I waded into the thick mess of briars and weeds that cling to the house. I clutched the diary to me, trying to protect it. Is there anything on this planet that doesn’t want to scratch me? But it wasn’t as hard to fight through them as I had expected. Some of the briars were snapped and hung sadly as if something had recently forced its way through. Others lay broken on the dirt, as if trampled underfoot. Unease stirred.

When I reached the window I tugged at the plywood but it was solid, still nailed fast. I stood back again and looked. Something was wrong, but what? Then the sun came out again. It caught the nail heads. They shone, store-bright.

I knew then—someone had been here. They crawled up to the house, through thorns and poison oak and brambles. They carefully dug the nails out of the window frame and lifted the plywood off. And after that, I have to assume they lifted the sash and went inside. Later, they came out again and hammered it back in place and left. They did a good job. I might never have known. But they didn’t think to reuse the old nails. Instead, they put these shiny things in. It’s impossible to know when. These thoughts were like being punched repeatedly in the neck.

Were they watching right now? I looked about me, but it was still. A lawnmower growled somewhere.

I made my way out of the briars and toward the back door. I felt the weight of unseen eyes. I didn’t run—though I wanted to, every muscle wanted to, my skin itched with the urge to run. Once inside I closed the door gently behind me and locked the locks. Thunk, thunk, thunk. But the sound didn’t mean safety anymore. I went to the living room window. My fingers sought the latch on top of the sash. It was loose in my hand. As I turned it, the latch came right off in a little shower of brown dust. At some point over the years the metal catch rusted through. Anyone could have got in.

I never open the windows, of course. I forgot that they did open. That was a mistake. There was a gasping sound somewhere, and I realized it was coming from me. I paced up and down the living room, kicking uselessly at the bobbly blue rug. I always feared this day might come. Mommy told me it would, in the forest, after the thing with the mouse. The day she understood my true nature. They’ll come for you, Teddy. I hoped so hard that she was wrong.