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We head for the foyer, where our coats are still hanging up from our trip to the woods earlier. I’m only just now realizing we never took the photos we were planning to. The commotion with the neighbors—or potentially fake neighbors—ruined that, among so many other things.
“Can you hand me mine?” Paulette asks Logan, who is all too happy to oblige.
“Everyone ready?” Austin asks when we’re all bundled up.
“I guess,” Mara groans, looking less than pleased with our plans. With our coats and shoes on, we make our way to the back door.
Outside, the evening air is already cooler than last night, and I wrap myself up in my coat with a shiver, my fingers burning from the cold. I place my hands in my pockets, trying to warm them up.
Memphis stays next to me, with Mara on the other side. Paulette, Logan, and Austin lead the way, skipping and holding hands and generally being silly as we go. To them, this is still all just a game, but to me, it feels like so much more.
The world around us is quiet as we move down the dimly lit street, the only sounds are an owl hooting in a tree somewhere in the woods, the sound of gravel crunching under our shoes, and the occasional car passing by on a nearby road—close enough to hear but not to see.
When we round the curve, the small house Paulette mentioned comes into view. It’s the nearest one, but still quite a walk away from the two houses. The house is small and quaint—a single-story, ranch-style building with a tiny front porch illuminated by a dim porch light.
We approach the front door cautiously, searching for a doorbell camera, but there doesn’t seem to be one. Austin lifts his hand to knock on the door, and suddenly, I worry this is a terrible idea.
What if Mara was right? We could get shot doing this. Killed. We’d barely make the headlines in a world where that happens all too often.
What if these people aren’t friendly?
What if they warn the neighbors we were asking about them?
What if they call the police?
The door swings open relatively quickly, and an older woman—probably my parents’ age, I’d guess—greets us. “Well, hello.” She looks around the house outside as if checking for a car or a problem. “Is everything alright?” I catch a hint of fear in her eyes as she grips the door tighter, taking a barely noticeable step back.
“Sorry to bother you so late, ma’am,” Austin says, laying on the charm. “We’re staying just up over the hill in the big house.” He points toward it.
“Oh, yes. Okay. Has something happened?”
“No, no. Everything’s fine. We just wondered if you knew anything about the people who live next door to it?”
She presses her lips together, her eyes bouncing between each of us. “Well, I don’t—”
“What’s going on?” A short, older man with a round belly walks up behind her, interrupting whatever she was about to say.
She pats his chest. “Honey, these kids are staying up in the old Buchanan house. They’re asking about the neighbors. It’s alright.”
“What about the neighbors?” the man asks, one bushy, gray eyebrow shooting up toward his receding hairline.
“There was a sort of…disturbance,” Austin says, choosing his words carefully. “Last night. And we’re a little freaked out. We were just hoping you could tell us if they’re…okay. You know, normal. Safe.”
“Well, I’m afraid we don’t know much about them, to be honest,” the woman says finally. “A younger couple lives there. A man and a woman. No kids. But we’ve only seen them in passing. They aren’t around much, and when they are, they tend to keep to themselves.”
“Could you describe them to us?” Memphis asks.
The woman seems to ponder the question. “Um, I’d say midforties?” She looks to her husband, who confirms with a nod. “She’s tall and thin with red hair, and he has black curly hair, but he’s usually wearing a ball cap. He’s shorter, kind of stocky.”
They’re describing the second couple we met. The ones who claimed they had just returned from a vacation.
“Do you ever see anyone else there?” Austin asks. “At the house? Maybe a cleaner or a house sitter?”
“Can’t say that I have,” she says, looking again at her husband. “But we don’t get out much. Besides, there’s no real reason to be up that way”—she shoves her thumb to her right—“when town is this way.” Her thumb swings over, pointing to her left.
“We understand,” he says, pressing his hands together into a prayer motion. “Thanks so much for talking to us. You guys have a great night.”
We walk away from the house with more questions swirling in my mind. If the second couple was telling the truth, who is the first couple? And what happened to the woman? Why did she have blood on her shirt? And why would she lie? She has to be afraid of the man. Maybe she knew he would hurt her if she confirmed my story. Or hurt me.
