He turns to look at me, almost smiles. Then he gets up and floats in the other direction across the grass.

My heart pinches with regret, and confusion. I look at my mom, who has turned off the car and is still staring at the trees. For a moment I hope she can see the beauty, the way she used to see beauty in everything.

“We should call an exterminator,” she says, and turns to head for the door.

Inside, Crafty Agatha knits away silently in her chair. I light a fire in the fireplace because Mom is shivering, but soon she shuffles off to bed without saying good night. I can hear her getting changed and ready for bed upstairs, and the ticking of the grandfather clock on the wall, but otherwise the house is quiet.

Then there is the smallest noise downstairs, a mutter.

I look toward the basement door, and Crafty Agatha speaks.

“He’s here,” she says. My stomach flops over sickly.

I stare at the door. I don’t want to go down. But what choice do I have? I glance up the stairs and wish my mom could come with me. Then I cross the room, wincing at each sound of the floor creaking. I crack open the door, and pull the string to turn on the one dim lightbulb that hangs in the staircase.

Heart pounding, I take the first step down into the dimness. I’m a big giant pounding terrified heart with legs.

I can’t see him at first. It’s only when I’ve reached the basement floor and peered in all directions that I spot him in the corner, in the shadows beyond the glow of the light, his red eyes glowing like embers in the dark, his fingers rubbing against each other as if he’s holding himself back from lunging for my throat.

“My basement,” he says. “My space. My house, my house, my house.”

I take two steps backward, but then shakily stand my ground.

“I need to ask you something,” I say.

He stares at me, his lips moving as he mutters to himself, but I can’t tell what he’s saying.

“About the hospital. And the night I was born.” Except for his twitching hands, he doesn’t move, only watches me. “Were you there when the Memory Thief came that night?”

He stands for a moment longer as if frozen, and then a smile spreads on his face.

It sinks into my heart like a heavy stone. He knows. He knows something.

“Please tell me,” I whisper. “How was I saved? What was my mom’s secret about the witches? Was it something that helped protect me?”

He chuckles softly to himself.

“Why do you hate us?” I whisper.

He stares at me a long time. “My house, not yours,” he says flatly. “I hate anyone who lives in my house.”