What Stays Behind

I've been showing houses for six years and I've never been late to a showing.

Until today.

I'm sitting in my car in the driveway of 4758 Maple Street and I can't make myself get out. The family is already here. Early. Their minivan parked behind me. I can see them in my rearview. Dad on his phone. Mom pointing at the trees.

Daughter with her arms crossed. Staring at the house like it might eat her.

She's maybe ten.

Same age I was.

The dad taps on my window. I jump.

"You okay?"

"Yeah. Sorry. Just finishing some paperwork."

He nods. Steps back. I grab my things and get out.

The house looks the same. Always looks the same. No matter how many times I sell it.

This is the fourth family. Or the fifth. I lose count.

The first family lasted six months. Second made it three weeks. Third family, the dad never left the kitchen table. Just sat there until his wife called the cops.

This will be number four.

Or five.

I put on my smile. The one I practiced in the mirror this morning. The one that doesn't reach my eyes anymore.

"Thanks for your patience. Shall we?"

Inside smells like mildew and old paint. Same as it always does.

But underneath that, something else. Something I recognize but can't name. Like a smell from childhood you can't quite place.

The mom goes straight to the kitchen. Runs her hand over the counters. Tests the faucet. Looks out the window over the sink.

My mom used to stand in that exact spot. Washing dishes. Looking out at the backyard where I'd play.

Before.

The dad is checking outlets. Testing switches. Practical. I like practical. Practical guys usually figure it out faster.

The daughter wanders toward the living room. I should stay with the parents but I follow her instead.

She's running her hand along the wall. Same wall I used to run my hand along. Same angle. Same height.

"You like it?" I ask.

She shrugs. "It's weird."

"How so?"

"I don't know. Just feels weird. Like someone's watching."

My skin goes cold.

"That's just because it's empty. Houses always feel weird when they're empty."

She looks at me. Really looks at me.

"Have you been here before? Like, a long time ago?"

"I'm the listing agent. I show it a lot."

"No. I mean before that. When you were my age."

I can't breathe.

"No. Why would you think that?"

She just stares. Then turns back to the window. "I don't know. You just seem like you know things."

Upstairs the daughter picks the room facing the backyard without even looking at the others.

Just walks straight to it. "This one."

The mom smiles. "Don't you want to see your options?"

"No. This is the one."

She's at the window. Looking down at the yard. At the tree with the low branch.

And I can see her brain working. Calculating. Measuring the distance from the window to that branch.

"That branch is farther than it looks," I hear myself say.

Everyone stops. Looks at me.

"I mean. From experience. Trees are deceptive from this angle."

The dad frowns. Goes back to checking the closet.

But the daughter is still staring at me. And I realize I'm standing in the exact spot I stood in when I was ten. When I looked out this window and thought about hanging a bird feeder on that branch. When I thought I could reach it if I just tried hard enough.

Before I fell.

Before everything else.

"How do you know how far it is?" she asks.

"Just. Experience with trees."

She doesn't believe me. I can see it in her face. But she turns back to the window anyway.

And I want to grab her. Want to pull her away from this room and this house and shove her family in their minivan and tell them to drive until they hit the ocean.

But I don't.

I never do.

Downstairs the dad asks about the basement.

They always ask about the basement.

"Storage space," I say. "Workshop potential. Laundry hookups."

The words are automatic. I've said them so many times they don't feel like mine anymore.

He opens the door. Flips the switch. The bulb is out.

Always out. I replace it after every showing and it's always out for the next one.

He uses his phone light. Starts down.

I follow. Even though I don't want to. Even though I haven't been down there since I was ten years old and my dad was still my dad and everything still made sense.

Thirteen steps.

I count them without meaning to. One. Two. Three.

Used to count them when I was little. Used to run down them as fast as I could because basements are scary when you're ten.

Now they're scary for different reasons.

Concrete floor. Washer and dryer in the corner. Metal shelving. Paint cans. Boxes.

The dad is checking for foundation cracks. For water damage. For problems.

I'm standing near the stairs trying not to remember.

Trying not to think about the morning I came down here to get my bike. The one with the flat tire. How I heard footsteps on the stairs behind me but when I turned around nobody was there.

How I ran back up and told my dad and he just nodded. Just kept staring at the kitchen table.

The mildew smell is worse today. Makes my throat close up.

The dad is in the far corner now. Talking about workbenches. About storage solutions.

And I hear it.

My dad's voice.

"Don't go down there. Please. Don't go down there."

But it's not coming from the dad looking at the walls. It's coming from everywhere. From the corners. From the stairs. From inside my own head.

The dad doesn't react. Can't hear it yet.

Not yet.

We're back upstairs. The mom is asking about schools. About the neighborhood. About crime rates.

I answer automatically. Give her the statistics. The selling points.

But I'm watching the daughter. She's in the backyard now. Spinning in circles on the grass.

I used to do that. When I was her age. When this was my backyard and my house and my life.

Before my dad heard sounds too early. Before my mom started hearing whispers. Before everything went wrong.

"When did the previous owners move out?" the mom asks.

I look at my clipboard. At the blank page where information should be.

"Recently."

"Why did they leave?"

Because the husband sat at the kitchen table for six days without moving. Because the wife saw something wearing her face. Because their daughter is in the hospital and won't talk about what she saw.

"People move for all kinds of reasons," I say instead.

That night I drive to my apartment. Or I think I drive to my apartment.

But I end up in the driveway of 4758 Maple Street.

Engine running. Staring at the dark windows.

I don't remember driving here. Don't remember meaning to come here.

But here I am.

Like always.

I turn off the car. Sit in the dark.

My phone buzzes. Text from my mom. She texts every few months. Same message every time.

"Honey please call me. I miss you. I need to know you're okay."

I don't answer. Never answer.

Because if I answer I'll have to tell her where I am. What I'm doing. And she'll ask me to come home and I'll have to explain that I can't.

That I haven't been able to leave since I was ten years old.

Another text.

"Your dad is asking about you."

My stomach turns.

Dad's not asking about anything.

I delete the texts. Turn off my phone.

Look at the house.

The basement door is open. Just a crack. I can see it from here even though I shouldn't be able to.

I get out of the car.

Inside it's dark. I don't turn on lights. Don't need to. I know every inch of this place.

The kitchen table is where it always is. Six feet from the basement door.

I sit down.

And I remember.

I remember being ten and watching my dad sit in this exact chair for days. Watching him stare at that door. Watching him get thinner and quieter and more afraid.

I remember my mom taking me to Grandma's. Remember hearing whispers in the car. My dad's voice. My own voice. Voices that shouldn't have been there.

I remember coming back. Grandma brought me.

I remember turning around and she wasn't there. I remember running.

But I couldn't leave.

Every door led back to this kitchen. Every window opened to this same view. Every road back to this driveway.

And eventually I stopped trying.

And I'm still here.

Always here.

The basement door is open wider now. A foot. Maybe more.

I can see the top three steps.

I stand up. Walk toward it.

Every rational part of my brain is screaming at me to stop. To leave. To run.

But I can't run. Tried that when I was ten. Tried it when I was fifteen. Tried it when I was eighteen.

Always end up back here.

So I walk down the stairs instead. Thirteen steps. Counting as I go.

At the bottom it's dark. But I can see something in the far corner. A shape.

Wrong proportions. Wrong angles. Wrong everything.

It's been there since I was ten. Waiting. Watching.

"I brought you another family," I say to the darkness.

The shape doesn't move. Doesn't respond. But I can feel it listening.

"The girl is ten. Same age I was. She picked my room. Looked at the same tree branch."

Nothing.

"She'll try to hang something from it. A bird feeder probably. Or a wind chime. And she'll fall. Just like I did."

The shape shifts. Just slightly. Settling into position.

"And her dad will start hearing things. And her mom will see things. And they'll try to leave but they won't be able to. Just like my family."

I sit down on the concrete. Back against the wall.

"And maybe when she grows up, she'll be here. In this basement. Talking to you. Bringing you the next family."

The shape is closer now. Just a few feet away.

Close enough that I can feel the cold coming off it. The wrongness.

"I hate you," I say. "I've hated you since I was ten years old."

It doesn't care. Never cares.

Because hate doesn't matter. Fear doesn't matter. Nothing matters except the cycle.

Another family. Another daughter. Another person trapped here forever.

My phone buzzes. Even though I turned it off.

Text from my boss.

"Great news. The family from today wants to come back for a second look. Saturday at 2:00."

I stare at the screen.

They're coming back. The dad who checked outlets. The mom who asked about schools. The daughter who knows something is wrong.

They're coming back and I'm going to smile and answer their questions and walk them through these rooms.

And I'm going to watch that little girl pick my old bedroom again. Watch her look at that tree branch. Watch her calculate the distance.

And I'm going to know what's coming.

And I won't stop it.

Can't stop it.

Because I'm not the listing agent. Not really.

I'm bait. I'm the lure.

Each time I believed I was done. I was out.

Except I didn't get out.

I never got out.

The shape is right next to me now.

I lean my head back against the concrete.

Close my eyes.

Think about that little girl upstairs. About how she's probably in bed right now. Safe. Warm. Still has no idea what's waiting for her.

She'll find out soon enough.

They always do.

And maybe when she's twenty-four and showing houses and can't remember the last time she slept in her own apartment, maybe she'll be sitting right here. In this exact spot.

Talking to the darkness.

Bringing it the next family.

The basement door closes above me. Locks.

I don't open my eyes. Don't react.

Just sit here in the dark with the shape.

With the thing that took my dad. That took my mom. That took me.

The thing that stays behind long after everyone else is gone.

My phone buzzes again.

I don't look at it.

Don't need to.

I already know what it says.

Another showing. Another family. Another little girl who'll pick the room facing the backyard.

The cycle continues.

It always continues.

And I'm part of it now.

Forever.

The washing machine starts up somewhere to my left. Nobody turned it on. But it's running anyway.

Like it never stopped.

Like nothing ever stops in this house.

I open my eyes.

Look at the shape in the darkness.

"Same time next week?" I ask.

It doesn't answer.

But I can feel it smile.