While Christopher and Hazel stare at the polaroid in his grasp, the sound of the shower running provides ambiance. She's standing next to him, her camera on the surface, her hands on her hips, her fingers in the back pockets of her baggy jeans. Her inner voice is louder than her thumping heart, which she hears in her ears. On the one hand, she doesn't believe it's a ghost because it's so implausible; paranormal activity is the stuff of horror movies to her, but nothing else makes sense.

"It's probably a shadow; a camera trick, maybe," he says without looking away from the image. He examines every detail from the roof's shingles, the grass' dead patches, and the translucent curtains.

"Yeah, I'd say so too if it weren't for that — thing," she pauses to motion toward the black and white image, then continues, "just standing there like a coat rack one moment, then waving at me and shutting the blinds the next."

As she speaks, he turns his head to look at her, his lips agape and his narrowed eyes peering over his glasses. His stature and demeanor are similar to James Edwards', which Hazel pointed out to him when they first met.

He cracks a smile that looks like a toothy smirk and asks, "Haze, you're not thinking this is a ghost, are you?"

"What? No," she raises her voice to express her shock at his question and creases her eyebrows. Her eyes bounce from him to the picture. "I just find it weird that something waved at me from the window, and no one else saw it. And it shut the curtains."

"Maybe it was someone who lives there," he suggests in the form of a question, and she shakes her head.

"Chris, the place was abandoned," she tells him, then drops her arms, and turns to him. "The lady said the last person who lived there died." Hazel lowers her gaze to her sneakers in thought, mumbling, "I think."

He backs away from the picture on the island, his lips pursed. She observes him as he turns and walks to the dining table, then follows him as he places his hand on the side of the box.

"I was looking in that other room down the hall, and I found this and a few other things in boxes and bags." He reaches into the box, and as he sifts through the contents, she hears metal objects clinking when he pushes them aside. He slowly takes a horn record player in both hands, raises it with the tenderness of someone holding a baby, and places it on the table.

"What's this?" She looks up at him and just when she asks, Cindy shuts off the shower.

"It's like a radio but for discs. See, the needle here," he says, running his finger along the ivory hand and gently guiding it where a record would be. It's covered in enough dust to leave a stain on his skin when he retracts his hand. "It plays the music when you put a record down and the sound comes out of this horn. This is old school, though."

"Why was it just sitting in there? Wouldn't the owner dump it out or take it with them?" He shrugs at her line of questions, so she admires the record player and twists her mouth to the side. Its base is designed with false gold wrapping around the redwood in the decoration of a vine, and the initials CH is engraved on the front.

CH?

"Who's CH," Hazel asks him. He brings his caterpillar brows together before following her narrowed eyes. His glasses remain on the tip of his broad nose so when he tilts his head to examine the front of the device, he notices the initials.

"I don't know. Maybe it was supposed to be something but the person who carved it didn't get to finish." She slowly turns her head to him with her eyes narrowed and he glances at her, before taking a second look and saying, "Look, I don't know. You keep asking me questions when I'm just as clueless as you."

"Clearly," she mutters, shaking her head and rolling her eyes onto the hall. Cindy steps over the line separating the hall from the kitchen with her large afro leaving a trail of water in her wake.

"What was that sound," Cindy asks, her voice hushed and her eyes searching around the kitchen. Chris and Hazel do the same before returning their attention to her. "I was in the shower, and I heard squeaking."

"Like a mouse?" Chris raises a brow as he asks and his twin shakes her head. Hazel crosses her arms.

"No. It was like rubber or latex or something," she answers, speaking her hands and scanning the floor around herself. She rubs her fingers with their respective thumbs as if she's wiping off residue. "I don't know. It was like someone came in with rain boots and moonwalked by the bathroom door; the squeaking was that loud."

"Well, I doubt MJ is in here." The girls bare annoyed expressions at Christopher's nonchalant remark. He throws up his hand and fans his sister away. "Just go finish drying off."

Cindy looks at Hazel just as she turns her head to her. She watches his twin return to the hall with a huff, waiting for the familiar sound of a door shutting. He digs through the box and when Cindy slams her bedroom door, Hazel flinches within her baggy jeans and short shirt. She whips her head to him, her brows drawn together.

"What the fuck is wrong with you," she asks in a louder, sharper tone, and he raises his empty eyes onto the wall across from them. She can tell that he doesn't want to be bothered but she doesn't care. "She just said she heard squeaking. Don't you find that a little bit odd?"

"Haze, if I jump to her defense over every little thing, she'll be child-like for the rest of her life," he argues in a monotonous voice. She scoffs at him. "She's already — child-like, in a way." He lowers his head and mumbles, "I blame my parents for that."

"Chris, excuse me for not being so sympathetic," she pauses to gather her thoughts and take a breath to calm herself. Her face relaxes, and he shakes his head at her without looking up. "I just have a bad feeling about this place, this town. I mean, with what I saw in the window, what she said she heard just now — didn't you say she saw someone looking through the back door?"

"Oh, my God, enough! You're the one who picked this place," he reminds her, his voice firmer and louder. He straightens his back, and she feels herself retreating into herself as he towers over her. Her jittery eyes dissect every detail of his athletic abdomen, noticing the untapped strength he possesses. She focuses on his stern expression.

"I know." She forces herself to speak, and when her voice quivers, she closes her eyes. Chris examines her, his dragon-like demeanor softening when he senses her fear.

He doesn't usually yell and he didn't realize he was. He recognizes her as the strong-willed young lady from their rough neighborhood in Boe, Minnesota. He recalls fights at the park, girls making fun of her frizzy braids, and his friends fleeing the basketball court to watch her fight them. From afar, he admired her bravery in confronting girls three times her size, but the girl in front of him is unfamiliar to him.

"Hey, I'm sorry." When she looks at him, he takes a deep breath and softens his voice. He tugs at the corner of his mouth, tenderly smiling at her, despite her cold expression.

"Forget I said anything," she says, her voice cracking as burning tears threaten her eyes. His smile falters when he notices their glossy appearance. When she turns away from him to hide her sadness, his mouth opens with words his brain won't let him say. He notices her enter the hall. Tears fall from her lashes and down her cheeks, and she wipes them away at her chin.