We arrived at the doorway to find a tattered wooden broom placed diagonally across it.

“Is that your fancy security system?”

“Ha ha, very funny.” I took in its damaged bristles. “It lets people know you’re not home.” I lifted it out of the way, setting it against the house. “So people know not to come by and visit.”

“Why would you want people to know you’re not home?” Jack swatted at a wasp with one hand as it flew by, digging in the pocket of his bomber jacket with the other. He pulled out a joint, lit it with his Zippo, and inhaled deeply. “Seems like a good way to get robbed.”

I shrugged with only one shoulder, unable to get them both to cooperate, before sliding my key into the lock, praying it wouldn’t fit. I turned it hesitantly until I heard a quiet click.

An old pickup truck rounded the corner; slowing, the driver craned his neck to see who could possibly be going inside. I lifted my wrist weakly, offering him a slight wave.

“Who’s that?” Jack asked, puffing on the joint, his eyes following the moving vehicle.

“No idea.”

I pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Everything was exactly as I remembered. The Persian carpet that ran up the stairway was covered in debris. The familiar painting of the nude woman engulfed in fire stared at me. Her erect nipples seemed a fitting response to the temperature in the house. The heat likely hadn’t been on in years. I shivered.

“I want to see your room.” Jack was already making his way up the stairs. They creaked under his weight.

“It’s the one at the end of the hall.” I followed him, the air growing denser with each step, my hand dragging along the banister. The yellowed wallpaper was peeling and had begun to curl where it met the ceiling. I stopped to pick at a piece, noticing newspaper glued beneath. The only words I could decipher were “boat ran aground” and the year 1877.

Jack disappeared inside my room.

My throat was dry, my pulse quickening as I rounded the corner, passing my parents’ closed bedroom door. I could see them standing behind it. I could hear their controlled yelling as they fought.

Suddenly, Jack screamed. My skin prickled as I sprinted to the end of the hall. “Jack?”

He was sitting on the bed, flipping through a magazine with Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen on the cover.

“I thought your room would be morbid,” he said, smirking. “It’s just a typical little girl’s room.”

The lavender walls. My books, my photographs, my stuffed animal collection. Most everything was perfectly preserved, unsullied by the passing of time. The fireplace mantle that displayed my snow globe collection was covered in shards of glass. The water inside must have frozen over the years, causing them to shatter. I lifted one and twisted the handle to activate the music box. It began, laborious at first, clicking and missing notes before settling into a fluid melody.