This whole week, she’d been talking about him. The masked man who lived in our new house. Our newest oldest house.

“There’s nothing in your closet, Chuck,” I said for the tenth time in four days.

A glower of indignation replaced the saucer-eyed stare of fright she’d been projecting my way ever since the sun had set, taking with it the cozy yellow glow that had surrounded our house—an older-than-Christmas Victorian.

“Don’t call me Chuck.”

I pushed off from where I’d been lying belly-down across my metal-framed bed, calculus book open.

“All right, Chess,” I grunted, opting for the more acceptable nickname Dad had given her. I didn’t feel like trading Charlie’s six-year-old fear for her six-year-old fury: stomping and top-of-the-lungs screeching.

I took Charlie’s small hand, and she gave my fingers a squeeze.

“He talked to me last night,” she whispered, creeping me out. “He asked me questions.”

“Well.” I drew her toward the hallway. “Did you tell him to mind his own beeswax?”

Her feet stalled on the creaky, bare-wood floor. “He has bees?”

“No.” I bent down, bringing us eye level. “It’s a way of telling someone to leave you alone.”

“So . . . you believe me now,” she said, like stating that out loud would make it true. “That he’s in there. Zedok.”

She pointed down the long hallway to her doorway at the far end.

With the upstairs hall and bathroom lights off, I had to admit the trek to her bedroom did look ominous.

“There’s no one in your room, Chesser.” I hit the switch that sent light bursting from the huge, original-to-the-house crystal chandelier that hung over the grand staircase. “This is a big old house, and old houses make noises sometimes.” Realizing I’d just repeated something I’d probably heard responsible adult figures say a billion times, I made an amendment. “Just think of it like house farts.”

Usually, fart talk got laughs from Charlie. This time, I didn’t get so much as a smile. Gently, I tugged her forward. It was like trying to drag an anvil.

“Houses shouldn’t have other houses inside them,” she said.

“That’s right, they shouldn’t,” I agreed.

“This one does.” Again with the whispers. Like she was afraid someone was listening in.

I knelt in front of her. “What’s really going on, Chess? You never asked to sleep in my room when we were at the last house.”

“Because there wasn’t a man in the closet at the last house.”

Fair enough.

“Look. Do you want me to show you that there isn’t anyone in your closet?”

Charlie nodded, her eyes unblinking and silver-dollar-sized.

Her seriousness, coupled with her apparent confidence in my being a formidable opponent to her imaginary not-friend, made me smile.

I stood and meandered into her darkened room, where I flipped the light switch. I pivoted to face the closet in question. The door was open already, the small space inside empty.

Having inhabited the house for only a week, none of us had finished unpacking yet. Tired of having to box things up shortly after unboxing them, we’d all become accustomed to living in the land of limbo regarding our stuff. And Dad, perpetually “just about to” finish a place, never encouraged us to use anything as practical as a closet to store our clothes.