Brooke Jennett

Agnes, however, was less charming than the house.

It's a weird thing to say about someone who can't speak, but there was something off about her.

She had bad vibes from the start, and they spread like a spill on the couch.

it spread and soaked in deep.

Agnes was about 62, but she looked older.

Her hair had been a vibrant red when she was younger, but had dulled with age and stress.

It was streaked with white, giving her hair the same impression as a circus tent.

Once taut and glowing, her skin had yellowed and sagged beyond what you'd expect from her age.

But the worst feature was her eyes.

They were light blue and cut through you like a knife.

She rarely blinked, and that non-stop gaze made it feel like she saw right through you.

I hated it.

The first few days were fine.

I got into a routine with Agnes that seemed to work out for both of us.

Or so it seemed, since she couldn't tell me anything.

I was still settling into the house and trying to get a lay of the land.

I spent my first night decorating my room.

To say it was drab would be an understatement.

It was all neutral colors and lacked any vitality.

I was a Lisa Frank kind of person in my heart, so I needed some color and personality.