Here’s a horror story . . .

 . . . it goes like this:

The old house sits on the corner of a street like any other street, unremarkable in every way. Nobody pays much attention to what’s going on inside the house. Nobody knows who lives there. People walk by every day on their way to work or shopping or dropping off the kids at school, but they’re consumed by the petty problems that fill their days and the fantasies that play out in their dreams at night. No one bothers with the old house on the corner.

One day a passerby hears a scream coming from inside, but then he’s not sure if it really came from the house or if it was just the squealing tires of a speeding car off in the distance. A few days later, a jogger hops over some splintered shards of glass on the sidewalk and notices a broken window. She jogs off, her thoughts already turning to other more pressing matters. Someone else, a neighbor, thinks he smells smoke coming from the house, and this gets his attention. But when he steps outside to sniff the air, he decides it’s probably just a barbecue, although he can’t remember ever seeing anyone in the house before. Eventually, the grass in front turns brown from lack of water. The paint peels off in long strips. It becomes obvious the house has fallen into a total state of disrepair that’s hard to ignore.

And then one morning, the front door has been left open. The people who live and walk in this neighborhood gather out front, until one brave soul agrees to go inside and see what happened. What he encounters, upon entering, is horrifying. Terrifying chaos. Madness and mayhem.

“Why didn’t we see the signs?” the people ask themselves much later. “They were right there in front of us the whole time.”

>>>

“Hey, what’s up?” Coming across Alana so unexpectedly. On my doorstep. On a Saturday.

“Hi,” she stood up and slung her canvas bag over her shoulder. “You doing anything today?”

“Nope. No plans yet.”

“Can we hang out?”

“Sure. What’s wrong? You seem kind of sad.” I unlocked the door and let us in.

“Bryce, what else? We had another fight.” She followed me into the living room where she flopped down on her favorite chair. Being as sweaty as I was, I remained standing.

“Hawaii again?”

“Yup. I don’t understand how he can do this to me. It’s so blatantly unfair, and he doesn’t even see it that way.”

I wasn’t in the mood to talk about Bryce. Truth is, I was never in the mood to talk about him. To me, the solution was simple. Break up with Bryce and be done with your pain. Move on to someone who appreciates you. Who won’t ever let you down. Who loves you. Woah!

“Well, I guess you’ll have to figure that one out,” was all I could say.

“Who was that girl in the truck? Why are you so sweaty?”

“She’s just a friend. Lives across the street from one of my clients.”

“That big girl who came to your birthday party? Penelope told me about her.”

“Yeah, that’s her.”

“What’s her name again? Something weird.”

“Fritzy.”

“Fritzy,” she chuckled. “Cool name. So why are you so sweaty?”

I couldn’t tell Alana about basketball and all the training I’d been doing with Fritzy. I couldn’t tell her about the basketball league. I wasn’t sure if she’d laugh or maybe she’d just think that was something “people like us” didn’t do. She hadn’t noticed my new muscles. Too subtle.

“Just running around,” I said. “I’m going to take a shower. Be right back.”

“Hurry. I have something to show you.”

>>>

When I came out of the shower, Alana had spread ten sheets of drawing paper across the living room floor.

“Tah-dah!” She stepped aside so I could see. “You inspired me. I’ve been working on a graphic novel, and I wanted to wait until I had enough material to show you. Do you like it?”

The artwork was good. The story seemed intensely personal, having to do with a relationship spiraling into the depths of relationship hell. In the corner of each panel she drew a poodle, hovering over the action like a guardian angel. The first poodle was hot pink, but it faded with each consecutive drawing until, in the end, it was snow white.

I thought of my Arctic Circle story. It wasn’t at all personal, and it showed in the work. Ironically, Alana’s story, which wasn’t the kind of thing I’d ever read, was probably the kind of thing publishers would drool over. I wanted to feel flattered that I inspired Alana, but all I could feel was resentful. Why did she have to write a graphic novel? That was supposed to be the one thing I could do to shine for her. I was busy with old people and dogs and girls who didn’t want me and sports I’d never excel in. And the stuff I was really good at . . . well, that was going nowhere.

“I’m embarrassed to show it to you because you’re so talented,” she said hesitantly, as though trying to pierce the armor of my blank stare. “And I hope you don’t mind I used the pink poodle idea. I know we talked about you using it, so I can take it out if you want.”

“No, it’s great. Really . . . wonderful. I can’t believe you’ve gotten so far with it.”

She relaxed after that. “I was wondering if you could help me with a few of the problems.” So we worked on her drawings together until Mom came home and invited her to stay for dinner.

There was a constant flow of texts between Alana and Bryce the entire time. As the night went on and we finished washing dishes, she deflated a little with each incoming text.

“Put your phone away, and forget about him for a while.” I couldn’t take it anymore. “Or just go be with him if you’re going to text all night.” I knew I sounded sulky, but she was paying more attention to the guy who wasn’t in the room than the guy who was.

“I’m sorry, you’re right.” She dumped her phone into the canvas bag and then pulled it back out and powered it off. “There.”

“You wanna do something?” I asked. It was getting kind of late to do anything by then. “You want me to take you home?”

“Could I stay here tonight?” she asked apologetically. “My dad’s traveling, and I don’t feel like being alone.”

Mom was in her room reading, and I knew I’d have to run it by her, but I also knew she’d probably be fine with it.

“Of course,” Mom said when I went into her bedroom to let her know. “Let me get some sheets and I’ll make up the sofa for her. Or you can give her your bed and you can take the sofa.”

“Just give me the sheets. I’ll take care of it. You stay here.” I didn’t want Mommy tucking us in.

We made up the sofa and Alana said she’d sleep there.

“I’m not going to kick you out of your own bed, Hudson. This is so great, thanks.”

We were both tired (me from my basketball workout and her from Bryce-related-depression) so we went to sleep not long afterwards. But sometime in the middle of the night, Alana came into my room and lay down beside me.

“I was lonely,” she whispered when I startled awake. “Can I sleep next to you?”

Of course I didn’t object.

But nothing happened except that Alana went right to sleep, and I remained wide awake for the rest of the night, not daring to move or even breathe loudly for fear of waking her. Sometime around five in the morning, I crept out of the room, closing the door quietly behind me. I lay down on the sofa and instantly fell asleep. Didn’t want Mom to wake up and find us in the same bed.

Mom shook me awake around noon, knowing I was going to Frankie’s recital which started at one o’clock. I jumped up and showered while she shook Alana awake. Not realizing I’d spent much of the night in bed with Alana, Mom thought I’d be too embarrassed and modest to go in there and wake her myself.

“Hudson,” Alana mumbled groggily before focusing on my mother’s hovering face. “Oh, sorry, Mrs. Wheeler.”

“Hudson’s in the shower because he has to be somewhere in forty-five minutes. I left some sweet rolls out for you kids. He can drop you off on his way, but I have to leave right now.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Wheeler. Thanks for letting me stay last night.”

“Anytime, honey.” And then an unexpected kiss from Mom on the top of Alana’s head. I know because Alana told me. Embarrassing, but sweet, I guess, at the same time.

Alana pressed me all the way to her house for more information on my one o’clock date. “A piano recital with the big girl, what was her name . . . Fritzy?”

“Yup.”

“What’s going on between you two?”

“Nothing.”

“I didn’t know you liked piano.”

“I’ve started to.”

“Are you spending all day with her?”

“I’m not sure how long the recital lasts. There’s a reception afterwards I think.”

I liked being interrogated by Alana—payback. It gave me a taste for what it feels like to be the object of someone’s jealousy, even though I knew it was only friend jealousy and not boyfriend jealousy.

>>>

A piano recital is not as much fun as it sounds. Especially when most of the performers are between the ages of eight and ten. Frankie was clearly Mr. Scolari’s star pupil, and I did feel a sort of proprietary pride when he played.

Afterwards, there were refreshments that one of the parents laid out on a table in the back. Surrounded by the members of the Fritz family, I felt like a chihuahua in a pack of Great Danes.

Mr. Scolari came over to congratulate Frankie on his performance. With his dark hair and small stature, he could easily be mistaken for my father. The taut muscles on his forearms quivered when he reached out to shake my hand. His powerful grip didn’t fit with the soft melodies that poured out from his fingers.

“Nice to see you here, Hudson,” he said. “Thanks for coming out to support us today.”

“Wheeler wants to take piano lessons,” Frankie blurted out. I was surprised he remembered the one time I’d casually mentioned it, more as a way of trying to bond with him.

“Wonderful!”

I wondered if Mr. Scolari could sense my complete lack of musical ability and enthusiasm.

“One day, but not yet. Maybe after I graduate and save up some money for lessons.”

“I hope you’ll come to me when you’re ready,” he said. “I give adult lessons during the day and on weekends. Do you have a piano at home?”

“No.”

“You can rent one,” Fritzy said. “They’re not expensive. And Mr. Scolari comes to your house which makes it a lot easier.”

“You’re hired!” he laughed. “You’re a wonderful salesperson, Lauren. And I know you do a lot to support your brother.”

“Yeah, right!” Frankie spat out the most emotional display of wordage I’d ever heard from him. Fritzy reached over and cuffed him on the upper arm. Her version of a love tap.

It had been an eventful weekend, so I had trouble getting to sleep that night. As tired as I was, thoughts of Alana came hurtling at me like a meteor shower. I’d kind of gone to the next level with her even if she hadn’t gone there with me. I thought back on the night before and visualized her padding into my room on bare feet. For one dream-second when she had first sat on the side of my mattress, I’d thought it was Jennifer and stretched out my leg to shove him off the bed. But it wasn’t Jennifer or even a vision of Alana visiting in my dreams. It was the real live Alana lying next to me. We hadn’t snuggled or anything close to it, but her bare leg brushed against mine. Her soft breath whispered over the hairs of my arm, stiffening them and other body parts to total attention.

I wanted her so badly, but I didn’t want to want her. It was futile and frustrating. As much as I fantasized about stealing her away from Bryce, I couldn’t make myself believe that was possible. And there was the other part. I didn’t want to steal her away from anyone. I just wanted her to want me the same way I wanted her. That’s why I was already disappointed in love, as new as I was to it. And Alana was disappointed in love as well, but for entirely different reasons. In a strange way, we were bonded together by our disenchantment.

After hours of floating between wakefulness and sleep, awful because it was neither, the ring of my phone was a relief. Too many times my breath had caught with the expectation of a late night phone call from Alana, only to be confronted by Mr. Pirkle’s number instead. This time, even though I was prepared, the optimist in me argued for the nanosecond it took me to pick up the phone: She’s thinking of me too. She can’t sleep either. We spent the night together last night. She was jealous when she knew I was going to the concert with Fritzy.

Pirkle’s number flashed on my phone screen.

“Hello, Mr. Pirkle,” I spoke to what I assumed would be no one on the other end. I expected the usual whooshings and knocking-about sounds a live phone makes in someone’s pocket. But this time was different.

“Come quickly. I can see her.” He spoke in a loud, urgent whisper.

“See who, Mr. Pirkle?”

“You already know. I’ve told you again and again, but you still won’t believe me.”

“Told me what?”

“Again and again.”

“Mr. Pirkle?”

“What’s it going to take for you to believe me?” he roared into the phone so loud I had to pull it away from my ear.

“I’m not sure I understand what you’re saying.”

“I’m saying come quickly! How much clearer can I get?”

“Are you sick?”

“Of course I’m not sick!”

*Click*

Dead silence.

What the hell? Is he crazy? Should I call the police? He’s old, but he’s probably still strong enough to kill me. Should I wake up Fritzy and tell her I’m going over there? My thoughts raced.

And then after a few minutes . . . Grow a pair, Hudson.

I scrambled out of bed and threw on some clothes. It actually felt good to end the pretense of sleep and get up and do something. I scratched out a quick note for Mom and left it on my bed in the unlikely event she’d come into my room at this hour.

When I arrived at Pirkle’s house, it was all lit up like before. I saw his face peering out the window of his second-floor bedroom, but then it disappeared. I know he saw me. I walked to the front door and put my ear against it for a second. I heard heavy footsteps which I knew came from the stairway that ended only feet away from the door. I knocked and waited. No more footsteps, and no answer. I rang the doorbell and waited. Receding footsteps this time but still no answer.

I was about to turn around and get back in my car and go home, but I remembered the key. Pirkle had shown me where he hid it in the backyard in case I ever needed it in the event of an emergency. Questions littered my brain. Was this an emergency? And if so, why not just call the cops? But I couldn’t bring myself to call the cops, and I couldn’t bring myself to leave. I walked around the side of the house and lifted the latch of the gate that led to the backyard. With the bright house lights illuminating my way, I found the key beneath a bush and under a rock. Then I walked back to the front door and rang the doorbell again. Finally, I turned the key and opened the door.

“Mr. Pirkle?” I called out. “It’s me, Hudson. I used the emergency key to get in.” I tried to come off as confident and casual, but I knew my voice was shaky with fear. I should have let Fritzy know what I was doing. But this was my responsibility, not hers.

>>>

Much later I asked myself why I hadn’t seen the signs. They were right there in front of me the whole time.