Furnace Room Lullaby
by Leah Bobet
The house off Weathervane Street came old, but not haunted.
It came with bright red brick walls on the outside, cherry-paneled floors on the inside, plaster that weeps moisture in the summer that plinks into a hundred dented pots. It came with cats that drink the water, wander in and out of the house, vanish into the weedy yard at dusk. It came old and weeping, rafters twisted, foundation long settled and scented with earth.
Isabelle made it haunted, and so she still lives in the house.