God save me, they’ve stuck me with another mouthy one.

In the passenger seat Ian goes on about his theory of everything, which he’s been doing since we left the motel this morning. He’s an anarcho-syndicalist, against both corporations and governments. “Property is theft,” et cetera. I try to tell him I heard it all before. I lived through the sixties when boys thought talk like that would get them in your pants. Instead I’m focused on the asshole ahead of us doing fifty in the left lane like a middle finger to all that’s holy.

“Worker-owned collectives, that’s what everything should be,” Ian says. “Labor should earn you a share of ownership.”

His left arm is sleeved in tattoos so new they almost shine, whorls of blue-black reflecting the light. I can’t help it; they make me think of the tattoos I saw on my youngest son. Tattoos of a different sort, done with an ink pen in a prison yard. Matty had tried to hide them, but I’d caught sight of one peeking from the edge of his sleeve—like the bottom loop of an S, but all in hard right angles. I could guess what the rest of the shape was, and he knew as soon as I saw.

“You ought to be ashamed,” I said. “Your grandfather almost died fighting that and everything it stands for.”

His face flushed, shame quickly boiling over to the same rage that landed him in prison.

“It’s not like that, mom. I had to. You don’t know—”

He couldn’t finish the sentence. There were already tears in my eyes, and before I could protest the guard had called the visit done.

Ian is still going on about the workers’ utopia as I pass mister fifty in the fast lane on the right with a little wave.

I shouldn’t be too hard on Ian. He’s young and his folks probably have money, and at least he didn’t become another banker or lawyer. Instead he’s found a cause like some folks find Jesus and now he’s got to tell the world. He never asks what I am, which is just as well. There’s not really a word for it. I do what I do because it’s what I come from. Used to be everyone I knew was in a union—not anymore.

The GPS on Ian’s phone pipes up, telling us to take the next exit.

“Alma Gutierrez,” says Ian. “She’s the one that called us. I have a good feeling about this.”

We’ve organized in Florida before, but it’s not easy thanks to Right to Work laws. When we succeed it’s because some of these nursing homes treat their staff so bad everyone pays their union dues, even though the law says they don’t have to.

I feel a plane taking off not far from us, and the car shakes as it passes overhead. We’re driving through a neighborhood that’s all tiny houses in little square lots—the kind of place it’s easy to picture from above even when you’re on the ground.

We pull up to the right address, a little one-story house just like all the others. As we step out of the car another plane takes off at the airport nearby, and this time we hear the roar as it passes overhead. I knock on the door and a pretty little girl lets us in. She looks at us nervously while I hear someone speaking Spanish from the kitchen.

Ian surprises me by answering fluently. I can only understand a word or two ... Hello, it’s Ian and Denise, from the union ... Ms. Gutierrez appears, and her daughter quickly runs to stand beside her. She’s young, but I can already tell she’s not the type to let this sort of work beat her down, which is good for all of us. She says something else to Ian, I think asking where he learned Spanish, and he tells her estudié en España. He speaks very well, but with an exaggerated lisp Ms. Gutierrez clearly finds hilarious. When she sees my expression she switches to English.

“Thank you for coming. I’m ... I’m sorry that you came all this way. Things have changed at the home, and I don’t think the time is right for a union.”

Ian looks like he’s about to argue. I put a hand on his arm.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say. “Employers may offer to make things better, but they don’t always follow through. A union is a way to keep management accountable.”

Ms. Gutierrez frowns. Judging from her face it doesn’t look like they promised her anything.

“Did anyone threaten you?”

She shakes her head.

“I’m sorry you came all this way. Can I get you some water, or coffee?”

We say no and thank her, and for a moment it looks like she’s going to change her mind. Then she sends her daughter to go watch TV and walks us toward the door. Just as she’s about to shut it, she leans her head out. She speaks in an urgent whisper.

“I’m sorry, really, but if I go through with this they’ll move me to the old house.”

Then she shuts the door.



“I can’t believe this,” Ian says as we drive off. “That’s retaliation. It’s illegal.”

“We don’t even know what that means, ‘the old house.’”

“You saw her face. She was terrified. We should call the lawyers, take them to court ...”

I let Ian vent as we drive to the next address. He knows how hard it is to prove retaliation in a case like this, how much the courts down here favor employers, especially in the retirement industry. I let him keep at it until he calms down. I used to be that angry once.

On the highway in Florida you sometimes see pools of light up ahead, like a slick of water reflecting the sun back at you. It’s a trick of the heat, a mirage like out in the desert. They vanish when you get close enough, and it’s just more road, with no water but the humid air. I keep the AC on full blast in the car. I hate the way the heat here sticks to you and won’t let go till you can’t stand to be in your own skin. It’s no wonder Ponce de Leon went nuts out here, crashing through the swamps looking for the fountain of youth.

The next name on the list is Belinda Jones—according to Alma, she’s the one who helped her put the whole list together. I hope she’s still on board, but when we ring her bell there’s no answer, and a stack of mail piled up behind her screen door. It doesn’t look like anyone’s been here in days.

“Maybe she’s on vacation,” Ian says, which only makes it worse.

No one is home at the next house either, and at the one after a woman opens the door halfway, only to shut it in our faces. Some people don’t like unions, I get that—hell, I don’t always like them and I work for one—but those people usually want to tell you why before they shut the door.

As we drive off to the next name on our list, I notice a black sedan behind us. It follows us off the highway, and I think who the hell is driving a car like that in this neighborhood? Just before we get to our destination, it makes a left turn. I try to tell myself it’s nothing.

At the next house the old woman who answers speaks very little English. Ian chats with her in Spanish, and I get faintly hopeful in my ignorance, but once he gets to the specifics, she gets fearful like the others, asking us politely but firmly to leave.

La casa vieja. Even I know what that means.



These old folks homes make me think of my own mother, before she went. She’d always been hard, but something had soured in her at the end, and she’d spit at the nurse who cared for her. When I came to see her, I could tell she didn’t remember her own daughter. Out in the hall I hugged that nurse and told her how sorry I was.



Over dinner Ian is restless, tapping away on his phone. The only choices near our motel are burgers or chicken, both greasy chains and of course non-union. Ian takes hungry bites of his cheeseburger when he manages to take his eyes off his phone.

“Whatever this old house is, they don’t list it on the website. They have three locations, all pretty much the same—nice flower arrangement at the front for all the kids visiting their old parents, but every corner cut behind the scenes ...”

He shows me pictures from their website, the same bland reception rooms and sunny sample bedrooms. There’s a quote at the bottom of their website, “Life Eternal in that Pleasant Valley,” which sounds biblical but I’ve never heard it before. None of the places look sparkling new, but I can’t see any of them being called “the old house,” apart from the fact they’re all old folks’ homes. I try not to think about how long I’ll be able to last before landing in a place like that. I hope a damn long while.

I’ve seen all kinds of labor abuses, up to and including folks being roughed up for trying to unionize, but I’ve never seen fear like I saw in those women’s faces. It makes me think of the old old days, when they used to hire Pinkertons to break up strikes, or torch our meeting halls while a meeting was in session. A slow shiver like a trickle of cold water runs down my spine, and I’m ready to phone my boss and call this campaign off.

I’m about to say as much to Ian, but one look in his eyes and I know it won’t do any good.

“I want to nail these bastards,” he says. “Forget organizing for a minute; I say we call the state inspector.”

He goes on like that for the rest of dinner. I know the fire that’s just lit up under him. I was young once too, and ready to fight. These days I count anything that makes folks’ lives a bit better a victory. You hardly ever see the bad ones marched out in handcuffs, and even if you do they rarely stay that way for long. That’s just how it is.

We walk back to our rooms through a night as black and hot as road tar. I say good night to Ian, who looks like he won’t get much sleep, still burning with righteous fury. He’s about Tanner’s age—the age Tanner was, I mean. He’s totally unlike my oldest was, more like Matty with his temper, but being around him so much makes me think of things I try to keep well-buried.

Back in my room I crank the air until it’s like an icebox and yank all the covers out from the edges of the bed—I can’t sleep tucked in like a mummy. I turn the TV up loud enough I won’t have to hear any fucking or fighting from the rooms next door. I try not to think of my two boys. Tanner on the last day before he was redeployed, looking relieved, almost happy to be going back to that damn desert. Matty trying to look hard, trying to cover how scared he was in that visitation room. Two beautiful boys caught up in the two great machines they invented for young men with no money, and a mother who’s got to keep going without them, though some days she’d rather just lie down and not get up.

I think sometimes we’re being tested, like God tested Abraham, but we’re ignoring the ram in the bushes and offering up our children instead.



“I called my friend in the research department last night,” Ian says. “Pleasant Valley advertises three homes on their website, but they have four homes registered with the state. John Pleasant, that’s really the owner’s name—can you believe it?—inherited the business from his parents. Get this, the last location is his family’s house.”

Ian’s motor mouth is in third gear, but for once I’m interested. I’ve seen a lot of shit in my life, but never something like this. When she contacted us, Ms. Gutierrez mentioned unpaid overtime, pay checks skimmed for mystery fees, long shifts with no breaks—nothing unheard of, sad to say. Now I’m wondering what else is going on in those homes.

“They’ve got deep roots in the community, probably connections in politics,” he says.

That’s bad news, but hardly a surprise. I can’t count the number of southern towns I’ve seen where being a big employer pretty much makes you lord of the manor.

“I say we go over there,” Ian says, “We could pretend we’re looking for a relative.”

I tell him it’s sweet of him to not suggest I pose as his grandma. I don’t have to mention what he’s suggesting is illegal and they’d love any excuse to send us packing.

We try two more of the names Ms. Gutierrez originally gave us, and get two more doors slammed in our faces, and I’m ready to pack it all in again.

“Let’s go back to Ms. Gutierrez one last time,” Ian says. “If she tells us to get lost, we leave and tip off the state.”

The black sedan from yesterday is back in the mirror. This time I get a look at the license plate—“PLSNT”—and suddenly I’m fighting a wave of panic. They follow us for another three miles, and just as I’m about to tell Ian they take an exit behind us. It’s not till then that I realize I’ve been holding my breath.

Ms. Gutierrez’s house is just like we left it the other day. We knock on her door and there’s no answer. The air outside the car is thick as gelatin, and we’re suspended in it like marshmallows in ambrosia. Did I mention how much I love Florida?

“That’s it,” I say. “Let’s head back.”

“No,” Ian frowns.

“You heard her yesterday. There’s nothing we can do. This happens sometimes, and it’s sad, but that’s life, kid.”

“I’m not a kid, Denise, and it’s only life because you let it be. If we want things to change, we have to draw a line.”

He’s trying to sound calm, but I can hear the rage sputtering in him like a bad engine. Maybe I’m edgy from the car that’s been following us, or maybe I’m mad about this all going bust, but Ian’s really getting to me. As if we’ve been doing nothing till he showed up. All we needed was a college kid with a few Noam Chomsky books to show the rest of us idiots the way. I can’t listen to one more goddamn word.

“You work for a union, but you never worked a union job. After this you’ll probably go to law school. You don’t know what it’s like to need it. Sometimes all you can do is hold on to what you have.”

“You don’t know anything about me,” Ian says, but I can tell I’ve hit a nerve. He’s shaking with anger, just like Matty would sometimes, with no clue how to let it out. I suddenly feel bad. I shouldn’t have been so nasty. He’s about to storm off when the door opens behind him.

“Please,” says Ms. Gutierrez, “I said I can’t help you.”

She should be furious with us, but instead she’s afraid.

“We’re sorry to bother you,” I say. “We were just leaving.”

Ian is silent but I can still see the fury in him, and I’m afraid he’ll snap at her. Ms. Gutierrez just looks at him, though, and for a moment we’re all silent.

“Belinda Jones,” she says. “They moved her to the old house. I haven’t seen her since. Now please, leave me alone.”

Ian takes a deep breath. When we turn to leave his voice is calm.

“I’m sorry, Denise. I shouldn’t have said that. If you don’t mind, could I drive back?”



As he drives I remember the stack of mail piled up at Belinda Jones’ home. I try to look her up on my phone. Maybe there’s something we can find to give the inspector, or a journalist. Nothing is coming up, just a social media page with her name and photo. The last post is from a young niece, asking where her auntie is. I wonder who would miss me if I just disappeared, with Tanner gone and Matty locked away? I guess Ian would raise a stink.

“Do you think it’s haunted?” he says as we drive.

“What, the old house?”

I don’t even know how to answer a question like that, not that Ian waits for an answer.

“I was thinking—they’re always mansions, aren't they?”

“What?”

“Haunted houses. They’re either mansions or castles, or maybe fancy hotels. Like only the rich get to haunt the living. Cheap houses get torn down and paved over, and the people just get forgotten. Either that, or there’s a whole lot of homeless ghosts.”

As we drive I try not to think of all the people who die badly without big houses. If there were homeless ghosts, they’d cover the earth like a gray ocean. I think I catch a glimpse of the black sedan again, a few cars behind us, but when I look back it’s gone.

Then Ian takes a sudden exit, and I get a sinking feeling in my stomach.

“Where the hell are you going?”

“I just want to look at it, just take a peek.”

“No way. I can think of a million reasons that’s a terrible idea. Take us back to the highway.”

Ian isn’t listening, and I don’t think I can change his mind, any more than I can overpower a 26-year-old man, even if he’s acting like a little boy. The neighborhood we’re in is the polar opposite of the one before—all hedges, long driveways, and wrought iron gates.

“I’m not losing my job for this—”

“Relax, it’ll be fine.”

I pray it’s locked up like Fort Knox, but when we get there the gate hangs open and the driveway is empty. Ian eases the car through over my protests. When we pull up to it, I’m surprised to see nothing but a house—bigger than most, but no trace of gargoyles or ominous decay. Like so many of the homes out here it’s built in a fake Spanish style, with arched windows above the doorway and columns on either side. It’s even got the obligatory rows of palm trees out front. The walls are painted a sandy yellow color, and the whole place looks well-cared-for. Except it's totally deserted. There are no other cars in the long driveway, no seniors sunning themselves in the front yard. Ian stops the car and gets out, ignoring my protests.

“We’ll just take a quick look.”

The front door is unlocked, and there’s no sign of a reception desk. My first thought is it looks more like a museum than a retirement home. The floors are marble and the walls are covered by that thick, inlaid wallpaper I think is called damask. Dust motes play in a shaft of light from a high window, but every surface looks like it’s just been polished clean.

As soon as I step over the threshold, the shock of icy air raises gooseflesh on my skin. It’s as cold as the freezer aisle of the grocery store.

“I thought older folks were supposed to like it warm,” I say.

Portraits line the walls, a row of hard-eyed men in suits of progressively older style. They all have the same motto at the bottom, “Life Eternal in that Pleasant Valley.”

“Hello?” Ian calls out. There is no answer.

I follow him into the next room. The walls here are all lined with bookcases, except for a massive painting—Adam and Eve in the garden of Eden, naked in that sexless way of old paintings, but instead of just an apple they’re sharing fruit from two trees whose branches intertwine, mirroring their arms as they offer the forbidden fruit to each other. The tree of knowledge and the tree of eternal life—I remember that from Catechism, but Sister Mary Therese never told us much about the other tree.

I’m trying to think of how to get Ian out of here as quickly as possible. Getting caught would mean no end of bad things for us, but that’s not all. I hate this place. I hate that we haven’t seen a single person, yet it feels like we’re not alone, like whoever else is here is always just one room away. Ian pulls a book off the shelf and flips through it, then sets it down on an end table.

“Anything interesting?”

“It’s about Ancient Egypt.”

“Ok, that’s enough. Time to go,” I say. “We’ve had our look.”

Then, somewhere further in the house, we hear what sounds like a television. Ian sets off toward it before I can stop him.

Each of the rooms we pass through is richly furnished, immaculately clean, and unoccupied. Each time we open a door I get the feeling someone is on the other side, only to find another empty room with plush antique couches and paintings in gilded frames.

Deeper in the house I find Ian standing in a doorway looking at two hunched figures watching a Disney cartoon on a flatscreen TV. The pair sunken into the couch are the oldest people I have ever seen, so old I cannot guess their age or gender. They sit perfectly still, faint smiles on their lips while on the screen dancing cups and teapots sing as they serve the heroine her dinner.

“Hello, can I speak to someone who works here?” Ian says. “Do you know a Belinda Jones?”

At first, there is no response, and I wonder how many drugs they have these people on. Then, slowly, they turn their heads to face us. Their mouths are slack, their cheeks sunken, but their eyes are hard and alive.

“We’re sorry to have bothered you,” I say. “Just looking for someone who works here.”

At that their lips draw up into faint grins, but their eyes do not change. I pull Ian back, and this time he comes with me.

“This is wrong,” he says.

“We’ll tell the authorities,” I say, for all the good I think it’ll do.

As we walk back into the library with the painting of Adam and Eve I see the book Ian put on the end table has been placed carefully back on the shelf. I look around, but there’s no trace of who might have cleaned up after us.

I’ve been on the verge of panic since we came in the door, but then I hear something that threatens to tip me over the edge—another car pulling into the driveway. Without looking, I know it’s the black sedan.

“Shit,” I say. “Just—just let me do the talking ...”

I have no idea what I’m going to say, I just know it’ll be easier if Ian doesn’t shoot his mouth off. The door opens. Mr. Pleasant walks in, followed by a tall, pale man with a neck like a phone pole. I can’t say what I was expecting John Pleasant to look like, but it sure as hell isn’t the slender, twitchy man in front of me. He’s about as thin as an exclamation point. He’s wearing an old winter coat over a rumpled suit, and he’s still shivering in the house’s AC. To be honest, he looks more like the guys you see at the methadone clinic than the heir of a successful retirement home business.

“I’m sorry for the intrusion,” I say, “we can explain—”

“It’s not necessary,” he says. “Denise McDonnell and Ian Wells of Health and Home Workers Local 263, right? I hope you’ve seen the kind of honest family business we run here. I mean that literally, our staff are family too. Everyone has an important role to play, and we take their needs very seriously.”

Pleasant sounds confident, and his smile is almost friendly, but I can tell he doesn’t like this place much more than I do. Maybe it brings back bad memories. The pictures of his ancestors line the walls around us, all staring down with the same hard eyes.

“We understand,” I say. “We were just on our way out.”

“Nonsense,” says Pleasant. “Stay, I’ll give you a tour. I want you to know I’m fully cooperating. Maybe then you’ll believe my employees when they say they’ve reconsidered a union.”

Pleasant keeps talking as he takes us back through the rooms we’ve seen, as if he’s afraid to let the silence of this place linger too long. His bodyguard walks silently behind him, though he never takes his eyes off Ian or me.

“I want you to know I’m pro-union,” Pleasant says. “My dad wasn’t, but he’s not in charge anymore. It’s just I think organized labor is a better fit with big employers, and my staff happen to agree ... We’re different. We’re a family.”

“What about the staff here?” says Ian. “It’s not listed on your website, and no one seemed to want to be transferred here.”

“Residence here is by invitation only. It’s mostly my literal family and their friends. They only need a small, handpicked staff, people we know will be with us long term.”

“How about Belinda Jones?” I say. “Does she work here?”

“She’s here. She’s very professional, like everyone at the old house. You barely notice they’re even here, and the place is spotless.”

I want to press him further, demand to speak to her, and I can tell Ian is thinking the same thing. Before we can ask, a grandfather clock chimes from somewhere deeper in the house.

“Dinner time!” Pleasant says. “You’ll stay, of course. The food here is good—it is at all Pleasant Valley properties, I eat our meals all the time.”

I get the feeling he doesn’t spend much time at this particular location.

The clock’s low chime echoes through the house as Pleasant leads us into a formal dining room dominated by a long, polished table. It’s already been set with bowls of steaming soup, with no trace of who did the setting. One by one, the residents file in. Some are merely old, while others are aged almost beyond recognition—stooped, shambling shapes, loose skin on shrunken frames—yet they all make their way to the table and sit down without assistance. Pleasant sits at the head, beckoning Ian and me to join him.

“Sorry, could I use the restroom?” Ian says.

For a moment I think Pleasant is going to refuse, then he nods and turns to his bodyguard.

“Could you show him where it is?”

I join Pleasant at the table. He takes a spoonful of soup, blowing on it to cool it, when in unison all of the residents’ eyes turn toward him. Their expressions do not change, but I can feel the weight of their gaze like a physical thing, though their eyes are just dark marbles in the folds of their skin.

“Oh right,” he says. “Of course, how could I forget?”

Pleasant bows his head and clasps his hands together. I’m reminded, absurdly, of a little boy at bedtime prayer.

“Lord, in your mercy you made us in your image. In your wisdom you tested our faith in the wilderness. In your justice you provide the faithful with those who serve, and by your grace you call your elect to life eternal in that pleasant valley. Amen.”

This seems to satisfy the residents, and slowly they begin to slurp their soup.

“I want you to know I’m not a bad guy,” Pleasant says. “I try to run a decent business and take care of my people. It’s hard, you understand? People live longer these days, and costs keep going up ...”

I can’t believe he cares what I think of him, even a little. I can see the guilt in his downcast eyes, his mouth that won’t stop moving. I almost feel sorry for him, but guilt is a funny thing; it makes some people fall all over themselves trying to make things right, while in others it curdles into something foul, and they’ll lash out at anything that threatens to upset the story they tell themselves—the story where they’re the real victim.

I feel a strange hand touch mine and I jump—the touch is as cold as a plunge into an icy river, and I feel my flesh go numb. The hand belongs to the resident sitting next to me, and when I look over his coal-hard eyes are peering into mine from their cavernous sockets.

“D-dad! What are you doing?” Pleasant all but jumps out of his seat. Then he looks around, and I follow his eyes and sees the bodyguard standing in the doorway.

“Where is he? You were supposed to be fucking watching him!”

The bodyguard just nods, and the two of them run off after Ian, leaving me with nothing but the residents and their staring eyes for company. My right arm is still numb. Slowly, I stand up, flexing my fingers until the feeling begins to return. Their eyes follow me, but they make no move to stop me as I head for the door. This has all gone to hell already, but maybe I can stop Ian from doing something that gets him hurt.

The door that leads back the way I came will not open, so I try another, a small door on the other side of the room. It opens easily. I walk down the long hallway on the other side, trying to think of what I’ll say when they catch me.

“Denise, come here!” I hear Ian’s voice from a doorway, and I hurry over.

“What the hell do you think you’re—”

He stops me with a finger to his lips and points. This room is empty save for a single rough wooden cabinet. It’s old, and out of place next to all the fake-Versailles stuff they have everywhere else. The cabinet door hangs open, and Ian points to a bunch of knotted leather cords hanging from hooks. At the end of each is a photograph. Most of them look like they’ve been clipped from laminated ID cards. I recognize one of the photos—Belinda Jones. The cords move slightly, as if stirred by a breeze I can’t feel.

Ian whirls around, and there’s a sudden burst of light and the pop of an old flash bulb. I turn and see Pleasant with a Polaroid camera. Ian rubs his eyes from the flash.

“It didn’t have to be like this,” Pleasant says. He points the camera at me, but Ian steps in to block him, though he’s still half-blind.

“Get out of here!” Ian doesn’t turn his head, but his words are meant for me.

He reaches for the camera as Pleasant tries to take another picture. Pleasant’s bodyguard rushes in, grabbing Ian by the collar.

“What the hell are you doing?” I shout.

“Don’t worry about me,” Ian shouts, “get help!”

I see Pleasant raising the camera again, trying to get a picture of me. I don’t understand any of this, but somehow I know I don’t want my photo swinging next to the others in that cabinet. I put a hand in front of my face and run for the door.

Ian, hold on. I’ll be back for you, I swear.

My heart is hammering in my chest. It feels like the house is fighting me—doors stick in their frames, carpets bunch up to trip me, and behind I hear the heavy footfalls of Pleasant’s bodyguard. Finally, I find myself at the entrance. I run to the door and yank on it, but it’s locked up tight. I can feel tears on my cheeks, hot in the hellish cold of the house.

“No ...” I say. “Please ...”

Even now, there is a little part of my brain that notes how stupid I am, pleading with a house. The guard is almost here. Then there is a low groan like the house settling. A shudder runs through the door, and when I try it again, it opens.

*     *     *
At the police station, a bored officer takes my statement. When I yell and demand action, he gets his sergeant, who phones the Pleasant Valley main office.

“They say everything is fine, your friend left shortly after you did.” He says this like he’s trying to soothe a crazy person. “They’re declining to press charges for unlawful entry.”

When I demand they investigate the property, he asks me to leave before they decide to press charges anyway.

My boss lets me stay a few days longer to look for Ian. I call his cell phone over and over, sitting out by the pool in the dingy motel courtyard because I can’t stand the air conditioning anymore. I can still feel those icy fingers on the back of my hand. Now I let the heat wrap me up like a blanket, and I still can’t get warm.

After days of no answer on the phone, and no other word, I force myself to drive past that house once more. The gate is shut tight, and I start shivering just looking at it. I stay and watch for as long as I can, until the shadows grow long and the light starts to soften, but no one goes in or out. Back at the motel, I try to sleep.

In my dream, I see those pictures on their leather cords, swaying softly without a breeze. I feel the house whispering all around me. John Pleasant’s voice is in my ear, droning on as his form shrinks and sags before me, aging but never dying. “Who will care for us?” he says. “Who will serve ...”

I am running through the rooms, searching for Ian, for Belinda Jones, for a way out. The house fights me. The house fights itself. I hammer on the door, but it will not let me out. I cry out for help.

And in my dream, I am answered.

All of the homeless ghosts are there to hear me. All the murdered girls rise up from the ditches and the shallow graves, all the missing ones march out from the deep woods. All the dead boys laid low by cops, by violence older than they ever were, go marching out together. The soldiers come home from the deserts and the jungles in grim, silent ranks, and I strain to see my Tanner among them.

An army of the forgotten marches on the house, all the poor that died too young, with no one to remember. Ahead run the children, flitting like little gray fireflies.

Others join them, shadows from distant days. The laborers lost to cholera, the fishermen drowned at sea; the slaves rise up a ragged army from the fields. Old unmarked graves give up their nameless dead. They march like a gray tide, a ghost sea engulfing the land. And when they get to the old house they stop and make a circle.

A song rises up from them then, a wordless wail that carries all the fury of years spent lost in cold and fog, all the rage of lives too short. They stand around the house and cry out until their hearts are empty, and they sing that house to splinters.