Chapter Sixty-Two

WE HAVE ALWAYS LIVED IN THIS house.

And our father’s father lived here before us.

And before that? I guess it was just timber and nails. Nothing evil, I don’t think.

My father’s father wasn’t evil, either.

But he also wasn’t good.

And maybe when he built this house, he corrupted it.

Maybe all the things we create have some piece of us, something we impart, or something we just leave behind. And perhaps if my grandfather was so angry, then maybe he left it here. Built it right into the foundation and the walls, the practiced hammering of nails. Maybe he built it into this whole damn town.

Magic, Campbell called it once—but maybe she’s closer to the truth now with her haunted house books.

Whatever it is, I used to wish it were here for us. So we could believe that there was something more potent in this home than fear—maybe even something watching over us. But I was wrong.

It’s always been protecting him.

I wonder what that would feel like, to behave however you’d like, and wake up day after day never having to face the consequences of it. I think it would make you feel like maybe you never did anything wrong at all.

Like maybe it’s not so bad if you do it again.