Come Find Me(12)

My dad frowns at my bag, the line between his eyes deepening. “Library again?”

“Finals, Dad,” I say, and he gives this noncommittal nod, like the idea of finals takes place in some other plane of existence. Or maybe he can see right through my lie.

My teachers say I’m not living up to my potential. But nobody here seems to care. You try holding up a report card, good or bad, in a room covered in faces of other people’s missing children. It’s like everything gets forced into perspective in an instant. Some things get wedged to the periphery.

For the record, one of those things is me.



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This time, I don’t stop at the entrance to Freedom Battleground State Park. The address puts the driveway for the Jones House here, about two miles beyond the turnoff. I’m on the right street, but I can’t find the right house number. I end up driving past it twice before I spot it, a post in the road that looks like nothing more than a mile marker, the numbers engraved in the same color, barely visible. You can’t see the house from the road, either. It’s set back through the trees, and the driveway is long and unpaved, with no mailbox out front.

    Once I pull into the drive, it angles to the left, and finally there’s the mailbox. It’s deceptively friendly, with a bright red flag and a decal of the sun. Then everything opens up behind the trees: the house, the field stretching in both directions, to the woods and the state park on the right, and another neighborhood past the fence, to the left.

I pull the car slowly up the drive until I’m parked in the roundabout directly in front of the porch. The dirt from the tires still hovers in the air when I step outside.

I listen for signs of life, but the day is quiet, and everything is still. There are birds in the distance, some sort of insect that hums in the grass to the side of the house. The sun is bright, and it reflects off the front windows, making me look away as my eyes start to tear.

“Right,” I say to myself. I turn back to the car and sling my backpack onto my shoulder. Then, on second thought, I take a photo of the house with my phone. I turn on my map program, marking the GPS coordinates. This is, after all, for science.

I note the time of day. The sun in the sky. The heat. The location: West Arbordale, Virginia. 323 Lance Road.

Nothing is irrelevant.

Or maybe I’m procrastinating.

“Right,” I say again. I leave my phone in the car so it won’t interfere and carry my gear up the front steps, cup my hands around my eyes, and peer into the windows again. It’s the same as yesterday: pictures off-kilter, that feeling of wrong.

My hand shakes as I take the EMF meter from my bag and hold it to the window, but nothing happens. It registers the same baseline reading as it does around my house. A normal measure of electricity—the dial doesn’t jump or do anything creepy, like diving back below zero. I make some notes, taking some more readings with the other devices.

    The porch creaks under my steps as I walk the front perimeter, and the chain of the porch swing jangles as my arm accidentally brushes the wood. Just outside the front door, I can feel the tiniest gust of cold air seeping from underneath, and I freeze. I press my ear to the front door.

I think, I hope, it’s the air conditioning clicking on. But just in case, I knock.

I knock. I have just knocked on the door of an empty house because I felt a gust of cold air. Seriously, Nolan.

On a whim, I take the knob in my hand and twist it gently. There’s no resistance. My lungs are in my throat. My heart is in my stomach. What the hell am I doing?

Still, I twist it, and the door pushes open. A gust of air rushes out, and I was right—it’s the air conditioner. I laugh to myself under my breath.

From where I’m standing in the entrance with the door swung open, the house looks like any other house. Older wood floors, a rustic coffee table, drapes that hang in front of the windows, pulled back. If it weren’t for the fact that it looks like a windstorm went through the room, knocking the paintings askew, or off the walls, it would look like a normal house.

But there’s also this smell, something too fresh, too new. Like carpet fabric and paint, like wood polish and those pine tree things people hang from their car mirrors. Like something else needs to be covered up here.

    I think of the article I read, picture the headline, the photo, and I step across the threshold. I close the door behind me, and I wait for something to happen. But when nothing does—no alarm, no automatic lights, no phone ringing—I decide to take the risk.

I keep the EMF meter in my hand as I circle the downstairs. The doors are all open, but I don’t step inside any of the rooms. I keep walking, staring at the device as I go. The kitchen. The living room. Three downstairs bedrooms. At the end of the hall near the back of the house, I round the corner, away from the open windows, and everything falls to shadow.

In front of me, there’s a dark stairway, where the smell of things new and replaced is the strongest.

Here. It happened here.

I blink, trying to imagine the scene, but it’s all hidden under shadow. There’s only a dark hallway upstairs, and a dark hallway here. Running my hand against the nearest wall, I flip the switch, and the area lights up, too bright. The bulb must’ve been recently replaced, because it’s too white. It buzzes all around me, like there’s a charge. My temple throbs with the start of a headache.