I Know You’re There. Somewhere.

We were hiking in a dense wood when a sudden rainstorm blew up. We ran for shelter and came upon an old abandoned house. A mansion, really, that must have once been beautiful.

“How lucky is that?” you said and bounded onto the porch.

I nearly fell through the rotten boards, but you caught my elbow and pulled me toward the door.

“Look—the lock is broken,” you said. “Let’s go inside.”

But it was dark, lit only by intermittent flashes of lightning. Even though I was cold and wet from the downpour, I didn’t want to go in.

“No,” I said. “I’m scared.”

“It will be fine,” you said, pulling the door open and stepping in.

A whoosh of wind rushed inside and caught the gossamer sheets that covered pieces of large, hulking furniture. The place smelled musty, with a faint whiff of animal—mice, perhaps?

You lifted a corner of one sheet. Underneath was an elaborately carved chest of dark wood. A grand piano lay beneath another, gleaming as if freshly polished. You tapped some of the ivories, which produced tinkly, off-key music.

“Look at this lovely stuff,” you said. “Out here in the woods in a broken-down house.”

The wind moaned through the cracks. Another flash lit the room, followed by a boom that rattled the tall windows. Dusty dark-green curtains hung in tatters from ceiling to floor. You pulled one back and peered out.

“Rain isn’t slowing at all,” you said, and pointed to a curving staircase that led upward. “Let’s go check out the upstairs.”

I didn’t want to go, but I let you take my hand and lead me up the elaborately carved staircase into the dark. I should have refused. I didn’t, though. I will regret that for eternity.

The walls of the stairwell were lined with huge old portraits of stern-looking people.

When we reached the top, you said, “Look, there’s light coming from under that door.”