weeks ago.

Eleanor’s death wasn’t unexpected. She was ninety-two years old and had been declining for some time. Eventually her daughter—niece? Granddaughter? I stopped keeping track of the family tree when they moved her into a nursing facility.

After that, Winchester House stood empty. Empty doesn’t bother me.

I’ve spent more years alone than occupied. Owners come and go. The house remains. I remain.

That was the point of this bloody curse.

The vehicle emerges through the trees.

It is a small blue SUV that has seen better days. The front bumper is a slightly different color than the rest of it, and something appears to be holding the passenger-side mirror together.

Is that— Yes. Silver duct tape.

Christ.

The squirrel abandons my head and scampers onto the roof. At least something good has come of this. Infernal rodent.

The SUV crawls up the drive. There are boxes visible through the rear window. A lot of boxes.

No. Absolutely not.

The vehicle stops in front of the house. The engine cuts off. I stare down at the car.

The driver’s door opens, and a woman steps out. For one ridiculous second, the only thing I notice is her hair. There’s a lot of it. It is also a vibrant pink. Curly and piled haphazardly on top of her head with several pieces already escaping around her face. She wears black leggings, bright red sneakers, and an oversized T-shirt that reads EVERYTHING IS FINE across the front.

Clearly, everything is not fine.