I poke my head past the fence. Nothing moves. Then I see the scarecrow blink. Its hat is crooked, staring at me like it remembers my secrets.
I leave before it says my name.
Back home, the house smells like burnt toast and wet dog. Ma is praying over pancakes. Dad is fixing the roof—again. The twins are arguing over who is invisible.
The night will come soon.
And I'll be ready.
Dinner is a battlefield disguised as a meal. Ma serves stew that smells like cinnamon and regret. Dad chops wood at the table for emphasis. The twins scream because someone touched their invisible friend. Grace refuses anything green, muttering that it "looks like it's watching."
I sit in the corner, chewing slowly, counting shadows. The goldfish in the cracked bowl stares back at me, one eye bright as a warning. Somewhere, Ruth hums a tune that doesn't belong to any human song. Luke spills water, and it crawls along the floor like it has legs.