The Cold Cup by the Window

When I was twelve, my uncle Dale asked me to help him stage a foreclosed house on Pine Hollow Lane. The place had been empty for months, and the air inside hung thick with dust and the smell of stale paint. I was supposed to wipe down the windowsills while Dale checked the plumbing, but I got distracted by a ginger cat that darted between the bare rooms. My socks slid on the vinyl flooring, and I followed the cat down a narrow hallway, past a door that was slightly ajar. Through the gap, I saw a pale shape, a child-sized figure standing in the corner, its head tilted. I blinked, and it was gone. Later, Dale told me the previous owners had a little girl who died in that room, a small fire from an old space heater.

That night, I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to erase the image. I must have drifted off, because I woke to the sound of the refrigerator humming. I needed water, so I padded to the kitchen. The fridge door was open, and on the counter sat a glass of water, beads of condensation trailing down its side. I hadn’t put it there. My parents were away on a business trip, and I was supposed to be staying with my cousin, but I’d insisted on being home alone for the weekend. A chill ran through me, and I didn’t touch the glass. Instead, I grabbed my bike and pedaled furiously to my friend Marcus’s house, three streets over. His mom let me in, fussing over me, and I spent the night on their couch, trying to convince myself it was all a dream.

The next morning, I returned home to find every door and window locked tight. My parents were still away, and I had no key because I’d given it to them by mistake. I stood on the porch, pressed my forehead against the cool glass, and inside, by the kitchen window, I saw the glass of water, still there, the ice cubes long melted. I didn’t go back to Marcus’s house. I sat on the curb, waiting for my parents to return, watching the sun climb higher, and I thought about the little girl who liked to play with the thermostat.

Years later, I still can’t open a refrigerator without hesitating. And every now and then, when I’m alone, I feel the faint draft of an open door that shouldn’t be open, and I hear the soft pad of bare feet on linoleum, as if someone is waiting for me to pour them a glass of water.