It began the year I turned twelve. My family settled into a very old home, one that had stood since the turn of the previous century. From the first night, my bedroom felt different, like it wasn’t entirely my own.
One afternoon, I discovered my favorite pen pushed deep inside a stack of books. Later, I found my colored pencils arranged on the desk, spelling out the name “Leo”. I didn’t know any Leo.
My cousin was visiting, and we decided to tidy up. I asked her to plug the fan into the outlet in the hallway. She left the room and did as I asked. When I pressed the power button, nothing happened. I called out, “Clara, are you sure it’s plugged in?” She insisted that it was. I went to check and found the plug lying on the floor just outside my door. I plugged it back in, and the fan whirred to life.
When I went to coil the cord, it was pinned to the floor. I said, “Clara, your foot is on the cord.” She replied from across the room, “I’m not near it.” She was sitting on my bed, reading. But the cord was pressed flat against the carpet, as if held down by an invisible weight.