Liam didn’t see it that way. He sensed that the house was trying to speak. As if it had something to say. A message. But who could he tell? No one would believe him. “Liam and his overactive imagination,” they’d explain. He was, everyone said, a dreamy boy. Still, Liam was unable to make out the exact message. What was the house trying to tell him? Who else had lived in this place, moving like shadows through the walls?

Who had lived here before?

WHAM.

A door slammed shut.

“Dad? Kelly?”

No answer. Kelly was outside, her long hair pulled back in an athletic ponytail, shooting baskets at a rusted rim in the driveway. He could hear Kelly dribbling on the cement, hear as the ball rattled against the backboard. An engine’s dull hum told Liam that Mr. Finn was riding the John Deere over the lawn. Cutting the grass, trying to tame the shaggy yard.

Liam was alone in the house.

Next Liam heard … water? He moved cautiously toward the hallway bathroom, the one he shared with his sister. He put his ear to the door. The shower was running.

Liam knocked. No answer. He called out, “Kelly?” No answer came. He scratched roughly at his red, uncombed hair and made a decision. He turned the knob, gently pushed open the door. The room was filled with smoke. No, not smoke. Steam. So thick it was impossible to see. Liam reached into the empty shower stall, shut off the hot water.

The mirror was fogged up. As the steam leaked out through the open door, the mirror returned to normal. Clean and clear—except for a few cloudy lines. At first, Liam didn’t understand what he was seeing. Because the letters in the mirror were reversed.

The message read:

Mine? Liam gasped.

Another door opened somewhere. Liam poked his head around the corner, looked downstairs. It was his father. Mr. Finn wiped his hands on his jeans, stomped his work boots. Liam trailed his father into the kitchen. The big man stood, one hand leaning on the counter, listening to his cell phone with a frown on his face.

He shook his head, hung up.

“Who was that?” Liam asked.

“I don’t get it.” Mr. Finn looked at Liam. “Doesn’t anybody want to work in this town? That’s the third carpenter who turned me down cold.”

“Maybe you don’t pay enough,” Liam joked.

“I pay plenty,” Mr. Finn grumbled. “It’s just these local guys … I don’t know what’s wrong with ’em.” Mr. Finn pulled bologna and a loaf of white bread from the fridge. “You hungry?”

Liam said he was.