“Afternoon, Lou,” Claire sings as I stroll past her.

Does anyone else work here?

“Afternoon,” I call back. My voice is friendly enough for her sake, but I’m outside before I’m forced to be conversational.

I turn right onto Main Street as instructed and tuck my red scarf beneath my sweater as I walk. The air is cold enough to produce white puffs with each breath, but I’m warming up little by little with every step. With my pace fast, it’s not long before any sign of humanity fades into the distance. No more cute little houses to greet me now, just a deserted road surrounded by what looks like miles of red dirt and tree-littered fields. The flat road curves into an upward slope, and I’m feeling a bit leery now.

Massive iron gates ease into view at the top of the hill. Black birds watch me from the tree branches as I walk, and the sky is heavy above my head. The whole vibe feels like something out of a horror movie, and I’m about to be the poor dumb girl who ignores all the signs flashing psycho and finds herself hacked up for dinner. Okay, maybe that’s a little dramatic, but it’s at least at the level of Goosebumps, Things That Go Bump in the Night.

Once I arrive at the towering gate, I scan it for a latch, a buzzer, or a camera—something to give me a clue on how to get past the thing. When I can’t find anything obvious, I move forward and tug on the rusted metal. The gate swings open with a loud creak, and I pass through. A winding concrete path leads me to the front door, and I’m almost disappointed to see how normal looking the house is after all the creepy build up. No bats. No cobwebs to get tangled in my hands when I ring the doorbell. Just a nice, traditional, white house tucked beneath the trees.

A few moments pass with no response, so I ring again.

Who is this old Mr. Blackwood, anyway? I realize a tad too late I probably should have gotten more info on this guy before up and waltzing myself over, unannounced.

It isn’t the alcoholism that worries me so much. It’s the kind of guy the stuff turns him into. He likes his liquor could mean a whole crap load of things. If he’s just an unpleasant, bitter alcoholic, I can deal with it. Hell, Bobby’s middle name was Dick whenever he drank too much. I’d had enough experience with that side of him over the span of our relationship that I should be able to add it to my resume. But Bobby was a quiet, lazy sort of dick, if that’s a thing. His behavior was more out of ignorance than spite.

The fact that Claire said Mr. Blackwood couldn’t keep a caretaker for more than a few weeks is what has me on edge. His previous employees would have been from this town, people who probably already knew the man’s history, demeanor, and ticks before going in. If they couldn’t even stick around, exactly what kind of person am I quite possibly about to be working for?

A few loud thumps and crashes sound from behind the door before it drifts open, but whoever unlatched it has already disappeared. I hesitate before I enter, stepping past the threshold and closing the door behind me as grim piano strokes from the classic Funeral March play in the back of my mind.

The man I presume is Mr. Blackwood stands in the middle of his living room—a good sized room with bland white walls, whose wooden coffee table and mocha-colored couches are strewn with crumpled pieces of paper and ink-filled notepads. I spot at least three empty glasses decorating the table, a mostly empty bottle of Three Ships Whisky serving as the centerpiece, and several plates of foul smelling food, which I suspect are not from today.

Awesome. More whiskey. I don’t know why, but it makes me think of one of those dreams. The smell in the air as that boy was being whipped. A shudder runs through me before I force it away. At least no cigar smoke wafts through the air this time.

His back is to me, greeting me with silence and a head of stringy grey hair brushing over hunched shoulders, as he lowers a new glass onto the table. Uncorking the whiskey, he takes his sweet time emptying the bottle down to the last drop. A cane rests dormant against the couch, and the glint of silver beside it catches my eye. It’s coming from the man’s right leg. Metallic grey peeks out from a small gap between the hemline of his pants and his black leather shoes. When he straightens himself to take a deep swig from the glass, his pants lower, covering it completely.

“So,” he begins, his voice gruff and dripping with disdain, “who sent you this time, huh? Patty? Dr. Keirston?” He still doesn’t turn to face me, just wanders over to the couch and picks up one of his notepads with his free hand. He lets out a bitter laugh and slurs, “I don’t really give a shit, actually. Go home. You’re wasting your time and mine.”

I narrow my eyes, not yet decided on whether I should be falling for his I-hate-the-world act or not, and not sure if I care either way. Bushy, silvery facial hair hides most of his expression from view, making him difficult to read. One thing I can tell straight off the bat, though, is this man isn’t the conversational type, and honestly, it’s a relief.

“The hospital didn’t send me,” I say simply. “I was told you need a caretaker, so I showed up for the job.”

He grunts and ambles into the next room, which I assume from my partial view of the breakfast nook must be the kitchen. Cabinet doors open and slam as he searches for something. “Yeah, well they lied,” he calls through the short wall dividing us. “Been taking care of myself for years.”

I glance around at the messy, alcohol-stenched room and shake my head, muttering, “Clearly.”

“Go. Home,” he repeats, clipping the end of each word between drunken slurs.

I can tell he means to sound threatening, and it might have worked if he’d actually face me. Right now, he sounds like an old man who’s about to pass out from one too many.

“Why do you keep putting an ad out if you don’t want the help?” A small, disorganized stack of newspaper articles on the carpeted floor catch my eye, and I lean down to take a peek. The images are in black and white, and the edges are worn, frayed.

“Not that I owe you an explanation,” he grunts, “but I don’t keep doing anything. Some of the people in this town think they know me and what I need, and they won’t stop with the bullshit ads. Not lucid, my ass.” He mumbled the last line, but I heard it loud and clear.

“Look, Mr. Blackwood,” I call, straightening and craning my neck to peek into the next room. “I’m not looking for a friend. I just need the work. I’ll do what I’m being hired for, but otherwise . . . I keep to myself, you keep to yours.”

He staggers back into the living room. He’s got another bottle of whiskey now, but he doesn’t bother to use a glass this time. Just takes a swig straight out of the bottle and walks toward me. “Well, isn’t that consider—” He finally takes a second to look at me, his wrinkled forehead crinkling deeper and tired, hazel eyes narrowing as though he’d just caught me in a lie. “What’d you say your name was?”

“I didn’t.”

He shakes his head and quietly barks, “Dammit, what’s your name, child?”

I cross my arms over my chest in reflex, as though the movement will somehow make me seem stronger. “Lou . . . Tallulah Adaire.”

He watches me for another minute with skeptical eyes, then eventually rubs a hand over his untrimmed beard and swivels around. He’s stumbling away again—this time, toward a set of stairs on the far-right corner—and I notice a limp in his step. He doesn’t seem to mind, seeing as he’s left his cane behind.

I roll my eyes. Well, it’s been pleasant, but that must be my cue to leave. I spin on my heel and reach for the doorknob when I hear his garbled voice. “Housekeeping. Tomorrow, be here nine o’clock sharp for details. One slip and you’re out.”

When I turn back to question, he’s already disappeared up the stairs. I’m not inclined to go after him for answers, so I step out into the brisk air and head toward the road, wondering what just happened.

Whatever his problem is, though, it doesn’t bother me as much as I let on. Maybe it should. I know I’m selfish for this, but it’s oddly comforting to find another person in this town who’s got issues.

I swear something flickered in his eyes when he finally looked at me. Could he have known Grams?

The possibility alone makes my heart swell. I’ve seen enough pictures of her younger self to know how much we look alike: identical large brown eyes and fair skin, the same heart-shaped face, and we’re both above average in height. The only major difference is our hair color, hers being almost black, while my lighter, honey-brown strands come from Dad’s side of the family.

Still, even with our obvious resemblance, the chances of him having been close to Grams are slim. We had just celebrated her ninetieth birthday the month before her passing, and Mr. Blackwood only appears to be around seventy, possibly late sixties. That’s a pretty big age gap.

Regardless, I didn’t come here to pry into her past. I just wanted . . . Well, I suppose I didn’t really know what I wanted, what I expected to gain out of moving here. Comfort, perhaps? Some sort of closure?

Maybe I just needed someplace to run to.