"Nothing good ever starts with a moving truck."
•
Thud… thud… thud.
A truck rolled up the driveway, gravel crunching under its tires.
Crow Hollow Lane looked alive with the sun shining on the rooftops, birds chirping loudly, and the air feeling cool.
Behind a second-floor window, Blackwood stood still as a statue, with one hand on the curtain. He watched the truck door slam open, and a tired looking man stumbled out, dragging a cardboard box that read FRAGILE but clearly wasn't treated that way.
Greg Thompson, who was balding, with sweat already clinging to his collar, looked like the kind of man who apologized to anyone and anything.
His wife, Helen, stood beside the car, her sunglasses perched perfectly, with a smile tighter than her ponytail. She waved to a neighbor who wasn't looking and then hissed at Greg, "Don't drop that box, it contains kitchen utensils."
"It's heavy," Greg muttered.
"It's glassware, Greg. Gravity is not an excuse."
Blackwood's brow twitched. He had seen mortals enter the town, but not in the longest time.
Then came two kids.
Anna, fifteen, thin-shouldered and pale, hovering near the porch with her arms wrapped tight around her bag like it was a life jacket. Her eyes swept the house once, then stared at the top window as if she could already feel something watching her back.
Behind her, Max, who was twelve, darted straight past the movers and into the yard, stomping through dead leaves. "This place looks haunted! Cool!" he yelled.
"It's vintage, sweetheart." Helen replied with a smile as she corrected him.
Blackwood's gaze followed them curiously. The new house was a stone's throw away, once painted blue, now the color of neglect. The windows were dark, and edges blackened. The porch sagged a little in the middle too.
He could see something under the wood that stirred as the Thompsons crossed the gate. "They shouldn't be here." He murmured.
Behind him, Clara's voice called faintly from outside the room, "Blackwood, you're not staring at people again, are you?"
But he didn't answer.
Outside, Helen directed the movers with manic precision, waving her clipboard like a general. "Careful with that mirror! And the rug—no, you know that's the only good rug we have! Greg, are you even listening to me?"
Greg was busy helping Max wrestle open a rusted gate. "Maybe it just needs a little oil."
"Or maybe a priest," Anna said under her breath.
Helen turned sharply with a forced smile now. "Anna, darling, negativity attracts bad luck."
"Then you must be a magnet, Anna." Max snorted.
Helen shot him a death glare. "Keep talking and I'll make you share a room."
The argument drifted up faintly, bouncing through the still air.
Blackwood's fingers twitched. He tilted his head slightly, sensing the faint hum that came with the wind. The house recognized new life, and was hungry for it.
A shadow passed behind one of the upper windows of the Thompson's house. He saw it clearly, though the others outside didn't. It looked vaguely human, but the way it moved wasn't. It was slow, and dragging, like the air around it was heavy.
"They never learn."
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