Edith studied the drooping porch for a long moment, then opened her purse and pulled out a yellowed envelope sealed with brown wax. “My husband gave me this the winter before he died,” she said. “He told me to hand it to whoever bought the Sutton place.” My fingers trembled as I took it. Across the front, in shaky ink, were the words: For the one who comes back.

Before I could open it, Caleb called from the porch, his voice strange and flat. “Come here. Both of you.” The cellar door stood ajar, and fresh muddy footprints led straight down the steps. “Frank has been here,” Edith whispered, gripping my arm. “I told Harold he would come looking.” From below came the scrape of a shovel against stone, then a man’s ragged breathing, and a voice we all knew said, “Mom? Is that you?”