C.E. Phillippi

I saw the little red-haired girls first. Oakley and Alice. Sisters who laughed the way I used to laugh before everything went wrong.

I was excited. Curious. Lonely.

I tried to play with them. To let them know I was here. You might have seen me too, if you’d been looking:

• A flash of blue fabric slipping past the kitchen island
• Bare feet on the loft stairs
• A face in the reflection of a dark window
• A child’s voice on the baby monitor when both girls were fast asleep

I know I frightened them sometimes. I didn’t mean to.

Children understand me better than adults. They still believe in things they can’t see. They know the difference between a house that creaks and a house that remembers.