Phil Parisi

Kristen went to her, and I went back out into the night.

Lighthouse Passage 2 was so orderly, so neat and carefully presented.

I knew that if I reached out and touched the apparently wooden sign near the plain gazebo the property management company had installed beside the turnoff, depicting a little lighthouse with a straight yellow beam projected out over calm blue water,

I'd find that the letters weren't really wood at all, but probably some synthetic material designed to never have to be repainted.

Nothing in a place like this could ever be haunted.

Not with this painfully predictable landscaping and the HOA making sure the names of the cul-de-sacs were not in any way off-theme.

It was with that conviction that I pulled back into Tess's spotless driveway.

At the curb of the house next to hers, the top of a big fake Christmas tree poked out of the oblong box it had come in, a box with the Target logo on it.

It had been taped up messily, dragged down, and balanced diagonally and precariously against a trash can.

Holidays in the suburbs.

I pushed on Tess's front door and went back inside.

I turned the foyer lights on first thing.

I took a turn through the living room, looking for anything dramatically out of order, but didn't see it.

Then it was through the kitchen where I steeled myself for a moment before opening that basement door again.

It had been only about 45 minutes since I departed it the first time.

If the slightest disturbing sound had risen from below, I would never have gone down there.

But the silence held, and I descended.

I then stood at the bottom of the steps, struggling against my fight-or-flight mechanism as I became frightened in a way I've never known before or since.

The chaotic assemblage of chairs had been well corrected.

The sheets on the floor were no longer there,