The agent didn't tell them the price until the drive home, and she said it like an apology. Sixty-one thousand. Eleven rooms, a wraparound porch. Mara signed before Daniel finished reading. That first night they slept on a mattress in the parlor. Above them, a floorboard creaked. Then again, slow and even, like someone pacing the room overhead. They were alone in the house.

Daniel turned on his phone flashlight and headed for the stairs. "It's just the house settling," he said, but his voice shook. Mara followed. At the top of the steps, the pacing stopped the second their feet hit the landing. Every door up there was shut. They didn't remember closing them.

Mara tried the door at the end of the hall. Locked. Through the keyhole she saw a thin line of candlelight and a chair rocking on its own. She backed away fast. "Daniel," she said, "there's no power up here. So what's burning?"

Daniel kicked the locked door open. The room was empty, the rocking chair still. But the candle on the sill had burned down and was now climbing back up, the wax rising, the flame growing taller as they watched. "It's running backward," Mara breathed. "The house is going back to before us."