“Maybe,” Charlie said softly. His eyes were pinched with worry, and he looked away, studying the drawings in his hands again.

“It doesn’t really make sense, though, does it?” Charlie said. “What would I do with a five-and-a-half-foot doll on a track?” She reached for the letter again, holding it like a talisman though she did not need to read from it. “Was there a bigger version of Ella in the locked closet?”

John’s eyes searched the air without a target in the silent room for several long moments, then snapped back to attention. Charlie was quietly looking down at her own hand, slowly curling her fingers, then uncurling them. The silence dragged on, smothering, then John grabbed Charlie’s hand, startling her.

“I saw your blood.”

“What?” Charlie said, startled.

“I saw your blood that night. You bled. I don’t think Ella bleeds, do you?” The statement was absurd, but John was watching her uneasily, as if he expected a response. Seconds passed, and Charlie did not know what to say. “I thought you were dead that night,” John whispered at last.

“But I’m not dead, right?” She locked eyes with John. “I’m alive, right?” She took his hand, and he grasped hers tightly. He covered her hand in both his own, and she gave him a puzzled smile. “John?” she repeated nervously, and his jaw tightened. He looked on the point of speaking, when Charlie suddenly turned her head toward the window.

“What is it?” John said with alarm. Charlie put a finger to her lips and tilted her head to listen. There’s someone outside. John watched her face intently, then his eyes widened as he registered the sound, too: the footsteps crunched one last time on gravel outside, then were silent.

Around back, he mouthed, and Charlie nodded, dropping his hands and steadying herself on the trunk behind her as she stood. John hastened to help her, but she waved him off.

“Come on,” she whispered. “Back door?”

“I don’t know.” He started to make his way toward the hall, motioning her to follow. “Charlie, hurry.” John had doubled back to her, and was pointing urgently to the door. She shoved the letter into her back pocket, and followed him, picking her way cautiously through the debris of the storage room.

In the hallway, the thick and musty air hit like a wave, and Charlie swallowed her revulsion, trying not to picture her aunt’s body curled up in the next room. They crept down the hallway toward the front room, and the door, shuffling their feet so as to make no noise. At the end of the hall, John stopped, and Charlie waited, listening. There was only silence, then a wind chime rattled outside the front door, and they pulled back into the recess of the hall. John looked grim. “There.” He nodded to the door opposite the storage room, which was slightly ajar. “Was that open before?”