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Hospitality ain’t dead just because I am.

The father didn’t even bother pretending there was a reasonable explanation anymore.

“Let’s go! We’ll grab the rest of our stuff in the morning!”

Oh, let me get that door for you.

The front door slowly swung open by itself.

All four of them stopped dead.

Constance grabbed Nick’s arm with both hands. Their son took one step backward before apparently remembering the thing behind him was the exact reason he was trying to leave, and his sister stared at the open doorway with tears still shining on her cheeks.

Nobody had touched the handle.

Nobody was standing near it.

Cold night air rushed into the foyer, carrying the smell of damp grass and fallen leaves with it.

I folded my arms.

And there go the exit.

They hauled ass.

Nick grabbed his briefcase and laptop bag on the way out. His wife clutched both designer purses against her chest, while the teenagers scooped up as much of their important shit as they could carry. The daughter somehow managed to drag her wig bag, camera case, and blanket at the same time without leaving one damn thing behind.

Within minutes, all four of them were locked inside their vehicles in my driveway.

Nobody even tried coming back inside.

A little after two in the morning, I stood at the front window watching all four of them crammed inside the same SUV like the driveway had suddenly become a damn campground. The doors were locked, the engine was running just enough to keep the heat on, and the glow from the dashboard lit up their faces every so often through the dark windows. Nick and Constance sat up front, while the teenagers were stretched across the back seat wrapped in the blankets I had so graciously sent out with them.

I folded my arms.

Look at that… family bonding.

The extra strength Miss Veda had given me was already starting to fade. I could feel the house becoming heavier again, that easy connection I’d had to every room slowly slipping back out of reach.

I didn’t need any more of it.

My point had been made.

They could spend the rest of the night in the driveway if they wanted; they just weren’t sleeping comfortably in my fuckin’ house.

By seven the next morning, the four of them moved through my house in one nervous little pack, refusing to let anybody go upstairs alone while they shoved clothes into suitcases, grabbed boxes, and carried everything they still had inside toward the front door.

Nobody wandered off.

Nobody stopped to admire shit.

Nobody mentioned paint colors.

Funny how one good haunting could cure people of interior-design ambitions.

I helped, and not because they asked.

Every now and then, when somebody turned around, another bag somehow ended up a little closer to the foyer.