As I glided onto Constance’s street, I immediately picked up on the familiar feel of its layout. It was just like ours. The same wide road. The same tall trees. The same beautiful old homes.

Well, the same beautiful old homes with the exception of Graves House.

Despite all the comparisons to Ivywood Hollow, I could already see the houses had gone in two very different directions.

I had to use all of my strength to get up the hill to reach Constance’s home. Where our street ended, hers carried on up a fairly short, but steep, slope. The exertion left me struggling to catch my breath, but when I made it to the top and finally got my first real look at the house, I found it difficult to breathe for entirely different reasons.

From town the house still looked stately, its battle scars softened by distance. But up here, bathed in moonlight, I couldn’t help but think Nora had been right. It looked every bit like a haunted house.

The design had so much in common with the B&B—the side tower and gables, the tall windows on every floor, the wraparound porch that hugged the lower level—all of it was the same. Sadly, the similarities only served to highlight the decay of Graves House. It was in a terrible state. The shingles on the roof were curled and battered, and the paint had peeled in too many places to count. Most disheartening for me, though, was the porch. It had completely caved in on one side, ruining the beautiful lines of the lower level. If the structure had fallen apart due to lack of funds, that would have been one thing, but to let it rot out of pure spite, that was something else entirely.

I found it hard to believe Constance had actually been living here. I eyed the blue tarp flapping against one of the outer walls. It was the only sign the place hadn’t been abandoned.

As I sat balancing on my bike, taking in the pitiable sight, a disturbing sensation came over me. All of a sudden, I felt quite certain I wasn’t just staring at the house; the house was staring back at me.

The feelings I was picking up on were not welcoming, and they made me wonder if Graves House had somehow taken on some of its mistress’s bitterness and made it its own. I’d certainly heard tales of stranger things.

I shook off the sensation.

I had a job to do.

I tucked my bike away in the ditch on the opposite side of the street, grabbed the flashlight from my jacket pocket, and hurried back up to the road.

When I made it halfway across the street, I stopped short.

There it was again. That feeling like I was being watched. And not by the house this time.

My heart pounded in my chest. I looked around but couldn’t see anyone.

I frowned. It was probably just the circumstances getting to me. There was definitely something about sneaking around at night, trying to break into someone else’s house, that could put a witch on edge.