You ever watch that first episode of The Walking Dead? You know, the one when Rick Grimes wakes up in his hospital bed, oblivious to the last forty-eight hours, then rides his horse through the apocalypse-ravaged streets, baffled to find the world has gone completely to shit? Well, that’s what it feels like driving up the desolate freeway exit into Cedarville.
Piper leans closer to the window, eyebrows pinched. “Daddy, was there a fire?”
I follow her gaze to the array of burnt homes lining the avenue.
“Um, maybe, sweetheart,” Alec says, squinting. “Or they’re just . . . really old.”
“Why don’t they fix them?”
“Well, this city has had some . . . financial problems in the past. But it’s getting better. That’s why we’re here!”
Sammy nudges me. “Mari, look.”
On his side, more abandoned buildings, stores, even schools. Signage hints they’ve been closed at least since the nineties.
“Goodness,” Mom gasps. This is a long way from the beach town she grew up in. Where I grew up. Where I can never go back.
Alec turns a corner, down Maple Street. I only notice the name due to the crooked street sign swinging in front of a three-story redbrick Victorian mansion, the steeple roof caved in, soot framing the boarded-up windows, dead vines crawling up its side.
The next house, even worse. A white one-story bungalow, the roof like a half-ripped bag of potato chips, a tree growing in its frame. The next like a creepy dollhouse . . . on and on it goes.
Mom and Alec share an uneasy look.
“Where . . . are . . . we?” Sammy mumbles, taking it all in.
“Oh!” Mom says, pointing. “There, up ahead. We’re here!”
We park in front of a bright white carriage house, with a wide unfinished porch, bay windows, emerald grass, and a cobalt-blue door. A stark contrast to the rest of the homes on the block and the only one that has sprinkles of life as construction workers buzz about.
A white woman in a gray skirt suit waves from the front steps, a leather portfolio in hand.
“That must be Irma,” Mom says, waving back. “She represents the Foundation. Be nice, everyone.”
We slap on fake smiles, pour out of the van, and stand on the curb, looking up at our new home. But I can’t help sneaking glances at the crumbling surroundings, waiting for a zombie to stumble out of the bushes.
Irma clicks down the driveway in her kitten heels, brown curls bouncing. Up close, she’s older than her forced hair color gives her credit for.
“Hello! Hello! Welcome! You must be Raquel. I’m Irma Von Hoven, we spoke on the phone.”
Mom shakes her hand. “Irma, yes, pleasure meeting you in person!”
“Congratulations again on winning the GWYP Residency. We are so happy to have you here in Cedarville!”
“Thank you! This is my husband, Alec; our son, Sam; and our daughters, Marigold and Piper.”
“Stepdaughter,” Piper corrects her.
Alec squeezes both of her shoulders with a chuckle. “Remember, sweetheart, we’re a family now, right? Can you say hello to Ms. Von Hoven?”
“I thought we already did?”
Irma’s eyes widen as she hugs her folder, then looks up at me. “My, aren’t you a tall one!”
I sigh. “So I’ve heard a few million times.”
“Uh . . . right. So how about a tour! Yes?”
“Yes, that would be great, thanks,” Mom says, slightly deflated. “Sammy, leave Bud in the car.”
“Come on in. And don’t mind the contractors, they’re just finishing up a couple of things here and there. We had a few hiccups some weeks back, but everything’s running smoothly now.”
The door creaks and we file into the foyer. Inside is massive. Three times the size of our beach shed, as my dad liked to call it.
“The house was originally constructed back in the early seventies but, of course, we’ve had it updated. Stainless steel appliances, some new plumbing, floors, the works. To the left, you have the living room, don’t mind the tools. To the right, a formal dining room, great for dinner parties. They just stained this staircase, isn’t it incredible?”
Wood. That’s all I see. Wood everywhere. Fresh places for bedbugs to burrow. . . .
FACT: Bedbugs love to make their homes in mattresses, suitcases, books, cracks in the walls, outlets, and anything made of wood.
“Back here, a gorgeous kitchen that opens up to the family room. Great place for the children to play. This little breakfast nook gets tons of natural light. Walk-in pantry, plenty of closet space . . .”
A million cherrywood cabinets, wood-trim bay windows, glossy floors . . . wood, wood, and more wood.
With trembling hands, I set my terrarium next to a welcome basket of cured meats, cheeses, walnuts, and crackers. I grab the nuts and slam-dunk them in the trash, startling Irma.
Mom jumps in. “Sorry, Sammy’s allergic.”
“Oh, I see,” Irma says, lashes fluttering. “Um, first door over here, a small library. Could make a nice little office space.”
I knock on a wall. Hollow. The place got good bones but shitty insulation. I give the floor a stomp, an echo vibrating up.
Irma shoots Mom a pointed stare.
“Um, their dad is an architect,” Mom offers sheepishly.
“Oh. I see.”
I don’t know why everyone’s looking at me like I’m the crazy one. If winters in the Midwest are anything like they are in movies, we’ll freeze to death come November! I punch a new alarm in my phone:
10:25 a.m. ALARM: Order heated blankets.
“What’s that?” Sammy asks, pointing to a door under the stairs. The dark warped wood stands out among the stained and polished interior.
“Oh. Yes, um, that’s the basement, but it’s off-limits. Mr. Watson will explain; he’s the supervisor. Shall we see about the bedrooms?”
We trek upstairs, congregating in the windowless hallway. A loud thump hits above us. Piper shrieks, grabbing hold of Alec.
“Not to worry! They’re just working on the roof. Anyhoo, there’re four bedrooms—three plus a master with bath. The master faces the front yard and has amazing light. . . .”
“What do you think?” Mom whispers to me, beaming. “Nice, right?”
“It’s . . . a lot of wood,” I mumble, scratching the inside of my arm.
“And over here, we have the upstairs bathroom. Giant, isn’t it? That’s a real working claw-foot tub.”
As they pile in to admire the checkered tile, I drift away from the tour to call Dad. It’s almost midnight in Japan, but he should still be up.
No signal. In the middle of a city? That’s . . . impossible.
The floor creaks behind me, like a heavy foot pressed against the aged wood. Enveloped in the darkness, a chill crawls up my arms. Feels colder in here than outside. I turn in time to see a shadow pass under one of the bedroom doors.
Thought she said they were on the roof.
“Hello?” I say, creeping closer, keeping my steps light.
It’s faint, but there’s the slow inhale of breath as the shadow moves away. Then, silence.
I test the knob and the lock snaps. The door slowly swings open on its own, and I half expect to see someone standing right behind it.