home.
Wait…
Make that
back in New York.
This
is home now.
She steps through the gate and it closes behind her with another protesting creak. Keeping a wary eye on the bees, who ignore her, she sets the cat on the cracked slab of grass-choked slate walkway.
“There. Now you can’t run away.”
The cat mews in protest, as though she had every intention of doing just that.
“Go ahead, find a nice spot to do your business.”
Chita Rivera, who never in her life set paw outside before today, doesn’t budge.
“Look, I know you’re a house cat through and through, very dainty and ladylike and all that good stuff, but I have no clue where your litter box is,” Meg informs her. “So get moving and do your thing so I can stick you in the house and get on with the unpacking. Just stay away from those evil-looking buzzing things over there, okay? They’re the enemy.”
Chita Rivera blinks.
“Go on. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
No response.
“Oh… do you want me to turn my back? You’re modest? Is that it?” She folds her arms and turns away, coming face-to-face with her new home.
I can’t believe this is mine,
she thinks… and not in a pleased way.
No, more in a
what-the-heck-was-I-thinking?
way.
Porch half-hidden behind a broken-down trellis densely twined with overgrown wisteria. Sagging steps. Missing spindles. Dangling shutters. Peeling paint.
Yes, the place has oodles of potential, as Kris pointed out.
Though she didn’t say
oodles.
That’s Meg’s word, one she unfortunately used in a conversation in the company of the already-glowering Cosette. She immediately learned that cutesy words like
oodles
make glowering teenagers glower more fiercely.
Of course, it’s a word she’s actually never before uttered in her life. Along with several others freshly added to her vocabulary. Like
sapstain, radon,
and
sump.
There were others, too, which she hasn’t had occasion to use in quite some time:
deterioration, fungi,
and
architectural aberration
come most immediately to mind.
So the house has some problems. All houses do.
But it also has oodles of potential.
Far more potential than the cookie-cutter ranches in her price range fifteen miles up the commuter line. A house like this has character, and history, and…
And, well, just… lots of… er, potential.
For some reason, Meg is seriously determined to be optimistic about this gloomy old house.
“
Gloomy?
”
That’s not exactly optimistic.
No, but it’s accurate.
Look
at it.
The place looks even more forbidding now than it did when she was a kid. It’s even got that classic haunted house silhouette, thanks to the tall, mansard roof.
But it isn’t
really
haunted… is it?
Gazing upward, she can swear she sees a sudden flicker of light in the attic window.
Which, of course, is impossible, because the house has been vacant for months. The new family never even took possession.
And why not?
Because they thought it was haunted.
She and Kris sure did have a good laugh over that.
Only…
Somehow, it’s not quite as funny now.
“Let’s go, Chita Rivera,” she urges impatiently, turning on her heel.
Her command is dramatically punctuated by a loud rumble.
Meg gasps…
Then realizes that it’s just thunder.
Which at this point is actually even worse than…
Well, other things that can make you gasp when you’re hanging around a haunted house.
Meg looks up at the sky, hanging low and ominously gray above the distant hills that surround the town.
“Think it’s going to rain?” she asks Chita Rivera, who merely looks royally peeved. “Yeah, so do I. Let’s get moving.”
“Right. That’s one large pie, sausage and pepperoni, to 31 Boxwood. About how long?” Sam asks the pizza delivery guy, wondering why he’s bothering. They always say the same thing.
“Half hour.”
Yup, they say that whether it’s going to be fifteen minutes or seventy-five minutes. Oh, well. Whatever. He’s on his own for dinner
Wait…
Make that
back in New York.
This
is home now.
She steps through the gate and it closes behind her with another protesting creak. Keeping a wary eye on the bees, who ignore her, she sets the cat on the cracked slab of grass-choked slate walkway.
“There. Now you can’t run away.”
The cat mews in protest, as though she had every intention of doing just that.
“Go ahead, find a nice spot to do your business.”
Chita Rivera, who never in her life set paw outside before today, doesn’t budge.
“Look, I know you’re a house cat through and through, very dainty and ladylike and all that good stuff, but I have no clue where your litter box is,” Meg informs her. “So get moving and do your thing so I can stick you in the house and get on with the unpacking. Just stay away from those evil-looking buzzing things over there, okay? They’re the enemy.”
Chita Rivera blinks.
“Go on. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
No response.
“Oh… do you want me to turn my back? You’re modest? Is that it?” She folds her arms and turns away, coming face-to-face with her new home.
I can’t believe this is mine,
she thinks… and not in a pleased way.
No, more in a
what-the-heck-was-I-thinking?
way.
Porch half-hidden behind a broken-down trellis densely twined with overgrown wisteria. Sagging steps. Missing spindles. Dangling shutters. Peeling paint.
Yes, the place has oodles of potential, as Kris pointed out.
Though she didn’t say
oodles.
That’s Meg’s word, one she unfortunately used in a conversation in the company of the already-glowering Cosette. She immediately learned that cutesy words like
oodles
make glowering teenagers glower more fiercely.
Of course, it’s a word she’s actually never before uttered in her life. Along with several others freshly added to her vocabulary. Like
sapstain, radon,
and
sump.
There were others, too, which she hasn’t had occasion to use in quite some time:
deterioration, fungi,
and
architectural aberration
come most immediately to mind.
So the house has some problems. All houses do.
But it also has oodles of potential.
Far more potential than the cookie-cutter ranches in her price range fifteen miles up the commuter line. A house like this has character, and history, and…
And, well, just… lots of… er, potential.
For some reason, Meg is seriously determined to be optimistic about this gloomy old house.
“
Gloomy?
”
That’s not exactly optimistic.
No, but it’s accurate.
Look
at it.
The place looks even more forbidding now than it did when she was a kid. It’s even got that classic haunted house silhouette, thanks to the tall, mansard roof.
But it isn’t
really
haunted… is it?
Gazing upward, she can swear she sees a sudden flicker of light in the attic window.
Which, of course, is impossible, because the house has been vacant for months. The new family never even took possession.
And why not?
Because they thought it was haunted.
She and Kris sure did have a good laugh over that.
Only…
Somehow, it’s not quite as funny now.
“Let’s go, Chita Rivera,” she urges impatiently, turning on her heel.
Her command is dramatically punctuated by a loud rumble.
Meg gasps…
Then realizes that it’s just thunder.
Which at this point is actually even worse than…
Well, other things that can make you gasp when you’re hanging around a haunted house.
Meg looks up at the sky, hanging low and ominously gray above the distant hills that surround the town.
“Think it’s going to rain?” she asks Chita Rivera, who merely looks royally peeved. “Yeah, so do I. Let’s get moving.”
“Right. That’s one large pie, sausage and pepperoni, to 31 Boxwood. About how long?” Sam asks the pizza delivery guy, wondering why he’s bothering. They always say the same thing.
“Half hour.”
Yup, they say that whether it’s going to be fifteen minutes or seventy-five minutes. Oh, well. Whatever. He’s on his own for dinner
Similar Books
