An abandoned fisherman’s shack, I decided, but then I noticed a thin stream of smoke coming out of the chimney. I took another glance around the property and noticed a shaggy patch of tomato plants and a trellis made of string on which morning glories and sweetpeas climbed up onto the porch. It formed a green screen between which hung bits of tin and glass that swayed in the breeze, making a tinny music that threaded in and out of the gurgle of running water. The surface of the house seemed to ripple in the wavery reflections from the water, making it appear even more run-down and insubstantial – as if the whole place might vanish if I blinked – but also lending it a shabby charm. An orange cat napped on a rocking chair with peeling paint. Nearby a fishing pole leaned against the porch railing.

I sniffed and smelled grilled fish. Whoever lived here had caught his or her lunch and was cooking it up. But eventually they might notice a bright green Honda Fit in their driveway. He or she no doubt had a gun as well as a fishing pole and probably didn’t appreciate strangers staring at their house.

I put the car into reverse and looked over my right shoulder to back up, but a flash from the stream nearly blinded me again. I squinted against it and pulled out into the road, hoping that this stretch of road was as deserted as it seemed. When I was back on the road, I paused for one more look at the old house. Something about it – its age and seclusion, the way it had basked in the river light like a cat in the sun – had drawn me in, but when I looked back toward where the house should be I couldn’t see anything beyond the trees. It was as if I’d imagined it.

I retraced my way down Trask Road and found the turn off for Olsen Road, likely named for Brock and Ike’s family. There was only one house on it, a large Greek Revival of the same vintage as the riverside house, but as well cared for as the other wasn’t. Its white paint gleamed like fresh butter cream icing, against which the black Italianate brackets, trimming the line of the roof, stood out like black ink. Baskets of red geraniums hung from the eaves. The red barn was as neat and square as the house, the only touch of whimsy a painting of a stylized hammer. Thor’s hammer, I realized, recognizing the symbol from a Norse mythology class I’d taken in college.

I parked between a caramel-colored Volvo with a Fairwick College sticker and an ancient multi-colored Volkswagen Beetle plastered with bumper stickers proclaiming “My other car is a broomstick,” “Life is a witch and then you fly,” and “The Goddess loves you. The rest of us think you’re a jerk.”

Great, I thought walking up to the bright red front door, I’m going to be tutored by a bunch of New Age Wiccans.