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No one really talks to me in school after that first day. The classes are easy enough. On Friday, I'm doodling in my notebook as I watch Carla strut to the front of the class, take a sheet out from the teacher's desk, and take a picture of it with her iPhone.
I glance to my left and see another boy watching her. He's wearing a black trench coat and has heavy, crooked eyeliner traced around his milky eyes. We exchange a glance and he puts his head back down to nap.
Carla slides back into her seat in front of me and spins around. "What are you looking at?"
"Nothing," I mumble.
"Better keep it that way, Creepy. It's none of your business." With one swipe, she knocks all the books off of my desk.
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My dad has enlisted me as lawn crew. After school, I take out a rake from the garage and get started on the carpet of leaves.
After an hour, I take a break. I wipe sweat from my brow and lean my hands on the rake. I hear rustling from the bushes on the side of the yard, and turn.
A guy steps tentatively out from between the red leaves. I freeze, gripping the rake's handle, my eyes widening. He's my age, his brown hair shaggy and grazing his eyebrows. He needs a hair cut. His skin is white-pale, with purple shadows underneath his eyes.
"You're not supposed to be here," I call. My dad has filled me in on how this house is a magnet for pranksters from my school.
He seems surprised that I'm addressing him. "Neither are you," he says back. We stand opposite each other for a long moment, him giving me a strange, suspicious look. I feel lost in his gaze, like he's sucking me toward him. I tear my eyes away and glance him over. He has a lanky body frame with broad shoulders, his arms long and almost gangly. He's dressed in a brown sweatshirt zipped over a black t-shirt, jeans that are on the baggy side with holes ripped in the knees, and skater shoes with fat laces.
I snap out of my daze. "We just moved into this house. So I think that means I am. Who are you?"
It takes him a second to reply. "I'm Aaron. I used to live in this house, too. I didn't mean to freak you out, I just didn't know anyone else had moved here."
"Do you often come back snooping on a house that you used to live at?"
He finally steps out of the bushes and comes closer to me. "It has memories. I was nearby here and I like to take walks." He has a pleasant, deep voice.
"We just moved here from Indiana. So maybe you'll want to take this place out of your routine."
I feel myself relaxing, a little embarrassed that I assumed he was up to no good. I take the rake over and set it up against the house. I feel a rush of air behind me and when I turn around, he's right beside me. I hold in a breath and look up at him. He's kind of beautiful in a broken way. His dark gaze is intense as he looks me over, making my heart beat erratically, and electricity sizzles underneath my skin.
"What's your name?" he asks, his voice just over a whisper.
"I'm Ash."
"Ash," he repeats, like he's testing it out.
I hear my dad calling for me from the front. "I need to get going." My heart still hasn't slowed down, and my skin is flushed. He smiles at me and tilts his head in my direction. For one crazy moment, I feel a surge of impossible attraction to him, and I imagine clutching his neck and drawing his lips into a passionate kiss.
I blink and push the enticing image away. Where did that come from? I start heading to the house, almost jogging from my embarrassment, but midway I turn back around. "When did you live—"
But Aaron is already gone, the leaves in the bush rustling behind him.
CHAPTER 4
The next week, I see Carla distributing the answer sheets to several quizzes to her followers in exchange for cash. She glares at me until I turn around and leave.
Dad has to work that Friday, leaving me alone. It's cloudy out, but warm for October, and I stay outside to rake the rest of the leaves. It's hard to resist the urge to jump into the piles. I only do it once, jewel-toned leaves scattering everywhere. After I'm done and the piles line the driveway, I toss a tennis ball against the house and catch it. I used to be on the tennis team in middle school and I miss it.
From somewhere nearby, faint guitar music filters through the air, sad and sentimental. Like someone is trying to remember a song and play it out. I catch the tennis ball in my palm and follow the sound along the side of the house. Birds chirp along the fence but take off in flight as I pass. My boots crunch through more dried leaves and sticks. The guitar cuts off mid-note as the wind picks up.
I notice a set of cellar doors against the house with a padlock on the handles. I didn't realize we had a basement. I tug on the lock but it holds fast.
I'm still curious about this invisible guitar player, but rain starts to spray down from the bloated clouds and I race inside to not get soaked.
I unlace my sopping boots and set them on the mat. My phone goes off and I answer it. It's my grandmother, who lives in an assisted living facility nearby, dealing with dementia. It's a good day for her, but that means she's down my throat with questions.
As I meander to the kitchen, listening to her rant, I stop and glance behind me. A chill sweeps over me, and I feel like I'm not alone.
"Are you sure everything is okay?" Grandma's crackly voice asks for the fifth time.
"I'm fine," I say distractedly, slowly edging around the outside counters. Rain patters on the roof overhead, and casts shifting shadows on the black and white counter top. I can't see around the fridge from here, but there's something there. A dark, ominous shape, tucked into the other side. I halt my movements and stare. The shadow seems to move.
"I know your sad voice when I hear it," Grandma continues. "I don't know why you can't be happy. You're young and…" The phone cuts out for a second with an electrical sizzle, but I'm too tense to be relieved.
I come around the fridge and raise my eyes slowly to the wall. There are two shadows there where there should only be mine.
Something black rushes by in my peripheral vision, blasting cold air at me. I spin around, and see the door rocking slightly.
"…it's just so depressing, time to move on," my grandmother's voice snaps back on, startling me. I almost drop the phone but grip it harder.
"I'll talk to you later, okay?" I tell her gently. My shadow on the wall is alone now.
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Later, I'm up in my room working my way through my mountain of boxes. I unpack the rest of my clothes and slide each piece on hangers. I open the flaps on the next box and lift out bundles wrapped in newspaper. I set them on my dresser and gently unfold them. Two frames with smiling teddy bears that hold photos of my mom and me. I've had them for as long as I can remember.
I prop the frames up and step back, then run my finger gingerly over my mother's young, carefree face. She had freckles and crooked teeth. She was beautiful.
A hard lump forms in my throat and I swallow it away. I flip the pictures down so they're lying on their faces. Not yet. I can't look at her every day and function.
Life was split into before and after—before, when mom was here and things were normal, and after—where dad floats through life like a shadow and I hide.
The door creaks and I look up as my cat, Ichigo, paws into the room. He sits down, assessing the bed, and then springs onto the mattress.
"Hi, buddy," I say softly, stroking his head as he butts his head into my fingers. I open the dresser, getting a whiff of patchouli, and stuff the rest of the contents of the current box inside.
The cat hops off the bed and shuffles to the wall, pawing at the baseboard and mewing.
"What are you doing, butt-head?" I ask as I walk over to him and scoop him up. "I hope you're not hearing mice." He meows in protest and I set him back on the bed, then investigate the bottom of the wall. There's a small, square door in the wood I never noticed before. I stick my nails in the groove on the right side and grip it until the door comes free.
Dust flies out and I cough, waving my hand in front of my face. The smell of mildew hits my nose with something sour underneath it. Behind the door is a short, narrow storage space surrounded by yellow insulation. Two cardboard boxes covered in thick gray dust are crammed into the space, and I slide them out and undo the flaps on the first one.
There are CDs inside—My Chemical Romance, Alkaline Trio, and others—next to an MP3 player with busted headphones. Musical taste I can appreciate. A combo radio/CD player that was probably the tits fifteen years ago. I pull the CDs and the radio out and set them on the dresser, then return to the boxes. I find well-worn t-shirts, rolling papers, composition books with doodling all over the covers and song lyrics written inside in tiny, neat handwriting. It looks like the handwriting is the same as the phrase on the window seat. There's other junk in the boxes but I put everything back for now and slide them back into their hiding spot.
Who would have left all of their stuff here? A chill runs down my spine. Someone who ran away in a hurry. Someone like Seth Moss, the one who shot his family.
Ichigo hisses and jumps to his feet on the bed, his tail flicking back and forth. He's staring at the doorway.
"What's wrong, buddy?" I murmur, following his sight line. There's nothing but shadows there.
He ignores me, still on high alert, his back fur bristling. The cat hisses and skitters off of the bed, bolting out the door and down the stairs. A sudden chill comes over the room.
Strange. He's usually not scared of anything. I pause at the top of the stairs and listen. Mournful, acoustic guitar music carries across the air again from outside. I frown, go to the window and push it open, looking outside. For a moment, I think I see a figure on the side of the house, but when I stick my neck out for a better view, there's no one there.
CHAPTER 5
"It turns out I'm going to be having quite a few long nights," my Dad tells me apologetically over dinner.
The next night, he tells me he won't be home until after dark. It's been raining steadily outside all day. I have my window cracked to air the dust out of my room. I plug the radio I found in the storage space in and switch it to FM, scrolling through noisy static. I fiddle with the antenna but I can't get any stations.
I pop in the Alkaline Trio CD instead and hop on the bed as I unfold the liner notes. Thunder rolls outside as the rain starts to pick up. I have some of the other items from the hidden boxes out on the bed—books of poetry, rusting bottle caps in a plastic bag, and a green stone frog with glass eyes. Little scraps of a life.
I wonder if all this stuff really did belong to a murderer. I feel guilty for pawing through his things but unable to stop myself. I wonder vaguely what I would leave behind if I died. Not much, but maybe it would be interesting to someone who had never met me, since they could imagine who I was.
I dig out my laptop from beside my bed and pull up Google. I type
Moss Murders, Illinois
in the search bar. It has its own Wikipedia page, which shows a picture of my house with police tape surrounding it. A shudder ripples through me and I pluck at my bottom lip nervously with my fingers.
The Murder of the Moss Family
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On July 2nd, 2004, police were dispatched to 225 Oak Street. The call was anonymous and traced to a pay phone nearby. Three members of the same family were found murdered. The victims were Brian Moss (42), Jenny Moss (40), and their daughter, Lauren (19). All of the victims had been shot with a .35 caliber rifle. The youngest Moss child, Aaron (8), was away at summer camp. The older son, Seth (18), was not on the property and further searching found no trace of him. Evidence suggested that Seth Moss carried out the killings himself and disappeared.
Aaron. Aaron Moss. My jaw drops. Holy crap, the guy I met who said he lived here before. The timing is right, he would be my age. I cup my hand over my surprised mouth. So he was part of the Moss family, the only survivor. Why didn't he say anything?
I haven't seen him since that first day, but he keeps creeping into my thoughts. The imagined kiss and his dark intensity. And now I know just how troubled his past is.
There isn't much more information, just that the murders remain technically unsolved. I wish there was a picture, of Seth or any of them, even though I don't know why. Maybe to make it seem more real.
A zap of lightning lights up the room, and thunder booms loudly outside. I shut the laptop down and stow it on my bedside table, deciding I've read enough spooky things for now. Being alone in the house with a dark and gloomy storm outside is enough for me.
I become absorbed in my homework as the storm picks up out. I can feel the electricity on my skin as more lightning flickers. The relentless wind rattles the windows back and forth.
As I'm finishing up my Bio homework, I hear a loud crash from downstairs. My heartbeat speeds up. I shut the book and step off the bed toward the door. I stand at the top of the stairwell and listen. All I hear is the drumming of rain on my roof and tree branches scratching the window.
I turn around and another crash sounds from downstairs. I hurry to the second floor, but I'm hesitant as I creep down the stairs to the ground level. The metallic taste of fear fills my mouth. The low ceiling blocks my view until I reach the middle stair. The front door is wide open, and I watch as the wind sucks it shut again. I blow out a sigh of relief and go the the door, fighting against the oncoming wind to push it shut. I throw the lock and lean back against the wood, relieved.
My feet skid on the rain-soaked floor and I look down. A trail of muddy footprints leads further into the house. My heart picks back up, hammering forcefully in my ribcage. I push my hair back from my sweaty forehead as I follow the prints into the dining room. There's no sign of anyone, but I keep the lights off. Suddenly, something white whooshes by me in the next room. An eerie, stifled giggle peppers the air.