IF I COULDN’T CLEAN, damn it, I could at least repair some of the broken floorboards in the kitchen. There should be plenty of wood to salvage from the half-collapsed stable in the backyard. It was offset from the house, a long walk toward where the pecan trees were thicker. I hadn’t explored it yet. The realtor had said it was built many decades after the house was constructed.

Leaving the bathroom mess behind me, I walk toward the living room to rummage through the boxes. I’d stuffed a couple packs of wipes into one of them. I always kept them around, in case my stub inside the prosthetic got sweaty and hot. The damp cloths did wonders to cool the discomfort. As I pass through the foyer, a chill passes over my body.

I ignore it. This house is wrought with groans and creaks and breezes, mysteries of its old age. I tell myself that all the shit was in my mind—like Jace, that everything strange had a natural explanation. I’ll be fine.

Goddammit.

I don’t hear strange sounds from the upstairs.

Yet, even in the living room, the hallway behind me, I can still feel the sensation of something that should not be. My ghosts again, always following me around, never leaving me alone to find peace.

Walking back out into the sunshine feels good, like the shadiness of the house had settled over me like a blanket that would not slough off until I was outside into the living brightness.

Looking back at the house, I am grateful to find the windows empty of faces.

I’m okay, my mind is okay, I am not deteriorating under the weight of the blood of my brothers, the lives I’ve taken, and the screams that fill my dreams. I’ll be sane just a while longer. It is all I ask of this life now.

Moving quickly, my prosthetic hiccupping every few steps and not swinging at the knee, I make my way to the stable. In the distance, the servant’s cottage waits its turn for the coming change. It’s a much smaller building with a padlocked door. I haven’t bought bolt cutters yet to break my way into it, but I’m interested to peruse its condition too. For now, though, I focus back on the structure in front of me. The entrance to the stables is still viable, the door swung inward to reveal a long passage with the right side of the stables still intact. The left side is a mess of splinters and shards.

Hesitating, trying to determine if it’s safe, I decide to throw caution to the wind and walk in. I expect to feel the darkness here, like I do in the house, but this building holds nothing but cobwebs. There is no oppression outside the confines of time-worn wood and remnants of equine pursuits.

The wood is as good as I thought it’d be. And, despite the stables being built many years after the house, the material is similar and so is the craftsmanship. The part that has remained protected from the elements—where the roof has not collapsed or been damaged to allow water into the interior—is strong. I can repair the broken floor in the kitchen with this. Stain it to match. That’s how I want to fix this house, by keeping everything I could as original as possible.

I don’t want to rob the history of it by pouring in new materials, making it an amalgam of past and present. It wouldn’t feel right to me. So I’ll scrub until my hands are raw. I’ll salvage until there’s nothing left to salvage. The house is alive, in its own way, and preserving its individuality is important to me. More than it should be. I can’t explain why.

Walking to the trailer, I grab the tools I need—crowbar, hammer, portable wagon that folds flat when I’m not using it. It’s not strong, I can’t carry a lot in it at one time, but it’ll do until I can get to the hardware store.

A half hour later, I have eight beautiful boards. Sweat’s pissing down my face like it’s been let loose from a storm cloud. The back of my neck feels grimy as hell, too, but God, it feels good to work with my hands. I like the tools of this trade far better than the tools of my old one. My foster mother had been surprised when I’d enlisted. She said I was too softhearted to be a soldier.

She hadn’t known me well enough to make that assessment.

I wasn’t softhearted. If anything, my heart was fossilized, a stone inside my chest that beat only to keep me alive so the demons would have something to haunt.

Pulling the wagon back to the house, my gaze goes to the windows once again. Still empty. Still sane. A smile creeps onto my face, spreads my lips slowly, but it’s mechanical. Like I’m only smiling because I should smile. I want the genuine feeling that comes along with the expression. I want that moment back at the restaurant before the waitress realized I was only part a man. When I’d laughed there, it had felt like finding home.

Then it had ended. She’d seen what I was. She’d found companionship in the arms of someone else.

I park the wood-laden wagon at the base of the short set of back steps. Carrying the wood inside, I set it upon the cracked counter. The kitchen had been remodeled sometime in the seventies. Everything about it is terrible. I’d have to really go on the hunt to find period-appropriate materials to restore what once was. What I really need though, is for the damn historical society to come by and give me the go ahead on my plans. I can’t do much until that point.

A few floorboards though, a little cleaning, they can blow me if they don’t like me doing those things without approval. It’s easier to beg for forgiveness than ask for permission.

As the saw blade bites into the first length of wood—after I’d measured twice and double checked that the height of the wood would match the existing subfloor—a series of knocks interrupts me. They are light, but insistent. I finish my cut, cursing that someone would bug me as soon as I’d started working.

Unplugging the equipment, I walk towards the front door and see a small woman with ginger hair standing on the other side. She is marred by the dirty window glass, but I can tell already that she is prettier than most. She’s messing with a lock of hair that won’t stay in place behind her ear.

When my fingers go to grip the doorknob, the air around me becomes frigid. I shake off the feeling, shove off the demons that are trying to call me.

The door creaking open makes the woman jump slightly, and her hand falls away from the rebellious strands. She smiles and it is wide and uninhibited, full lips exposing a row of pearly whites.

“Hi!” She’s chipper, but her grin falters as she studies my face. “Oh, um, weren’t you expecting me?” She lifts the inch-thick stack of papers contained by a thin manila folder. “I’m from the historical society.”

“I had no damn idea when to expect you people, actually.” I want to be nice to her, but, shit, I’m not in a pleasant mood. “At first, I was told it would be a matter of a week. Then that week turned into a month and a half. Then I’m told a few days. What? Was I supposed to magically deduce that this time it would actually be a few days?”

“Oh, gosh...” Her shoulders slump, and the smile disappears. Her fingers nervously tick back up to the hair that is once again out of place, trailing down her neck, following the line of her blouse and disappearing beneath her blazer. She twiddles it, curling the pieces around her index finger. “I’m not involved with that end, but I’m sorry. Sometimes things just get delayed, often for really dumb reasons.” She’s being honest about the situation. I can appreciate that at least.

“Yeah, well, there’s not a lot I can do here until the plans are approved. I’m not the type of guy who can sit around, with a thumb up my ass all day.” I shift.

The hair is still between her fingers, and she’s teasing her lip with her tongue, a flirty motion that continues until she nods, trying to force the smile back to her face. “Again, I’m very sorry for the delay.”

She lifts the paperwork. “I’ve actually got the documentation here. Most of it was approved, but they noticed you didn’t include any plans for the stables or the servant’s cottage out back. Now those aren’t technically on the register because they were built more currently, but, if at all possible, they’d really like to see them rebuilt. I’ve got some photos to show you from that time period so you can see it in its glory. It’s more of a request though. If the thing needs to be torn down, they’ll sign off on it. There’s also one or two little nitpicky things about the interior design.” She’s standing on the front stoop, rifling through the documents and trying not to send the white sheets spilling out in a cascade. I’m tempted to watch her struggle, even though I know the approval delays aren’t her fault.

Finally, I throw her a bone. “Why don’t you come in? It might be easier to go over those sitting. Don’t have much furniture, but there’s a few things left over from the previous owners. If you don’t mind a little dust on your skirt.”

The smile is back now in full force, as bright as her orange-red hair in the sunshine. “That would be great.”

When we’re both in the house, her nose crinkles. The foyer dances with dust motes. And I’ve added sawdust, making the air even murkier. “Sorry, I was trying to repair a bit of subflooring.” I grin, rubbing a hand across the back of my neck. “Actually salvaged some from that stable you folks want me to repair. Has the society really had a good look at it? Thing’s only half-standing.”

“I think they sent someone out a few weeks ago to look over the property and compare it to your plans. Trust me when I say these guys want everything restored if possible. You could have a 17^th century dog house that’s nearly turned to dirt and they’d still debate having you mold the soil into a dog house-like shape to preserve historical integrity.” She laughs and it’s a wind chime, bouncing off the walls with a fairy-like tinkling.

It’s contagious, and I can’t help but chuckle. As the sound passes through my lips, the cold sensation that hit me as I opened the door hits me again. It’s Antarctica this time, freezing me to my core. In surprise, I exhale and believe I can see the cold air within my chest meeting the warm air around me. It is a cloud of paleness.

“Did it just get cold in here to you?” The woman shivers and presses the folder to her body with both hands. “These old houses really are drafty and chilly, even in summer, aren’t they?”

“Yeah. Movers thought I had air conditioning.” I move away from her towards the living room. She follows and soon we are seated on the yellowing sheet covering the settee. She smooths the wrinkles from her skirt and pulls the material a bit further down her thighs. Her fingers then move to unbutton the navy blazer she wears; the parting of the jacket reveals more of the soft pink blouse and the way it hugs her curves.

“Okay, here are the approval documents and the contingencies they’ve outlined. As long as you’re okay with them and sign your acceptance, then everything can move forward. I’ve been assigned to your project, so I’ll be out every once in a while to check on progress and make sure you’re complying with the approved plans.” She hands me a piece of paper.

I read through it. Everything seems fine—just a few things about the kitchen changed, where the fridge would be located, how I’d handle replacing the cabinetry. They’ve even suggested a local carpenter, along with a roofer and a plumber. “Looks fine.” I set the sheet down, staring at the pages and how many times my name appears.

“Let’s sign then. Here you go.” Pulling a black pen out of the breast pocket of her jacket, she begins to point at small sections bearing yellow highlighter.

“I think I can figure it out.” I save her the trouble of flipping through and pointing to every place I have to put my John Hancock. Her only response is a smile, but she sets the pen down between us so that I can pick it up. Page after page, I sign. It takes a good ten minutes. I look at her once or twice. She contents herself by studying every facet of the sitting room. Her profile is nice. No sharp angles, all softness.

By the last stroke of the pen, I don’t care what my signature even looks like. It’s a messy, tired scrawl.

“That should do it for now.” She gathers up all the pages, neatly tucking them back in the folder. “I’ll mail you a copy of all this for your own records. I like your name, by the way. My dad’s middle name was Spencer. Johnathan Spencer Booth. I always figured if I had a boy, I’d name him Spencer.” She stands and uses her right hand to smooth her skirt down. The wrinkles stay though and so does the dust across her backside. Her soft smile causes more wrinkling, lovely little lines around her eyes. “Are you named after someone in your family?”

“I only know it was on my birth certificate.” I stand also and walk, leaving her in the living room, assuming she’ll follow. She does.

“Oh...” Her voice trails off. It’s the second time I’ve made her smile disappear, and I feel like crap over it. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’ve been an orphan all my life. I don’t know anything different.” I hesitate, pausing in the foyer. “I never asked your name.”

“Sophie.” She holds out her right hand, and I take it gently. When our palms meet, an electric shock rockets through me. It burns and by the widening of her eyes, I know she’s felt it too. We pull apart, wincing, both gently rubbing at our hands.

“What the hell...” I turn, looking around, trying to figure out what had just happened. The stairs catch my gaze, a wisp of skirt... or something transparent... disappearing to hide on the second floor.

“That was unexpected.” Sophie is studying her hand. There is a small gray area there, almost like a burn, but not... like the color has been stolen from her skin. As we watch, the normal peachy hue bleeds back in. “So odd.”

She’s still rubbing her hand as another wayward curl slips from the once-neat bun curled at the nape of her neck. It falls to join the other strand brushing along the v-collar of her blouse, leading my eyes and my thoughts in a downward spiral.

Desire is a punch to my gut.

“Yeah. Odd.” It can’t be in my head. Not if this woman has felt something too. Or can it be? God, nothing is making sense. This house is supposed to save me. It’s supposed to save me. Shit. I’m feeling crazier than ever.

I watch Sophie get into her silver car and she waves before pulling away from the iron fence line. I find that I’m looking forward to her next visit.

The thought beckons back the glacier to ice my insides but does nothing to douse the heated fantasy that’s already raging in my mind’s eye.