They didn’t want to put much energy or money into fixing up the trailer: they’d be there only a short time while building the house. Then they’d have the trailer carted off. Or turn it into a chicken house, maybe. Helen liked this idea and imagined a chicken roosting in the metal cabinets she now reached into to get out the coffee.

She put a filter into the basket of the drip pot, measured in the grounds, then filled the glass carafe, looking out the window above the sink. It was a miracle the trailer had running water, drawn from a well on the property—the same well they would rely on for their new house. Nate had had the water tested and pronounced it safe.

It was still dark, but the early predawn chorus of birds had started. It was much louder than the birds in Connecticut ever had been. She could hear them through the trailer’s open windows as she sat down at the table and flipped open her laptop to check her email. And maybe she’d start researching—see if she could find anything online on the supposed ghost of Breckenridge Bog, something that might give her some insight into the history of the place. She’d meant to start looking into it while they were back in Connecticut but had been too busy with the house plans and finishing up work at the school. Better to start here anyway, where she had access to the local library, records at the town hall, and local residents who might be able to tell her more about the history of her land than anything she was likely to find in old records.

She listened to the birds, thinking they sounded too loud, almost frantic, as she waited for her computer to boot up.

But there was something else, another sound. Not the tortured screaming from earlier. Something quieter.

Twigs breaking. Ground crunching.

It was the sound of footsteps.

Definitely footsteps. Coming from right outside the trailer.

She stood up and dashed down the hall to the bedroom, grabbed Nate’s foot and pulled.

“Nate!” she whispered urgently. “Get up.”

“Whas-it-this-time?” he slurred. “Another owl?”

“Someone’s outside.” She kept pulling at him.

“Animal,” he said. “Fox. Fisher.”

“Bullshit. There is a two-legged person out there. Now come on!”

She pulled the covers off. He reached up for his glasses, crawled to the foot of the bed.

“Get the flashlight,” Helen said.

Nate always kept a flashlight by the bed, even back at the condo. He believed in being prepared. Nate scooted back, reached up to the shelf and grabbed the big high-powered yellow rechargeable spotlight they’d bought at the hardware store for their Vermont adventure.

Nate shuffled down the hall in his T-shirt and boxers. With his round glasses, he looked like a grown-up Harry Potter, minus the scar.