Ana and I looked at each other, speechless. I couldn't put what I was feeling into words: that I wasn't crazy. That Gran had seen things here in the house, too.

Gran wasn't the one haunting this place.

In her painting of the house in winter, Gran had painted a spectral figure at the edge of the woods—the first suggestion to me that my grandmother wasn't the one making strange things happen around the house.

Now I knew. It was Anna.

"What happened to her?" Anabel breathed.

"I don't know. I don't know if we want to know." I looked back over Gran's diary entry, my fingertips tracing the neat loops and tails of her cursive script. "The figure she saw was Anna as a girl. She didn't run away. She died."

We sat in silence, curled toward one another on the couch, the notebook between us.

"Then if she's here—if she's on Ruth's property, it can't have been complications from the pregnancy, or having the baby, or an abortion, or anything like that," Anabel whispered.

"It's unlikely. If she died here...which is what Gran is saying..."

"Oh my God, Tabitha. What is this?"

"I don't know," I said. Even though I did. Both of us did.

We didn't say another word. I turned the page.

***

April 10th, 2018

Memories are so unreliable. I have read that every time you remember something, your mind changes it, bit by bit. If you have a memory that plays over and over in your mind, is it really a memory, or is it something you've made up completely?

That's how I feel about the night our German shepherd, Francis, went mad.

My mother was in Illinois for about a week in mid-late August of that year, 1951, which was the year our uncle died. He was caught in machinery at the plant where he worked. Just awful. Mom had one sister, and although she had moved away they were still very close, so when Peter died, there would have been no question—she went to stay with her, help with the funeral, and take care of things as Lenore adjusted to being a widow.

It wasn't the first or the last time Mom went away, leaving me and Royal at the house alone, but I used to hate it. We were responsible children and always had plenty of food, friendly neighbors down the gravel road who'd call us to check in, and Royal could drive, but I still didn't like being left on our own. Whenever Mom would go to visit Lenore, I would sleep in her room downstairs, usually with Francis at my feet.

That night, I woke up in the dark to the sound of a sharp cry from outside. You can imagine my terror. I curled up in bed, straining to hear what was happening, but there was nothing for several minutes, until I thought I heard the kitchen door open and close. Then there were footsteps.

I thought we were going to be robbed. I stayed where I was, barely breathing, afraid to make so much as the smallest of sounds, until I heard the sink running in the bathroom. That was a relief. I knew the intruder had to be Royal—a robber wouldn't stop to wash his hands.

I got up and crept out into the dining room, seeing the light spilling out of the half-open bathroom door. I pushed it the rest of the way open and saw my brother standing at the sink, his hands on the counter, staring at himself in the mirror. He was wearing a white shirt, or at least a very pale shirt, I remember that, and on the front was a smear of bright red.

"What happened?" I asked. I thought it was Royal's blood.

He jolted as if I'd used a cattle prod on him. He looked at me like I had come out of nowhere, like I had three heads. "What are you doing up?"

"Are you hurt?"

He looked down at himself, holding out his arms, as if he was just noticing the red stains on his clothes. Seconds passed. I remember that as clearly as the color of the blood, the reddest red I'd ever seen. The silence hung between us like a wet wool blanket.

"It was the dog," Royal said. "Francis. He went crazy. I didn't have a choice, Ruthie."

"What happened?"

"I didn't have a choice. He attacked me."

I remember the confusion, the dawning fear. "Why?"

"What do you mean, why?" He dropped his arms, sounding angry now. "Dogs are animals. Sometimes they just lose their minds. I didn't have a choice. I had to put him down."

The tears started then. He didn't look at me at first, staring instead into the sink. At last, he said, "I need to go take care of things. Will you make me some coffee?"

Trying to be brave, like he was being, I said, "It's the middle of the night. Can't—"

"God damn it, Ruthie! I don't have time for this!"

I flinched. I wasn't used to being shouted at by anybody, even him. I don't think I had ever heard my brother raise his voice before. He sighed, rubbing his hands over his face, and said, "I'm sorry. If I leave it as is it is, it's going to attract animals, and it'll be harder to deal with in the morning. I just have to take care of it. Please."

"Okay. I'll make you some coffee, and I'll put on my shoes."

"Your shoes? What for?"

"To help you bury Francis!"

Royal shook his head. "No. I'm not going to have you out in the woods in the dark. It's cold and dangerous, and it's scary. Just fill me a thermos while I get some other clothes, and go back to bed. Okay?"

"But we have to have a funeral."

I could tell he was growing impatient with me. It wasn't often nowadays, because I was growing up, but every now and then, I could see my girlishness reflecting in Royal's grown-up eyes. I was young enough to seem childish to him and old enough to feel shame for it.

"We will," he said. "I promise. First thing in the morning, we'll make him a headstone and say a few words."

"Really?"

"Really. He was a good dog, until tonight."

My heart was in tatters, but that was a small consolation. I made my brother his coffee, filled him a thermos, and sent him out into the dark. Then I curled back up under my mother's quilt and cried until my head ached, thinking about our sweet dog turned monster so suddenly.

The next morning, true to his word, Royal took me out to the edge of the woods to where he had buried Francis. I had found a rock to use as a headstone, and I had painted it with his name and a cross. Royal recited Scripture from memory, standing there at the edge of the mound of new-turned earth as I cried.

We never spoke about it after that. Not even once. When he told my mother what had happened, she gave me a long, hard hug and comforted me, and our little family moved on without the dog.