When I was twelve, my father sat me down at the kitchen table and explained to me that

his older brother, Lance, had been killed in a terrible accident.

Lance had been caring for my grandmother and now that he was gone, she was our responsibility.

We had to move right away.

I knew I should have felt sad for my father's loss, but all I could think of was how I was

being forced to leave my school and my friends for some miserable old lady I'd never met.

It wasn't fair.

I didn't speak to my parents for the entire ride to our new home, but they seemed oddly

relieved by that.

My father drove in white knuckled silence, my mother clutched the forehead and looked

at the window at the gusting leaves and jury skies of our new Midwestern home.

The house where Uncle Lance had lived with Granny was a two-story 19th century farmhouse

surrounded by stone fence and wise and dull trees.

I was reluctantly impressed by the high-crown moulded ceilings and teak furniture, the aristocratic

charm of the place.

Living here, I thought, would be like living in a museum.

I was afraid to touch anything at first, but I soon found myself testing the winged leather

round chairs, rooting through the shelves full of old books with strange titles and exploring

the second floor.

I'd forgotten all about the move, my friends, and even the old woman we supposedly come

out here to take care of, until I was halted by the first closed door I'd found in the

house so far.

...