The Shadow in the Storm

When I was thirteen, I thought my younger siblings were ridiculous. My brother, who was ten, was convinced our old home was full of spirits. He claimed previous residents had met tragic ends within its walls. He and his friends would hold nightly searches, often waking our family with shouts about moving shadows. My little sister, who was seven, believed every word. On rainy weekends, they would stay up until dawn, chasing whispers in the dark. I, being the eldest, found them utterly foolish and kept to myself. This was before I understood.

One Saturday, a heavy storm darkened the sky by midday. Our father was working, and our mother was visiting a relative. I was in charge, watching television in the living room. Naturally, my brother and sister were huddled in the dining room, sketching a map on a large notepad. I walked over to see what the fuss was about. “Look, Clara!” my sister chirped, her voice bright with excitement.