2

Jordan’s dad slid a rusty key into the lock and turned, then pushed open the front door to the old house. The Grimsley family was immediately greeted with a burst of musty air waiting to engulf the first intruder foolish enough to enter. Jordan coughed. It was like breathing through a sweaty old gym sock.

They stepped into the large, empty front hall. There was a dusty staircase on the left, a long, dark hallway straight ahead, and a big living room off to the right. The Grimsleys went right.

They entered what must have been at one time a lovely living room, long before the spiderwebs, mold, smelly carpeting, and peeling wallpaper took over.

Abigail spoke first. “Okay. This place is totally—”

“Perfect!” Mr. Grimsley exclaimed, stepping into the center of the room, waving his hands around dramatically. “I couldn’t agree more, Abbie! It’s perfect!”

Jordan and Abigail glanced at each other, then turned to their mother for help. But it was too late. Mrs. Grimsley was grinning ear to ear. “And totally fixer-uppable!” she said.

Jordan stared at his parents as they hugged each other in the center of this filthy room. Whatever form of insanity they shared, he hoped they hadn’t passed it along to him.

“I can’t believe you’re going to make us work here on our spring break,” Abigail said. “I miss my room. I miss Chunk. I miss—oxygen!” She stepped to a window and ripped open the heavy curtains. The window was boarded up. “Perfect.”

“All right, family meeting,” Mr. Grimsley said. “Look, I’m beginning to sense that not everyone is as excited as your mother and I about fixing this old place up. But the letter I received from Mr. Noodlepen was clear. We had a short time frame to take physical ownership of the house to claim it as our own.”

“We should claim it as a disaster area,” Abigail said.

“Look, I know it might need a little TLC—”

“More like TNT,” Jordan said, smiling at his sister. She didn’t smile back. Abbie never smiled at his jokes.

“But I also know,” their father continued, “that a little of the ol’ Grimsley grit will turn this place into a palace in no time!”

“I can’t believe this is our vacation,” Abbie said.

“Anyone can go on vacation,” Mr. Grimsley replied. “This is a . . . renovacation!”

Making his way down the long hallway, Jordan found numerous doors, each one opening to reveal a small bedroom. The hall continued all the way to the back of the house, leading into a massive dining room. Inside, a long, wide picnic table ran the entire length of the chamber, with benches on either side that could easily seat fifty or more people.

At the far end of the huge picnic table was a swinging doorway, which Jordan pushed through to enter a very large kitchen. Its multiple sinks, miles of countertop, and countless pantries and closets were all just as run-down and dingy as the rest of the house. Jordan tried to imagine the massive meals that could’ve been prepared here—and wondered who might have sat down at that humongous picnic table to eat them.

There was one last door off the kitchen, which led to the outside. It was jammed shut, and Jordan had to use all his might to push it open. It gave way, sending him stumbling into a thicket of weeds. Lying there, he looked up to see a cracked little face grinning over him. He locked eyes with the stone garden gnome, put his hand over its faded, pink-painted dimples, and pushed himself onto his feet.

The backyard was modest in size compared to the enormous house. It was bordered by a tall ivy hedge on either side, which ran straight back and attached themselves to an even taller concrete rear wall. In the yard were a few rusty old metal chairs overrun with tall weeds. The weeds grew everywhere, but were nothing compared to the monstrous growth towering upon and above the back wall, where a gnarl of swamp trees and vines twisted and tangled like an army of serpents attempting to storm the yard. Jordan couldn’t see over the wall but knew it was the only thing keeping the swamp from devouring his grampa’s old house—and all of Waning Acres beyond it.

The damp, heavy smell of the swamp wafted over and past the vines, settling into the backyard and reaching Jordan’s nostrils. He shut his eyes, breathed it in, and imagined all the slimy, rotting sludginess that could give off such a dank stench.

“Hey there, pal!”

Jordan’s eyes popped open to find his father standing beside him, staring at the swamp-jungle climbing over the wall. “Now there’s a Grimsley project! I’ll pick up some high-performance hedge clippers and we’ll tackle that challenge together!” He pulled out a clipboard and started flipping through pages of tasks. The man actually seemed happy about the impossibly long to-do list he’d created within the first ten minutes they’d been here.

“Uh, Dad, can I ask you something?”

“Sure, son.”

“Why are we doing all this? Why do we have to fix this place up?”

Mr. Grimsley glanced up from his list. He looked out at the sea of weeds leading to the ugly concrete wall barely holding back the swamp beyond it. “Jordan, your mom and I have always dreamed of running a bed-and-breakfast, someplace far from the city, where you and your sister could breathe fresh air.”

Jordan inhaled deeply again. The thick, rotten air filled his lungs like a mossy soup. “This place is a swamp, Dad.”

“The Okeeyuckachokee Swamp, to be exact! One of the biggest. And it starts right here, in our backyard. Or ends here, depending how you look at it, I suppose.”

He flipped through his to-do clipboard, considering the work ahead. “We’ve got two weeks to clean this place up, starting with, hmm . . .” He flipped through a few dozen more pages of chores. “Rip out carpet in hallway . . . identify sticky brown goo in the upstairs bathroom . . . Here! You can help me set up a few bedrooms so we can all get some shut-eye tonight. We’ve got a big first day tomorrow!” He smacked Jordan on the back, then bounded into the kitchen.

The sun was setting somewhere far beyond the Okeeyuckachokee Swamp, and the thick, curling trees cast long shadows across the yard, straining to reach Grampa Grimsley’s house. Like conductors’ arms, they seemed to cue a sudden symphony of creaks, croaks, and chirps that rose up from beyond the wall. Jordan moved toward the noise, wading slowly through the tall weeds. He placed his hand on the wall that held back the dark swamp, shut his eyes, and listened for a moment—this time trying to imagine the insects and animals making such a racket.

Suddenly, all went silent. Jordan opened his eyes. He looked up. A dark clump of tree branches was silhouetted against the sunset-streaked sky. He peered closer. It seemed to be breathing. Jordan strained to focus as it swelled. . . . FWOOSH! A violent flapping noise broke the silence as the black clump suddenly exploded into pieces, launching from the branches into the air above Jordan’s head.

“Aaaaaauuuggh!” He stumbled backward as a flock of blackbirds burst from the branches and took flight. They circled above the old house and flew off, disappearing somewhere over Waning Acres.

Jordan got up slowly. Abigail stood at an upstairs window, laughing at him. Without looking back at the wall, Jordan walked inside.