The night after the accident I thought I heard the squeaking of wheels and faint laughter in the unfinished basement. In the morning I found his twisted tricycle in the middle of the floor with little bloody hand prints on the handlebars.
One day I found that something had gotten into the cereal in my pantry, so I set out a mouse trap for it. I had to move after I found the naked, miniature body of human being crushed in the trap.
Before she got sick, my daughter loved riding our willow tree in rainstorms. Sometimes on stormy nights I still see her shining eyes and long, wet hair swaying in the upper branches between flashes of lightning.
The boy cast his line into pond and reeled quickly, like his dad had showed him before he disappeared. The line caught on something and wouldn’t budge—until the boy pulled with all his might, and out of the water flopped his father’s severed head, hooked right through the lip.
They told me a woman had been trapped and burned to death in the house, but that didn’t bother me too much. Until a particularly hot summer night when I watched in horror as paint was violently scraped from the walls by frantic, invisible fingernails.