His face didn’t change. Not even a polite smile.
“Big yarn fan?” I tried.
He blinked. “No.”
“Cool. I’ll… keep it subtle.”
He nodded once, too quickly. “You’ll do fine here.” He handed me the keys and stepped back toward the door. “The security system is armed automatically at night. You’ll find the instructions on the kitchen counter. And again—thank you.”
Before I could ask a single question, he slipped outside. I watched through the window as he power-walked down the driveway, not looking back once. The gate groaned open for him, then clanged shut.
“Well,” I said to the empty foyer. “That wasn’t weird at all.”
The silence that followed was too loud. Exhaling, I looked around. My reflection in the dusty mirror over the console table stared back—lemon-print dress, cardigan, too much caffeine, not enough solid life choices.
“Okay,” I told myself. “Just you, the creepy house, and eight weeks of inner peace. What could go wrong?”
Somewhere upstairs, something creaked.
I decided not to investigate.
At least not yet.
Unpacking has always been my love language, mostly because it allowed me to pretend I have my life together.
I dragged my suitcases into the guest room after unloading the groceries and immediately started narrating to no one. “Day one: tenant of Craigslist murder mansion still alive and already decorating. The crowd goes wild.”
The house answered with a long groan somewhere in the walls.
“Okay, that’s fair,” I said. “You’re old. I creak too when I get up too fast.”
I dragged a large woven basket toward me and peered inside. It was packed full of my smaller plants, leaves layered and crowded together. All twelve of them. They’d ridden seat-belted in the backseat like little green passengers on the way to summer camp.
“This one’s Steven,” I told the empty room, setting down a spiky succulent. “He’s judgmental.” I placed him near the window, where the light hit just right. “You’ll love it here, Steven. The moody architecture, tragic backstory, and humidity problem. Very you.”
Next came Beatrice the fern, who was thriving despite my neglect, and Harold the pothos, who was not. “Don’t look at me like that,” I said, fluffing his wilted leaves. “We’ve both been through things.”
Once the plants were situated, I unpacked my yarn stash. I gave it an entire shelf in the built-in cabinet. Every skein got its own neat little row by color: citrus brights, stormy blues, comforting neutrals.
“This,” I said proudly, “is the wall of coping mechanisms.”
I snapped a photo for Lena with the caption:If I die here, make sure my plants inherit the yarn.
The room started to feel less ominous once my lemon-print throw pillows were on the bed and my fairy lights framed the door. I dug out my small Bluetooth speaker and queued up a playlist titledSummer Chaos, But Make It Cozy.
By the time I was done, I’d built a tiny craft corner by the window with a beanbag chair, crochet basket, and a mug full of mismatched hooks. The window overlooked the overgrowngarden and, beyond that, a dense line of trees enclosing the property, their shadows pooling at the edges of the lawn.
That done, I braved the eerily pristine kitchen for a wineglass and poured myself a generous glass, took a sip, and sighed. “Not bad for a haunted summer gig.”
I still couldn’t believe I’d managed to make this work. My apartment was officially rented out to a retired couple from North Carolina. They’d left me the nicest message on Airbnb:We’re visiting Boston for our grandson’s graduation. We promise to water the philodendron.
I would miss Phil, but he was too large to bring along.
Between their rent payment and Mr. West’s house-sitting rate, I was making enough to pay off a month of debt and still eat something other than microwave pasta.
Back in my room, I lifted my glass toward my plants. “To responsible life choices. May they continue shocking us all.”
Steven the succulent didn’t respond. Typical.
