ME: I just got out of the police station. They wanted my statement. A statement like an actual police statement omg ana

ANA: Ive been so worried when you didn't text back

ANA: Girl you need a glass of wine and a long sleep. I'm so sorry. This is heartbreaking.

ANA: Come stay at my place tonight. You don't want to be out on that acreage alone

ME: Thank you so much, but I have to feed Porkie and I can't leave her alone either

The dog usually tailed me all around, even up and down the stairs that were so hard for her to navigate. To make her stay all night all by herself would be cruel. I hadn't even fed her dinner yet.

ANA: not even for one night?

ANA: I would offer you to bring her here but that would be utter chaos

ME: Your four cats would eat her alive, hahahaha

ME: I'll be okay

ANA: Okay then, I'll come to you

ME: You don't have to do that Ana

ANA: Are you okay to be alone?

I hesitated, trying to think of a reply that would save her from what the increasing burden of friendship with me but also be true. I typed and deleted a couple of things, but before I could settle on something, she replied again.

ANA: I'm on my way.

The entire way home, I felt awful for demanding so much of Ana's time. Then I felt even more awful for thinking about strain on a friendship when poor Mark was dead. The police still hadn't told me anything about his family, but I imagined a wife, two or three kids, a family dog, all grieving their loss.

When I pulled up to the house, Mark's truck was no longer in the driveway. I parked, glad that Gran had a street light at the corner where her driveway met the gravel road. I got out of the car and went up to the house. I could hear Porkie barking from inside.

"I'm coming," I called, fumbling with my keys. When I got the door open, I couldn't flick the lights on fast enough.

The dining room was undisturbed, my iPad and the box I had been going through earlier in the day still on the table. The other boxes from Gran's closet were neatly stacked against the wall.

I knelt to give Porkie some attention, rubbing her ears for her. "Good girl. You kept everything in order while I was gone, didn't you?"

As I stood up, I noticed a mess in the middle of the dining room floor. It was gross, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't glad I had an excuse not to let Porkie out right away. The yard was just as unsettling as the house itself now.

"Did you have an accident? That's okay, Porker. They kept me there for ages. Are you hungry?"

She was. She bounced excitedly on her feet and started galloping toward the kitchen as soon as I straightened again. I followed her, but as I passed the two doors on my right—Gran's bedroom and the bathroom—I skipped a step.

The door to Gran's room stood ajar.

I can't do this, I thought.

I knew I had locked the front door, and I kept the back door locked, and I knew, I knew that Gran's bedroom door had been closed earlier in the day. I had kept it closed almost constantly since my arrival.

Porkie waddled back toward me, as if checking into the reason for my delay. I swung Gran's bedroom door shut again, then forced myself to move into the kitchen.

What else was I supposed to do? The dog needed to be fed.

Once I had given Porkie some kibble and freshened her water dish, I cleaned up her accident from the dining room floor. Then I washed my hands, got a bottle of wine, and went searching through Gran's cupboards for wine glasses. I found them on the very top shelf in a cabinet, one that would require a step stool or a chair for me to reach.

The coffee mugs were much nearer to hand. I got two down and shifted focus to finding a corkscrew, an easier feat. I had just gotten the cork out of the bottle when Porkie stopped her snarfing and lifted her head, her ears perked. I strained, listening, and heard the faint sound of a car door closing.

I hurried to meet Ana. When I opened the door, she was just coming up the steps to the porch, a backpack dangling from her hand.

I was almost dizzy with relief to see another human being. Her, most of all. "Ana, you really didn't have to come."

"I was worried, Tabitha. What a God damned day, right? I'm so sorry."

Stepping back, I allowed her into the house. "I know. Poor Mark. I just can't stop thinking about it."

"Me either, and I didn't even meet him. I just wanted to see you and make sure you're really alright. Then I can go home, if you want."

My stomach lurched at the suggestion. "I just—Jesus, I feel so weird about all this. Every time you turn around I have another problem. Now this..."

She slipped her arm through mine, tugging me toward the kitchen, Porkie following. "Come on. We need some tea, and I'm going to make you dinner. You haven't eaten yet, right?"

"No. I just got home. I just opened some wine—do you want some? Or I'm happy to make you tea."

"Ooo. Wine would be great." As we entered the kitchen, Ana swung her backpack up onto the counter, releasing my arm. She began to unpack some things. "I knew you had bread, but I didn't know about the PB," she said, "so I brought mine from home."

"Gran had some in the pantry, but I don't know how old it is."

"Good thing I came prepared." She unscrewed the lid of the new jar and began to work at the silver seal. Ten minutes later, she was plating up two toasted peanut butter and chocolate chip sandwiches. We migrated with our wine and dinner into the dining room to sit.

"So, were they questioning you? Like, questioning questioning?" Ana asked.

"Sort of. I don't know how helpful I was. I told them the same exact thing I said to the detective when she talked to me here."

"That's probably good. Right? If your story's changing, it's weird."

"Even if my story changed, it would be me trying my best to tell the truth."

"I know that. It's just that it makes you worry. You obviously didn't do anything, but you were the only one here. I hope they don't suspect you of anything. I would be super freaked out."

"I was freaked out, that much is for sure." I took a bracing swallow of wine.

"What do they think happened to him?"

"I don't know how they could think anything but that he drowned." I peeled the crust off of my sandwich and took a bite.

"Drowned? In your tiny pond?"

"If you'd seen him you'd understand. He was lying face down, in the water."

"Holy crap."

"I know."

"Was he wet?"

"I don't remember. I don't think so. It was like he just...kind of...fell in."

"It's bizarre that these things keep happening," she said. Her expression was shadowed as she took a bite of her sandwich.

"You don't think it's connected to all of the weird stuff in the house, do you?"

She glanced up at me, dropping her sandwich back onto her plate and reaching for a napkin. "No, I just...I meant people dying here."

A chill settled over my shoulders like an ice-crusted blanket. "You mean Gran?"

"Yes, your grandmother, and...you know. The others."

I stared at Ana. She stared back at me, her features drawn together, clouding with concern. After a beat, she said, "You know about the others, right?"

"What others?" I breathed. "Are you talking about my grandfather?"

"Well, yes...him, and the other accidents that happened here. Or—I guess not accidents. Other deaths."

"Ana, what are you talking about?"

"I thought you knew—"

"What are you talking about?"

She drew back from me slightly.

I hadn't meant to be so forceful. "I'm sorry. Please tell me what you know. I'm freaking out here."

"This house has a reputation. Ruth told me. Including your grandpa, four people have died on the property. And there was another one who almost died. Now, I guess there's Mark, too. So that's six, all together."

"What?"

"And..." She cradled her mug in both hands, and she wasn't looking me in the eye.

"And what?"

She took a drink, tipping the mug up. I watched her throat move as she swallowed, watched her drain the mug. "And one of them was my dad."

The words hit me like a train to the chest. I was literally breathless, bent toward her with the shock of it. I didn't know what to say.

"I should have told you, I know that, but I didn't know how to tell you. It's such a weird thing. What was I supposed to say?"

"Ana..."

"I'm sorry." Her eyes were glassy with tears.

I reached across the table abruptly, folding my hands over hers. "No. I'm sorry. Oh my God."

"He was a lineman. He died in 2008, when we had all of those storms, and the tornadoes and the flooding—do you remember that?"

I shook my head. "We were in Virginia then. Gran told us about it, though. It was devastating."

"It was. There were lots of power outages, and he was working long hours to restore power here and in other counties, too."

"What happened to him?"

"He was out with a crew on Red Oak Road. It was really close to here—basically Ruth's property. They were working on some power lines that had been damaged when a bunch of trees took them down, and he just collapsed in his harness. His crew mates had to do a top pole rescue and bring him down. You'd think it would have been an accident, you know? He always cautioned us around electricity. Our house had those little outlet protectors when we were kids so we wouldn't like, stick forks into them. He would make sure certain things were unplugged when we went on vacation. He had to take all of these safety precautions when he was working on the lines. The buckets in the cherry-pickers are made of stuff that doesn't conduct electricity, and they wear these heavy-duty gloves because if you touch the wrong thing, you're gone. Just gone in a second. Dad knew somebody who died on the job, one of his friends, and he was careful before, but after that—he never took any chances."

"But your dad...It wasn't an accident?"

She shook her head. "That's what was so awful. It was a heart attack. My dad was always such a healthy guy, but he still had a heart attack at like, forty years old."

We sat in silence for a moment. I tightened my grasp on Ana's hands, and she squeezed my fingers back, glancing up at me with tear-clumped lashes. My heart broke for her. I couldn't imagine what it felt like, knowing that her father had died here.

And Grandpa...and there were how many more?

She seemed to sense something in my expression and answered the question before I could ask it. "I know. That's what I said: it's bizarre. With Mark it makes six people, Tabitha. Six people who've died, or almost died, and Ruth said it was always a heart attack."

Suddenly, a memory returned to me. Vague and distant. Summer. Red and blue lights flooding in through the windows.

Stay inside, Tabitha.

There had been people here to replace the shingles on our roof. I'd been seven or eight years old, and it had been the first time I'd ever seen an ambulance close up—through the windows, that is—and somebody being carried away on a stretcher.

He just got sick. He's going to be okay.

"I remember the roofer. They told me he had gotten sick, but he got better."

"Sick?"

"I don't know. Maybe it was their way of explaining it to a kid."

"It makes you think there's something about the place."

I drew my hands back, wrapping my arms around myself and turning in my chair to look into the lamp lit living room. I couldn't feel any strange presences here with us now. No, this sense of oppression was the weight of new knowledge alone.

"They'll come back and tell us that Mark had a heart attack, too," Ana murmured.

I nodded my acknowledgment without looking at her.

"It's all just a formality. When the autopsy is done, they'll leave you alone. They can't honestly expect that you did something to him."

"But it's awful. What if he called for help, and I just didn't hear him?"

"Don't start with that."

"I can't help it."

"I know."

"If there's something dangerous about the house, why wouldn't Gran have gotten hurt? Or me? My mom and my brother? We lived here for a long time before we moved down to Virginia."

"I don't know. But I know one thing," Ana said.

"What?" I looked back at her.

"That there's a lot of weird shit going on at your house."

The blunt assessment startled a laugh out of me. I slid my plate aside. "That's one thing we can be sure of, I guess."

"Maybe you should try to find somebody to explain it."

"Somebody like who?"

"I don't know, a Catholic priest or a medium or something."

I raised my eyebrows, tilting my head with playful challenge. "Why Catholic? Isn't my Methodist great uncle good enough for you?"

"Oh yeah. There you go: have him come out to bless the house, or whatever. If he's a preacher, he's got to know some prayers or rituals to bless stuff. Right?"

I nodded, although I was thinking back to Royal's revelation that he had never returned to the house after his mother had passed away. If he hadn't come for years of births, birthday parties, holidays, and social calls, it was unlikely that he would somehow overcome his aversion to the place for my sake. "I don't know."

"Well, my mom's cousin is a bruja. We've got all kinds of options, Tab."

"I'm not really religious. Or very spiritual, or anything."

Our eyes met. There was a glimmer of amusement in hers. It didn't feel cruel. It was just an unspoken acknowledgment of the dissonance of living in a house where unexplainable stuff was happening and clinging to the not-so-supernatural.

"You don't have to decide anything tonight," she said. "One thing at a time. Wash your face, brush your teeth, and get ready for bed. Sleep is very steadying."

"Are you going back to your place?"

She smiled at me, shrugging her shoulders. "Are you kicking me out?"

"No. No I'm not. I should be worried about your cats, but I'm tempted to give you another glass of wine so you'll have an excuse not to drive home."

Ana slid her mug toward me. "Fill 'er up."