The ragged screen door of the house screeches as I push it open and peer inside.

Hello?

I look around the entryway, seeing an antique table piled with dusty porcelain figurines.

The runner on the floor is so old and worn, I can only see the once vibrant designs on the outer edges.

The middle of the rug has been worn down to a dark gray.

Mrs. Fontenow, I call, stepping up into the entryway. The house looks like it's leaning

slightly from the outside, and as soon as I step up into it, I can tell that it isn't just an

illusion. There's a barely perceptible tilt to the floor. There are stairs ahead of me,

leading up into the musty house. The afternoon sun streams in from behind me, but the house is dark

since my eyes haven't adjusted. Everywhere I can see, the wallpaper is peeling and bubbling

from the Louisiana heat and humidity. This

once-great house is falling apart, and I expect it will be the same for the old woman who lives here.

Mrs. Fontenow? I call again, stepping up to a closed door on the left. As I turn the knob and

open the door, a creak sounds from

behind me. Looking over my shoulder, I see nothing. I return my attention to the doorway,

seeing a girl missing an ear and her right arm staring up at me from just inside the room.

I jerk back, my heart, lurching into my throat. She steps toward me.

My first thought is that she's dead. She's a ghost, haunting this old house. Her eyes have no

life in them, and her expressionless face makes me want to scream for reasons I hope to never

fully understand.

Who are you? Get out of here. A voice shouts for my right, from upstairs. It's Mrs. Fontenow,

and she has a rather large shotgun pointed down at me. I bring my eyes back to the little girl,

...