May 19, 1929 … Late morning

Oh diary, I didn’t think it could get any stranger than it already had, but I was wrong.

Over breakfast (after a sleepless night), I asked Henry again what had happened. I also wanted to get a better look at his arm, but he was wearing a long-sleeved shirt.

He chewed a piece of toast, refusing to meet my eyes. His face was all planes and angles, way too thin and pale, except for the bags and dark circles under his eyes. It hit me then—maybe last night wasn’t the first time he had sleepwalked. When was the last time he had slept through the night?

I was about to ask him again when he answered. “Do you think this house is haunted?”

My hand jerked, sloshing my tea onto the table. I had expected more denials, more insisting he was fine, not this. “That’s what they say in town.”

“What do you think?”

I focused on wiping up the spilled tea. “I think you were sleepwalking.”

His voice lowered. “Have you seen her?”

My cleaning slowed, then stopped. In my mind’s eye, I saw Mother in the middle of the sitting room, shoulders heaving with silent tears, telling me Henry was in trouble.

Is this what she meant?

“Mother is dead,” I said calmly, even though I could hardly breathe through the twisted knots in my stomach.

“Does that mean you haven’t seen her?”

It’s just a dream, I told myself. I couldn’t tell him about a dream. That would sound foolish. “Have you?”

“You just said she was dead. So, how could I have seen her?”

“Who died?” Father stepped into the kitchen, fixing both of us with his unblinking stare.

I lowered my eyes and concentrated on buttering my toast. “No one.” Henry got busy with his eggs.

Father’s eyes shifted suspiciously between us. “What were you talking about then?”

“Nothing important,” I said. “Coffee is on the stove for you.”

He studied us a minute longer before heading to the stove and pouring himself a cup. His hands trembled as he poured and he almost spilled, but he managed to catch himself and replace the pot before anything happened. “People talk about a lot of nonsense in town,” he said, stirring in milk. “I trust I raised both of you to have better sense than to listen to any of it.”

“Yes, Father,” I said.

Henry mumbled something that sounded like “yes.”

“Good,” he said, putting his spoon on the counter. “Because the last thing we need is to entertain any silliness in this house. We all should have better things to focus our attention on.”

“Of course,” I said.

Father took a sip of coffee and headed to the cellar. The moment the door clicked shut behind him, Henry was pushing himself out of his seat. “I’m done.”

“Henry, you haven’t finished your breakfast.” Not to mention we haven’t finished our conversation, I wanted to add.

“I’m not hungry,” he said, and left the kitchen before I could protest any more.