1
Elle
The house exhaled when I crossed the threshold—a long, patient breath that smelled of lavender, old books, and something green I couldn’t name. Like it had been holding its breath for sixty years, waiting for someone to finally come home.
“Just dump them wherever, Leo,” I said, swiping sweat off my forehead with the back of my hand. August in Arkansas was hellish enough without hauling boxes up narrow Victorian stairs that creaked ominously with every step. “The dining room’s already a disaster anyway.”
The living room looked like a storage unit had exploded. Boxes stacked in precarious towers, furniture wrapped in dusty sheets that probably hadn’t been removed in years, and at least seventeen lamps—I’d counted—that I’m pretty sure nobody had ever plugged in, let alone liked.
Grandma Jo had been many things, but a minimalist wasn’t one of them. Every surface held something: porcelain birds, crystal bowls, those creepy dolls with eyes that followed you around the room. It was like she’d been afraid of empty spaces–like she needed to fill every corner with proof that she’d lived.
“That’s the last of it,” Leo declared, dropping a box marked ‘FRAGILE’ with absolutely zero regard for the label. He rubbed the back of his neck, his hair sticking up in twelve different directions—half from the humidity, half from pure exhaustion. “And before you ask, yes, I know it says fragile.No, I don’t care. Whatever’s in there survived the drive from Little Rock, it can survive being set down with emphasis.”
“My hero,” I said dryly, pulling a warm Dr Pepper from the cooler we’d brought. The carbonation hissed as I cracked it open, and I took a long drink despite it being the temperature of bathwater. “Want one?”
“I still can’t believe you drink those warm.” Leo made a face like I’d offered him poison. “That’s serial killer behavior, Elle.”
“It’s efficient behavior. No ice needed, no condensation ruining my sketches.” I took another deliberate sip, maintaining eye contact just to watch him shudder. “Besides, you put ketchup on mac and cheese. You don’t get to judge anyone’s food choices.”
“That’s different. That’s flavor enhancement.”
“That’s an abomination before God and man.”
He laughed, the sound bouncing off the high ceilings and making the empty house feel less hollow for a moment. Leo and I had been doing this dance since we were kids—he the golden boy athlete with the easy smile, me the weird art kid who preferred fictional worlds to real ones. Cousins by blood, friends by choice, though lately, it felt like we were the only family each other had left.
His phone buzzed, and his expression shifted from amused to concerned in about two seconds flat. “Shit. Mom’s having another episode with the neighbors. Something about their fence being two inches over the property line.” He looked genuinely torn. “I should probably—”
“Go,” I said, waving him off. “Aunt Sharon needs you more than I need help organizing Grandma’s extensive collection of decorative spoons.”
“You sure? I know this is…” He gestured vaguely at the chaos around us, but we both knew he meant more than just the boxes. This was Grandma Jo’s house, and Grandma Jo was gone. Had been for three weeks now, though it still didn’t feel real.
“I’m sure. I’ve got enough Dr Pepper to last me through the apocalypse, and the pizza place delivers until midnight.” I forced a smile that probably looked more like a grimace. “Besides, I need to start going through her things. Figure out what to keep, what to donate, what to burn in a cleansingritual to appease whatever spirits she accidentally trapped in those creepy dolls.”
Leo pulled me into a quick hug, the kind that said everything we couldn’t put into words. His shirt smelled like sweat and that ridiculous body spray he’d been using since high school. “Call if you need anything. Even if it’s just to complain about the dolls watching you.”
“They are definitely watching me.”
“They’re definitely watching everyone. I’m pretty sure Grandma enchanted them.” He paused at the door, looking back. “Hey, Elle? She’d be proud of you. Moving here, taking care of the house. She always said you were the only one who understood.”
“Understood what?”
But he was already gone, the screen door banging shut behind him with a finality that made my chest tight. The sound of his truck starting up, gravel crunching under tires, then nothing. Just me and the house and seventeen unused lamps and whatever the hell Grandma Jo thought I understood.
I stood in the sudden silence, Dr Pepper in hand, and tried to feel something other than overwhelmed. The afternoon light slanted through the windows, catching dust motes that danced like tiny ghosts. Everything smelled old—not bad old, just old. Like pressed flowers and furniture polish and that particular scent that clings to houses where someone elderly lived alone for too long.
My car keys sat on the entry table next to a note Leo had left: “Your car’s in the garage. Don’t forget to drive it occasionally so the battery doesn’t die. Again. -L”
Right. I had a car. A perfectly functional Honda that I’d driven exactly three times since moving here from Little Rock. Walking everywhere in a small town was one thing; forgetting you owned a vehicle was another level of—
The locket around my neck grew suddenly heavy, pulling my attention away from spiraling thoughts about my various dysfunctions. It pressed against my sternum, warm and insistent, like it was trying to tell me something.”.
“It was my mother’s,” she’d said, her eyes fever-bright with whatever was killing her. “And her mother’s before that. It goes to you now. When the time comes, you’ll know what to do with it.”
“‘What time, Jo?’ I’d asked, but she was already fading, morphine pulling her under. The cancer had come fast—too fast, the doctors said, surprised by how aggressive it was in someone who’d seemed so vital just months before.”
Now it hung around my neck like a question I didn’t have an answer to. Inside was a portrait of a woman who looked like Jo but wasn’t—someone from before, from the old country, she’d always said, though she’d never specified which old country that was. The woman in the portrait had red hair like mine, like Jo’s before it went silver, and eyes that seemed to know things. Secret things. Dangerous things.
I shook off the feeling and headed to the kitchen, weaving between boxes and trying not to trip over the truly impressive collection of extension cords Grandma had apparently been hoarding. The kitchen, at least, was mostly functional. Old appliances that probably qualified as antiques, but they worked. The refrigerator hummed like it was considering retirement but hadn’t quite committed yet.
