Something was wrong. Tritia felt it the instant she stepped out of the car. The atmosphere was changed, strangely and indefinably altered. The air was still, even the birds and insects quiet, as though some vast invisible soundproof barrier had been placed over the property. The house itself seemed empty, abandoned, though nothing physical appeared to have changed. She shivered. Death hung over Irene’s house. She knew it as surely as she knew today was Tuesday. She pushed the thought from her mind. She was just being foolish. Superstitious. She forced herself to walk across the dirt to the front door. Peering through the lace curtain, she saw no sign of movement.

She knocked on the door. “Irene!”

Her voice died flatly, without even the faintest hint of an echo.

Still no movement inside. Something was definitely wrong. She knocked harder, rang the bell. “Irene!”

What if the old woman really had fallen down and had broken something and couldn’t move? What if she had had a heart attack or a stroke?

What if the mailman had gotten her?

“Irene!” Tritia rattled the doorknob, but it was locked as usual. Worried now, she moved around the side of the house to the back door, weeds scratching her bare ankles. The back door was unlocked and she pushed it open carefully. A bad sign. Irene always locked both doors.

Maybe he was in the house.

“Irene!”

The house was silent.

Tritia’s heart was pumping crazily, pounding with an amplified fear rhythm she could feel in her stomach and throat and could hear in her head. She should get out of here now, fast, and drive straight to the police station and bring someone back. The last thing she should do was explore on her own. But her feet carried her forward into the kitchen. The floor was littered with pots and pans and broken china, and she stepped gingerly over the smashed pieces of shattered glass. On the counter, she could see a loaf of homemade bread covered with splotches of green mold. In the window, Irene’s plants had grown wildly before succumbing to the brown dryness of a waterless death. The room was filled with the mingled odors of spices, herbs, and decay.

“Irene!” she called.

No answer.

She continued through the doorway into the living room, took in at a glance the ripped upholstery of the antique furniture, the overturned television, the debris on the Oriental carpet, and realized that Irene was not here.

She recalled the parcels in the den, and she thought she knew in which room she would find her friend. She felt a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. “Irene!” she called.

No answer.