We moved into my grandparents' house in 2016 when they decided to downsize. I was nine.

They had built the place in the early 90s, and it sits on five acres out on the outskirts of a small southern town.

Woods and open fields stretch around it, and a slow, muddy river winds past our southern fence

line. On two sides, our property touches our only neighbor's land, an odd, crooked patch of

acreage with a house that felt like it was sinking into the ground.

That house was old.

The original farmhouse had been built in the 1920s, and over the years it had been added

onto in all the wrong ways, like someone stapled extra rooms together without a plan.

The siding was discolored and soft looking.

Every time you glanced at it, it just looked wet, even on dry days.

The yard was a nightmare, overgrown bushes tangled with vines, broken fountains surrounded by weeds,

gnomes missing heads, and old trash that looked like it had been there for years.

Grocery bags flapped in the tree branches, a rusted lawnmowers sat in the

middle of the grass like it had died mid-job and was never moved. It was the place that made you

want to hold your breath when you walked by. At the time, the house was home to two elderly sisters,

Violet and Agnes, and three kids. Violet was the quieter of the two, always sitting on the porch

in a faded green rocking chair, just watching the trees. Agnes was sharper and more active,

but she still moved like her bones hurt. Both women were in their 70s, at least. The kids were

their grandchildren. The boy, Liam, was my age and in my grade at school.

The other two were girls named Allison and Kelsey. They were the same age as my younger sister.

Liam was weird. I didn't like him, and I didn't want to hang out with him. But we were in the same

class, so we got lumped together a lot.

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