Wait. Big ones? Like big claw marks?

“I know. It sounds weird. It’s just . . .” He trails off.

“Uh. I don’t have a dog. I didn’t see a dog.”

We both just stand there in silence for a second. Neither of us wanting to seem too weird talking about mysterious claw marks.

“Yeah, I dunno.” He shakes it off. “Well, better get back to work.” He starts off toward the back, leaving me nodding and smiling.

Nodding and smiling like someone who isn’t thinking about kind of big claw marks.

Chapter 17

Inside, the house is just as I left it. I shake my head. Why am I being so dramatic? So there are a few claw marks on the side of the house. This is the country. There are animals. And animals have claws. Not such a big deal, really, is it?

And the other night, the “presence” I felt . . . can’t that just be chalked up to some new-environment jitters and the general spookiness of a dark night? I’m really just a kid afraid of the dark. That’s all it is.

I pick up the landline because, yes, the professor is so old-school he actually has a landline. I dial my cousins, Abby and Ollie, to fulfill my diabolical plan of forcing them to come visit me. It’s strange, though, when I call them. There’s a beep boop beep. “We’re sorry, the number you’re trying to reach is not in service.” Well, that’s weird. Probably I just got the number mixed up. I vow to try again later, on my cell. I can never remember anyone’s numbers, anyway.

I take solace in going through the cupboards. A snack to hearten me while I watch my latest conspiracy obsession online. Although I can’t seem to find what I’m looking for. I could have sworn there were some salt and vinegar potato chips that had my name on them in here. I rustle through three different bottom shelves before sighing in defeat and reaching for a chair. I don’t know why they make shelves so high. It’s as if girls don’t even exist! Dragging the chair across the floor, I hear the men outside yelling to each other. Something about a missing hammer. As much as I’m not used to hearing full-volume yelling from man voices, there is a comfort to it. In this quiet place. Maybe this is where I discover an appreciation for the male species. Or at least, less of a fear.

The top shelf is as cluttered as the rest and I am just about to give up on those tantalizing chips when I notice something tucked in the back of the shelf.

Odd.

It’s a little glass jar. Inside is some kind of . . . organic material.

I reach in and grab the glass jar, teetering a bit on the chair.

It’s a mason jar, with a burlap kind of string wrapped around it. Inside are what looks like dried flowers, some kind of charcoal, and a little note, a kind of scrawl. The scrawl isn’t a language, or even an alphabet, I recognize. It’s almost like some kind of ancient rune writing . . . something you imagine would be found at Stonehenge. I peer at it, wondering if this was left by the professor. Is it his? Or his wife’s? I never met her. Maybe she’s batty? Eccentric.