1
A house moved in at the end of the street.
From my bedroom window, I barely caught a glimpse of it lumbering down the road. I couldn’t see all of it, but I was pretty sure it was a Victorian.
Mom was already at work. She drove us to school whenever she wasn’t pulling an all-nighter at the diner. This happened more and more these days. She liked to say we were “a little strapped.” A more apt description would be: dirt fucking poor.
“Chloe . . . ?” my younger brother, Jake, whimpered from his bedroom. I hurried to check on him. He cracked his door open just enough for me to see his green eyes and the constellation of acne on his round nose. “I think it’s an earthquake.”
“Actually, I think it’s our new neighbors.”
***
Outside, Jake and I watched as a three-story house paraded down the block on big-wheeled dollies. An entourage of slack-jawed moving men in dirty, flat-bed trucks with out-of-state plates escorted it like they were the hillbilly Secret Service.
I tensed up when I realized they were leading the house to the Shole—the empty lot at the end of our street.
Fuck that. That’s our Shole!
From the time we were old enough to hang out alone that lot was a sanctuary for me, Jake, and our crew. Our parents told us to quit hanging around that shit-hole. We didn’t. We re-christened it the Shole. Short for shithole, of course, and it quickly became our second home.
I had all my firsts in that dumb lot. First kiss, smoke, drink, screw, though not necessarily in that order. And, now, some big fat ugly old house was going to plunk itself down and squash all those memories—literally.
My boyfriend Mason, of whom I shared nearly all of those firsts, shuffled half-asleep over from his house down the street. He joined Jake and me on our front porch.
“End of a fucking era,” Mason said as he kissed the side of my head, hugging me. His arms were long and strong and felt like home. “I can’t believe it.”
I leaned fully into his hug. “I always thought they’d put a house on the Shole, just didn’t expect them to do it all at once.”
“And a fucking mansion, at that?” said Mason. The grind of machinery washed out his voice as he started to take out a cigarette. Mason paused as he glimpsed his mother across the way and thought better of it.
I waved to Mason’s mom. She did not wave back. Mrs. Blake was certain Mason could do better. She was probably right.
Slowly, neighbors drifted from their houses. They already were a nosey bunch, so you better believe a hundred-year-old manor plopping down on their front lawns would get every last one of them out. It was an even bigger crowd than the time the Hurst Kids lit their porch on fire with bottle rockets on the Fourth. Idiots.
This house had so many roofs, gables, and balconies it seemed like it may have eaten some other houses on the ride over here. Its elaborate three stories were such a major contrast to our simpler cookie-cutter track dwellings. It was like our block was now in a Highlights magazine brain tease—which one of these houses doesn’t belong?
As they drove stakes down into the house’s foundations, it felt like they were driving them right into my guts, twisting my insides. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m seventeen and Mason and I were planning to leave this lopsided shit-pit of a town the first chance we got. But, still, we thought we would always have the Shole.
***
Little Ms. Fenley, the longest tenured citizen of Birch Street, came squealing out from her house. Her petunias were being squashed by an errantly parked moving truck. Her yard was right next to the Shole and her garden was her everything. In fact, she always gave each of her plants a name, a birthdate, and, of course, a proper funeral when they ‘passed.’
One time she helped us start a garden of our own in the Shole. She even let us use those gardening tools she was ordinarily so precious with and kept under lock and key. She was so proud of how committed to gardening we were — her Green Thumb Gang she called us—until she realized we were secretly just doing it to grow weed. She confiscated our buds but never did tell our parents, so she’s still okay in my book.
Mason’s father, Sheriff Blake, arrived from a night shift. In a huff, he rose from his police car to survey the scene. Sheriff Blake prided himself on knowing everything about his community before anyone else. And, from the look on his face, he definitely did not know about the house.
He condescendingly guided Ms. Fenley away from the workers and instantly got into it with the team’s lead. “Should’ve alerted the neighborhood before pulling a stunt like this. Even if it’s just informal handshakes or whatever. It’s common courtesy. What kind of paperwork do you have anyway?”
Grumbling, the lead worker slinked over to a truck for some documentation. After the sheriff pored over it, he asked to see the owners of the house.
“Might be a while boss,” another of the workers said. This guy was rail-thin with a leaky eye like the Tuttons’ labrador. “Wanted us to get them moved in first before they made the trip.”
The other workers looked at him as if he was speaking out of place.
Frustrated, Sheriff Blake turned our way.
“The hell’re you kids doing here?” Instead of checking a wristwatch, he squinted above the trees, eying the sun. “School’s already started.”
He spat a thick wad that nearly landed on Jake’s shoes.
“Quit your dawdling. Truancy may suit you two, but not my son.”
“Sorry we’re such bad company,” I said.
He forced a smile. “Mason’s mine and I know he knows better than to be late for school. None of my business what you and your brother does, or which way his kite flies for that matter.”
“What did you say about my brother?”
“I don’t pin that on you.” He smirk-snarled. “With your daddy being gone and all.”
The sheriff turned his back on me and started making small talk with another neighbor.
“Hey,” I said.
Jake grabbed my arm. “Chloe, forget it.”
“You’re not going to say anything?” I asked Mason.
He stared darkly at his dad. “I’m sure I’ll have the chance later.”
I bit my lip knowing how nasty his father could be. Instead, I took one last look at the Victorian. With that one new house, the whole block was different.
***
“Pictures?” Kat insisted. She was my best friend but still often asked for photographic evidence for my more outlandish claims.
We were sitting outside at our school’s lunch tables for recess. If they didn’t face the Glen Oaks Cemetery, it wouldn’t be a half bad place to eat.
“Here you go.” I flipped my phone around, sliding it her way.
She eyed the phone like a skeptical pawn broker. “And no one moved with it?”
Kat was already plotting her case. She loved to debunk everything, even made a point to poke holes in campfire stories.
“That’s right. Just the dream house. No Barbie, yet.”
“Then what we have,” she slid the phone back with a grin, “is a golden opportunity.”
“For what . . . ?”
“Throw some shit around. Graffiti the walls. Piss in a corner.”
“Piss in a corner?”
“The Shole’s ours,” she said. “We gotta mark our territory.”
“Ick, seriously?”
“No, but we should definitely throw a party.”
Mason was lying on the table’s bench, a stem of bahiagrass sticking out of his lips where a cigarette should be. “My dad would shut that shit down so fast.” He held for a second, thinking. “But we could take something.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, they took something from us. So why don’t we take something from them.” Mason sat up from the bench clearly inspired. “I bet there’s some nice stuff in there.”
“Could be our ticket out of here,” he added with an old-timey accent.
Every now and then Mason got a look in his eyes. A look that said you’d just be wasting time trying to talk him out of an idea. He was so damn cute and convincing that he could get you to be a willing accomplice to even his worst schemes.
***
Now, before you start judging us about stealing, I’d like to emphasize how much of an issue money was.
Mason and I had plans to try another city when we graduated high school. College wasn’t out of the question, something with computers for me and something restaurant-related for Mason, but even then we needed savings to pull it off. I kept telling Mason my mom could get him in as a cook at the diner, get him a little restaurant experience, but I think he was too proud.
My father had been an addict, and his addiction had contributed to a bunch of other issues, primarily stealing and dealing. Mom had been raising us alone since about six years after Jake was born. Sometimes I worried that Jake might believe our father left because of him. In truth, I think it was because of me. There’s an image of him I’ll never shake—of my dad crawling in a blanket fort I made. He was giggling. But not a playtime giggle, more of a cracked-face hysteria one, like his devilish mask was just about to fall off to reveal his yellowed eyes and rotting teeth. I didn’t realize it was him at first and I screamed in terror when I first saw him. I didn’t stop the whole night and most of the next morning. After all that, I’m nearly certain I spooked him. Whether he was scared of what he had become or what he would do next I don’t know. Either way, I never saw him again.
***
The day after that Victorian arrived, we watched from our porch as the moving crew hauled in furniture. They carried in beds and vanities, golf clubs and vases—all sorts of stuff to keep us guessing who exactly these occupants were.
Finally, we asked them about the owners.
One of the movers hollered back at us with a shrug: “You’ll have to ask them next week when they move in!”
Mason and I looked at each other, and then we looked at the house. Without another word, we knew exactly what the other was thinking. We had a week to make our move.
***
We started with a dry run just to case the joint, as us cat burglars liked to say. We waited for it to be late enough to not have to worry about passing cars or prying eyes. As far as we were concerned, Jake and Kat didn’t need to join us for the rehearsal. They could be brought up to speed later.
As Mason and I got closer to the house, the mismatched front windows beaded down on us like sad, disdainful eyeballs. Rounded wooden steps spilled down from the porch. Instead of straight up and down, the steps spun out at an angle, leaving a dark abscess underneath the porch.
Mason must’ve gotten the same uneasy vibes as me. He pressed my hand and said, “I might actually be glad when they move in. Get some light out here.”
We didn’t switch on our flashlights until we got right up to the house. Even then, we used them only when we needed to.
I climbed up onto the porch, stepping into what felt like a thick murk beneath its awning. Leaning against the window for a closer look, I noticed it was unlocked. We thought maybe one of the workers had opened it to air out the place.
You probably won’t believe me, but it was my idea to go inside.
Mason blinked at me. “You serious?”
“We’ll just have a look around and come back out. Why not?”
“Well . . .”
Instead of my hands, I used my elbow to wrench up the window to minimize fingerprints. Not sure why that was my instinct. Maybe I was a diamond thief in a past life.
I climbed inside. Mason shoed me through, worrying someone might see us as we conducted our first B & E. Another first on the Shole!
We found ourselves standing in what I guess they call a parlor room. The air felt different in here. It even had a weird taste. Mason, who liked to cook, said the way it smelled and tasted reminded him of rotted basil. As I scanned my light around the room it struck me how perfectly placed everything was. Were the movers instructed where to set everything?
“Hey.” I tugged at Mason. “Let’s get our story straight. In case we get caught.”
“We’re here a little early for the housewarming party. How about that?”
That didn’t even merit an eyeroll. “Come on, Mason,” I said.
“Okay, how about this: we’re here to steal shit.”
I punched him in the shoulder. “Whatever.”
I drifted towards a display cabinet in one corner of the room. Its shelves were filled with porcelain ware and metal figurines. The porcelain felt familiar. But the figurines were disproportionate and bloated. Some were missing parts altogether.
One of the stranger figurines was of a woman whose spine was curled behind her head. An unbelonging expression of joy was spread over her golden face. It was like she was doing yoga in hell. Who collects this shit?
Mason shone his flashlight into the fireplace. He let out a low whistle. Its mantle was decked out with four mirrors embedded in exquisitely carved wood—all lined with glittering tiles.
“Too bad we can’t make off with the fireplace,” I joked.
Looking back, all the warning signs were there. Something was blatantly off.
“Well, what do you want to do?” he said.
Without answering, I stepped into the adjacent room— a foyer stalked by a large winding staircase. Inside more than outside, I kept thinking how crazy it was this house had been brought here. People move. Sometimes for new jobs, new loves, or the complete opposite of that. But not houses. Why does a house move?
Mason trailed after me, and we painted the stairway with our flashlights. The woodwork of the banister was intricate with foliate. You could just make out animal designs, peeping from behind some of the twisting patterns. It was primal and kinda fucked up.
We could’ve left then and there. We should have. But we didn’t. We kept exploring. Call it morbid curiosity, call it desperation. But by then, we were just as interested in finding out whose house this was as we were finding something to steal.
***
I’m not sure exactly when Mason and I got separated. I think it was probably around the time I found the open door. It led to a room that was tucked away under the stairs. We must have missed it together because it was the same decor as the surrounding paneling. I thought Mason was following behind me when I entered. Clearly, he wasn’t.
Willing myself to go further inside, I found a small study. Bookshelves built into the walls lined the way. But it was the sewing machines that dominated the space. I counted six of them. I forgot all about not touching things as I ran my hands over their surfaces. My fingers came away grimy, dusty, and strangely damp.
I tried to lift one of the sewing machines to test its weight. I don’t think I was planning to steal one of those old things. But I was fascinated by their placement as much as their antiquity. The sewing machine would not budge. Moreover, the table appeared to be fastened to the floor. No amount of force I applied could budge them. They had clearly moved with the house.
Just then, something skittered across the ceiling like panicked critters racing away from a predator.
When I rushed out of that side room, a light was traveling up the stairs. It took me a moment to realize it was from a vehicle crackling onto the unpaved drive. I crept closer to the windows by the front door. It was a patrol car. Of course, Sheriff Blake. I glanced at my phone. How was it already past midnight?
He must be out looking for Mason. We’re screwed.
I sent a text to Mason letting him know his dad was at that house and we needed to leave immediately. I couldn’t get caught. Especially not by Sheriff Blake. I could see Mason read the text—but no response.
I tried calling Mason’s cellphone. He didn’t pick up until the 3rd call.
When Mason finally answered, it sounded like he was whispering or speaking far away from his phone. All I could make out from his voice was . . .
“1, 2, 3, now I’m free.”
“This isn’t a game. Stop counting. Your dad is here.” He kept counting.
I got chills because it didn’t sound like my boyfriend, well not entirely anyway.
I tried to keep him on the phone, to settle my fears, praying to hear the laughter that bookends an ill-conceived prank, but the line went dead.
Heavy boots resounded all the way from the front porch. Would Sheriff Blake come through the open window too?
Turning to run, I slammed into the dining room table and I heaved myself along the walls. I quietly unlocked the back door, hating myself for the thought of leaving Mason behind. I split the difference and ducked under the back porch instead.
Beneath it, the air was even denser than out front. I was afraid to breathe. Shapes in the dark seemed to twitch and crawl as my imagination ran riot. I just needed to wait until his father left.
But then there were footsteps above me. Was it Sheriff Blake touring the house? Or Mason? Or whatever had been crawling across the ceiling?
My sight was beginning to adjust. All those little shapes I thought I saw under the porch now seemed to coalesce into a more singular, larger one. Before I could make out whatever it was, it darted at me with a hiss.
I scrambled out from under the porch–not caring a single fuck who saw me. I didn’t stop running when I got into the woods behind the lot. And I didn’t stop until I reached Live Oak Lane, the next street over from Birch, where I finally put my hands on my knees and sucked air.
I texted Mason to meet me there. No response. The text went unread.
One hour later, I was still waiting under streetlights. He never came. I finally gave up and walked home.
Mason wasn’t waiting for me there, either. He never even texted me back. It was like the house swallowed him whole.