Aaaaand Its Gone

Chapter 7 — The Line Between

By mid-morning the sky had flattened into pewter. Ada rode in the passenger seat of Sheriff Colter’s truck, hands clasped so tight her knuckles shone white. The road to the old Grant place was little more than two muddy ruts, the trees crowding close enough to scrape the mirrors.

“You’re sure they moved in?” Colter asked.
“Three weeks now,” Ada said. “Man, wife, and a little girl. Haven’t been to town since.”
The sheriff grunted, eyes on the winding track. “Place’s been empty near twenty years. Whole hill’s bad ground.”

When they crested the last rise, the house appeared—calm, still, too neat. Curtains drawn. No sound of hens, no car in sight. Yet the porch swing moved gently back and forth, squealing on its chain though no wind touched it.

“Stay here,” Colter said, stepping out. But Ada followed him, unable to stop herself.

The air around the farmhouse had a thickness to it, as though it were underwater. Every footstep came muffled, and the smell of rain hung where no rain fell.
Ada shaded her eyes toward the upper windows—and saw a face. A child’s, pale and still, watching from behind the glass. It vanished the instant she blinked.

Thomas was already at the front door with the suitcase in his hand. “Now,” he told Margaret. “Before the storm comes back.”

They stepped through—and into the hallway again. Same runner, same crooked picture on the wall. He tried the back door. The same result: hallway, picture, runner.

Josephine stood in the center of the room, head tilted as if listening to something beneath the floor. “She says the doors remember where they open,” she whispered.

Margaret pressed a palm to the wallpaper; it felt warm, almost breathing. The pattern of leaves and vines wavered and parted to reveal faint lines of paint beneath—a doorway painted into the wall long ago. In the mural stood a family of three, their faces blurred by age. The smallest figure had no face at all, only an empty oval the color of the plaster.

“Thomas,” she said, voice shaking. “Come look.”

Outside, Colter climbed the porch steps and knocked. The sound went nowhere; even Ada could tell it didn’t echo. He tried the latch. Locked.

“Anybody home?” he called.

Inside, Thomas heard the same words—but from behind him, as if someone stood at the opposite end of the hall repeating them. He turned, heart pounding, and reached for the front knob again. The door opened easily this time.

Instead of sunlight he saw two figures looking in through a window: a man in a brown uniform, a woman with a scarf around her neck. Their mouths moved, but he couldn’t hear what they said. The light behind them was blinding, white as reflected water.

“Margaret…” he breathed.

She took his hand. The painted vines on the wall behind them began to stir, leaves curling outward, revealing more of the hidden mural—a lake, a tree, a small figure standing beneath it. The air smelled of wet wood and lilies.

Josephine began to hum.

Ada stepped backward, gripping Colter’s arm. “Did you see that?”

“See what?”

“Them. All three of them. Right there.” She pointed at the window.

The sheriff squinted. The glass reflected only sky and the lake beyond.
“No one’s inside,” he said.

Yet when he looked down, he noticed the grass along the porch boards—bent all in one direction, as though someone had just walked past.

From the road, the farmhouse looked silent and whole. No light in the windows, no motion at all. Ada stared back once before the truck rounded the bend.

In the lake’s reflection, however, the windows blazed with a soft golden glow. Three figures stood side by side behind the glass, and above them, in the attic window, a fourth outline leaned close as if listening to the quiet world beyond.

Then the reflection rippled, and only the lake remained.