After three blissful hours of sleep, Jordan was on the move again. Kiki took the lead and bounced down the stairs while Jordan lumbered behind, rubbing his eyes and yawning. His current sleep schedule was more fitting for a cat's crepuscular rhythm than for a human.

Stumbling down the last step, Jordan banged his foot into the dresser below. "Dammit." He bit his lip to avoid screaming from the pain that radiated through the affected toe. Meanwhile, Kiki skittered off toward the kitchen, attracted by voices that may belong to someone who could fill her food bowl. Being a weekday, the rest of Jordan's family—his parents and younger siblings Darcy and Chase—were all awake and about to start their day.

"Jordan, is that you?" his mom called from the kitchen. "I didn't think you would be up yet, so I didn't put out a plate for you."

"Yeah, I'm up..." Jordan mumbled, snatching his jeans jacket from the hanger in the hallway, while he tried to ignore the pain in his foot. He was on a mission and didn't have time for physical ailments. "But I'm going outside. I need to... do some stuff for the podcast."

His parents knew Jordan was working on a podcast—since he kind of had to give them a reason for camping out in their attic for four weeks—but they weren't privy to the topic of his investigation. Because Jordan had seen the concern in their eyes two years ago when the police came by several times to question him about Araminta's disappearance. They'd been worried about how the ordeal affected him. So he didn't want them to know Araminta was still on his mind. Constantly.

"Okey..." his mother replied, probably biting her tongue to not ask her son exactly what he was going to do outside. His parents seemed to have decided to treat him as an adult during his brief stay in his childhood home, even if it took them a lot of effort not to monitor him the same way as his younger siblings and require information at all times about exactly what he was doing and with whom. "I'll put away some pancakes for you that you can eat when you return. And there is coffee in the pot if you want."

The mention of coffee was probably his mom's way of showcasing that she considered him an adult because Jordan had never drunk coffee when he lived at home. But late nights studying in college had made him appreciate the perkiness-inducing beverage. He would enjoy both the coffee and pancakes once he returned. By that time, his family would have left for work and school, so Jordan's only table companion would be Kiki, trying to snatch pieces of bacon off his platter.

The sound of breakfast bickering and the sight of two neatly packed backpacks in the hallway reminded Jordan that he no longer was part of his family's daily routine. But he also wasn't just a guest in the house. The role of the half-adult child, back for a moment but soon gone again, was difficult to master. With one foot in the adult world and one in childhood, Jordan longed for independence while also finding comfort in old patterns.

But he wasn't back in Mistwood to enjoy nostalgia from his upbringing. He was here to find Araminta, or at least attempt to do so. And that quest started here and now. Stepping out on the stairs, Jordan inhaled crisp morning air, hoping it would put him into the focused mode of a journalist looking for a scoop.

Pulling out his voice recorder—a Christmas present from his grandparents—he pressed the start button. "It's 7.15 am," he began. "About the time Araminta must have left her house that morning. In this episode, I attempt to recreate her steps before disappearing in the hopes of discovering some kind of lead."

Jordan stepped out on the sidewalk and turned right, toward the looming house next door. After Araminta's disappearance, her parents had escaped to their summer house up the coast, seldom returning to what must be a place filled with painful memories. But they hadn't sold the house. So now it just stood there, quiet and unchanging, reminding everyone in the neighborhood of how quickly life could shatter.

It looked like any other house on the block. The facade was made of dark red bricks while the slanted roof was covered in black tiles. All houses in the neighborhood were built in the '60s and seemed to be cast from the same mold: square, utilitarian, and lacking in personality. There was nothing witchy or other-worldly exuding from Araminta's home.

Looking first to the right and then to the left, Jordan surmised that no one was around. Which made it safe to walk up the pathway that led to the door. He noticed that the drop-shaped juniper bushes beside the stairs were well-kept and the flower beds below were free of weeds. Someone must still tend to the garden.

The only trace remaining of the family that used to live there was a bronze-colored plaque on the door, bearing the name Green. Otherwise, the house was void of life. No flowers peaked out between well-shut curtains. No cars or bikes occupied the driveway. No voices called out to greet arriving guests.

"Darcy, Chase, stop dillydallying and get in the car! You're going to be late for school!" Jordan's mom's voice cut through the silence from the driveway next door, followed by unamused and morning-dreary preteen groans. Not wanting to be spotted trespassing, Jordan hid behind a juniper bush while he waited for his family's car to pass by. He stayed in his hiding spot until his dad rushed by a few minutes later, heading toward the train for a meeting in the city.

"Mrooww?" A black shadow stroked against Jordan's leg. Apparently, he wasn't completely on his own. Kiki must have snuck out during the hustle and bustle of the busy morning.

"Hello there." Jordan sat down on the stairs and reached out to pet the cat. "I guess you've been here before."

Rolling on the stone steps, Kiki did look very comfortable. Although to be fair, Kiki seemed to be content in most places, as long as someone gave her some well-deserved affection. A layer of gray dust coated her black fur as she frolicked without abandonment while Jordan ruffled the soft fur. There were no signs of the cat remembering that she used to live behind the locked front door.

Jordan pulled up the recorder again. "I'm outside the door of Araminta's house," he started, trying to sound detached and professional. "Almost two years ago, she locked this door, never to return again. I'm about to walk in her footsteps, walking the probable route she took toward the graveyard."

He wasn't quite sure why following Araminta's route felt so important, but he'd listened to other podcast journalists who deploy similar methods, and if nothing else it would ground the start of the series by giving the listeners a sense of the surroundings. Perhaps the police had already conducted such an investigation but Jordan wasn't privy to those records, so he would have to do the gruntwork himself.

"So let's start walking," he announced into the recorder.

Rising from the stairs, Jordan set off on his trek. Kiki followed behind him, her fur fluffed up and dusty, curiously sniffing light posts and shrubbery in her way. Jordan contemplated if he should attempt to pick up the feline and lock her inside but decided he wasn't up for a game of catch against a more skilled combatant, and besides, since Kiki followed him now, she was likely to tag along back home as well.

Brick facades. Neat lawns. People shuffling children and themselves into cars. The walk wasn't super exciting. More like a zoological expedition to Suburbia.

Turning a corner, the scenery changed. Stonewalls and an ornate gate with gargoyle statues perched on each side appeared. This was where Jordan last saw Araminta, her purple hoopskirt flowing around her ankles and her wide-brimmed hat flopping in the wind as she turned into the graveyard just as he drove by on his way to school.

Jordan stopped by the entrance to the cemetery, pulling up his recorder. "This is where I saw here," he noted. "I saw Araminta but she didn't see me, at least I don't think so. And she hasn't been seen since."

Kiki skillfully jumped up on the surrounding wall, balancing her way toward Jordan with her tail swirling in the air while he opened creaky the gates to enter the Mistwood cemetery. That this was where Araminta last was observed almost seemed curated for maximum dramatic effect. She, who painted her face pale as a corpse and consumed droves of gothic horror stories, vanished among tomes raised to honor the departed. Jordan had expected the place to be spooky but instead, it felt peaceful. The graveyard was quiet and orderly, far removed from the rush of the morning. Lush branches from trees that had outlived many of the resting souls shaded neatly raked paths. Dots of colorful flowers decorated the graves of those who were still remembered.

Maybe Jordan would be able to find someone here who had seen Araminta that morning. A caretaker or janitor or whatever title the staff of the cemetery would have.

Caw! Caw!

A familiar sound cut through the comfortable silence. Cawing crows had even invaded Jordan's dreams, probably influenced by him listening to the sound repeatedly while finalizing the podcast trailer. Scanning the graveyard, Jordan spotted a black bird perched on a gravestone a few aisles away. It couldn't be the same crow as last night, could it? Curious, he set off toward the bird, even if he suspected it would fly away before he reached there. Especially considering that a Kiki shadowed his every move.

"Can I help you with something, young man?" Jordan's aim toward the crow was interrupted by a voice behind him. He turned to face an older lady dressed in a worker's jacket which indicated that she wasn't there for a stroll.

"Yeah..." Jordan mumbled, wondering if he should start recording now. Although he should probably state his purpose first, following journalistic code. "Do you work here?" When the lady nodded, he asked, "Can I ask you some questions?"

Embodying his burgeoning journalist persona, Jordan forgot all about the cawing bird as he with clammy hands and a dry throat began conducting his very first podcast interview.