“She lay in bed, thinking the sound would stop, but it didn’t. She heard it again. Rap-rap-rap. She was scared now. This little girl, though, she was not the kind of little girl who would just call out ‘Daddy!’ or ‘Mommy!’ in the dark. She was the kind of little girl who would get up and see for herself what was making the noise, even though she was afraid. And that’s what she did. She climbed quietly out of bed and slowly tiptoed across her room and slowly opened the door to her bedroom.”

I mimed creaking a door open. My voice was as quiet as I could make it with the roar of the ocean behind us. The key to a scary story is to tell it in an almost-whisper, like a secret. Even William was transfixed now, staring at me, unmoving.

“She heard the sound again and it got louder. It went rap-rap-rap. She looked around her living room. The room looked different in the dark—all the furniture was lit up by just the moon—but everything seemed to be in place. So she tiptoed ever so quietly to the kitchen. She could still hear the sound going rap-rap-rap, but it didn’t sound like it was coming from the kitchen. So she tiptoed to the hallway. The sound was louder there. It went Rap! Rap! Rap! She tiptoed down the hall. She stopped in front of the closet. The sound was very loud there. RAP! RAP! RAP!”

Sienna was curling inward, hunching her shoulders, clenching her fists. I almost felt bad, watching her fear. I had the urge to reassure her it was nearly over, but instead I continued.

“She slowly turned the knob on the closet door. The door creaked open, the sound getting louder and louder. RAP! RAP! RAP!”

Sienna’s eyes were little moons, her mouth hanging open a little. “Do you know what was inside?” I asked her.

She vigorously shook her head.

“The wrapping paper,” I said.

She crumpled, pulling her knees in, covering her face with her hands, shaking her head. “That was a dumb story!” she said, giving me the same reaction I used to give my dad when he told it to me.

“Yep,” I said. “It was!”

“I want a better story,” she said. “I want you to think of a better story.”

“I might need more time,” I told her.

“I’ll come back tomorrow,” she replied.

26

THE NEXT DAY THERE WAS NO TIME TO MEET SIENNA ON THE beach. We left early: James, Carlow, William, and I, with Lonnie lagging behind—first to finish a telephone call, and then to shove last-minute necessities into a big straw bag—and boarded a sailboat. “A keelboat,” James explained. “Scientifically impossible to tip over.”