five kids vanished that summer no one talked about  it after clare moved away changed her name forgot   how the chalk felt in her hand but now a box  of old drawings has arrived and one of them has   her face the house hasn’t forgotten it’s waiting  before we begin hit subscribe clare hadn’t seen   the street in over 20 years but it looked the same  the houses still sat in quiet rows tucked neatly   behind trimmed hedges and fences that leaned ever  so slightly number six the red one still had its

porch light burned out even though no one had  lived there since before the last frost of that   summer the pavement had cracked just slightly more  the sidewalk chalk long since washed away but the   culde-sac felt untouched preserved even she pulled  the rental car to a slow stop in front of her   childhood home the engine ticked as it cooled the  only sound on a street that didn’t seem to breathe   anymore a sparrow flitted between two bare trees  its wings fluttering like a nervous heartbeat then

was gone no welcome no wind just quiet in the  passenger seat sat a letter postmarked without   a return address and inside it a drawing crayon on  yellowing paper clare had unfolded it five times   since it arrived the week before she unfolded  it again it was a child’s map of Brier Lane   slanted rectangles for houses stick figure trees  a crooked culdeac all the houses were outlined in   black except one number six which was colored  bright red waxy and uneven and in the lower   corner written in shaky oversized handwriting  “Claire come back.

” She hadn’t told anyone not

her partner not her therapist not even her mother  she’d simply packed a small bag called in sick   and made the 6-hour drive on a gray Wednesday  afternoon because she knew the drawing not the   paper or the handwriting but the style it looked  exactly like the way Michael used to draw michael   who disappeared first michael whose shoes were  found near the edge of the woods facing the wrong   way michael who was never found clare folded the  paper carefully gently like a memory that could   tear she slid it back into her bag and stepped  out of the car the cold settled quickly thin and

damp the kind that clung to the skin and crept  under your coat the houses watched her silently   as she walked the windows all looked empty maybe  they were maybe they’d always been she paused in   front of number six the porch was intact no tape  no signs of repair just stillness the front steps   had a fine dusting of frost undisturbed but one  step bore something faint a smear of red like   a wax crayon dragged once across the wood almost  erased by weather but not quite gone clare didn’t   touch it not yet instead she turned toward her  childhood house number four the white one with

the split driveway and the cracked bird bath still  sunk into the yard the front door had been changed   painted a soft green but the wind chimes were the  same ceramic stars that never chimed they swayed   gently now making no sound at all she unlocked  the door it stuck it always had inside the air   was colder than outside she hadn’t asked the real  estate agent to turn the heat on that would have   felt too permanent the house had been sitting  empty since her mother moved into assisted living

and no one had stayed there since she had expected  dust silence maybe echoes of something unspoken   what she didn’t expect was the smell not rot not  mold but chalk the scent of ground chalk the kind   used on sidewalks faint and dry like the memory  of summer afternoons and skinned knees clare   walked to the back window and looked out over the  backyard beyond the small fence number six stood   silent and still its shutters pulled tightly  closed something moved inside just a flicker a   shadow near the stairs no more than a second then  nothing clare didn’t panic she didn’t even flinch

because a part of her the part that never truly  left this place had been waiting for someone to   wave back clare didn’t sleep well the house was  colder than she remembered not in temperature   but in presence something about it felt like  a room after someone leaves still holding the   shape of them in the air her childhood bedroom had  been stripped bare years ago but she’d brought a   sleeping bag and laid it out beneath the window  like she used to when the summer nights were too   hot to sleep in the bed back then she would count  stars tonight she counted the seconds between

silence outside the wind moved like a whisper  trying not to be heard she woke just after 5 not   to a sound but to the absence of one the furnace  had stopped humming the wind had quieted even the   distant traffic was missing it was as if the world  had taken a breath and was holding it clare pulled   on her coat and padded quietly down the stairs her  breath fogged faintly in the kitchen she didn’t   bother with coffee just unlocked the front door  and opened it hoping the cold would make her feel

more real and then she saw it a piece of paper  thick white not weathered tucked gently beneath   the welcome mat the edges were dry untouched by  frost like it had only just been placed there she   bent down slowly her fingers trembling slightly  before she touched it another drawing this one   was different still crayon still childlike but  more detailed it showed the culde-sac again now   with six houses drawn in sequence each with a  stick figure in front the figures were labeled   Michael June Liam Abby Ray and beneath the last  one standing alone Clare each figure was smiling

except hers the red house number six loomed taller  in the drawing than in real life its windows were   colored black behind them faint shapes not people  exactly shadows with curved shoulders no faces she   turned the page over nothing no message this time  just the drawing clare stared at it for a long   time before going back inside she set the picture  down on the kitchen table and sat across from it   as if it were going to speak it didn’t but it felt  like it might the drawing should not feel like

it’s breathing she found herself whispering “Who  drew this?” But she already knew the handwriting   or thought she did she remembered how Michael  would always outline things in black said it   made them more real how June would color the grass  in long lines instead of sideways how Abby added   hearts to every window clare could see all of that  in the details now this drawing wasn’t from one   person it was from all of them as if the group had  drawn it together as if they were still drawing   later that morning she walked to the end of the  culde-sac she hadn’t intended to she told herself

she was just going out for air but her feet found  their old rhythm and before long she stood in   front of the red house number six it still looked  empty shutters drawn porch light out the kind of   silence that made you think twice before knocking  she didn’t not yet instead she stepped to the edge   of the porch and looked down a trail of faint  marks led away from the house not footprints   but lines wax crayon red drawn directly on the  cement walkway they formed a path one that curved   in small spirals before returning to the base of  the stairs almost like someone had been trying to

draw a door again and again until they got it  right clare knelt and traced a fingertip along   the line it flaked slightly under her touch still  fresh she stood and looked at the front door there   was no sound but she felt it something waiting on  the other side not watching not threatening just   waiting like a story paused mid-sentence that  night as the wind picked up and the old chime   swayed once again without sound Clare sat at her  childhood desk and spread both drawings out in   front of her the map the portrait of the sixth she  noticed something she hadn’t before on the second

drawing the red house was taller two tall three  stories at least but number six had always been   two stories just like the others she went to the  window pulled back the curtain and stared across   the culde-sac the red house stood silent still  two stories but in the upstairs window the one   closest to the chimney a light flicked on faint  like candle light and then went out clare stepped   back from the window heart pounding she hadn’t  imagined it she knew she hadn’t because when she   returned to the desk the drawing had changed in  the topmost window of the red house a new detail

had been added a stick figure small alone smiling  clare returned to the red house the next morning   she didn’t decide to not in a way she could  explain her feet moved before her thoughts did   the street was silent the frost beginning to melt  into the edges of the curb and the sky hung low   with a soft gray stillness that winter often wore  like a coat number six had not changed but she   had something about the second drawing the small  figure in the upper window smiling had stayed with   her all night she had barely slept turning between  memories and questions she couldn’t frame aloud

the feeling wasn’t fear exactly it was more  like something unfinished pressing into the   corners of her thoughts the porch boards groaned  under her step the door had no bell she tried the   knob still locked clare hesitated then stepped  to the side and peeked under the welcome mat a   key old brass cold she didn’t remember this house  ever having a welcome mat the key turned easily   in the lock the door opened with a sound like a  breath caught in the throat inside the air was   dry not musty preserved clare stepped in slowly  her boots quiet against the old wooden floor the

house smelled of dust paint and something faintly  sweet like dried flowers kept too long in a box   the living room was furnished not staged  like a property ready for sale but lived in   a sunbleleached couch a coffee table with faint  ring stains a dusty bookshelf everything held a   film of age but nothing seemed abandoned it was  as if time had paused here not passed she crossed   into the hallway each door was closed she touched  the first one left side nearest the stairwell   it creaked open into a small den wallpaper peeled  slightly in one corner but the room was intact the

next door led to a bathroom then a guest room  she paused at the fourth door it was locked   the hallway continued narrowing slightly then a  door she didn’t remember it was smaller than the   others painted the same beige as the walls almost  invisible if you weren’t looking directly at it   clare reached out the door knob was cold but not  locked it resisted slightly as she turned it not   from a bolt but from age or maybe reluctance the  door opened the room was small windowless barely   large enough for a bed and yet she knew this was  the room the one the drawings hinted at the one

where Michael had said he was going before he  disappeared clare stepped inside the air was   warmer here almost unnaturally so the light from  the hallway barely touched the far wall but she   could just make out marks small indentations near  the floor she knelt brushing dust aside with her   hand crayon lines faint red a circle imperfect and  half finishedish as if someone had started to draw   something and had been stopped midway she touched  it gently the warmth deepened not physically   but emotionally like standing in a room that  remembered something something important something

painful clare backed out slowly her breath shallow  as she reached the hallway again the air shifted   a low creek from upstairs she froze then nothing  just the soft hush of the house breathing around   her walls quietly settling like they always had  but she knew what she had to do next she climbed   the stairs each step creaked under her weight  old wood sighing with memory at the top a narrow   landing opened into three doors she opened the  first a child’s bedroom faded wallpaper with tiny   stars a bed with no sheets a dresser with a broken  drawer on the desk was a photograph face down she

turned it over six children standing in front of  number six smiling her breath caught they were all   there michael June Liam Abby Ray and her but in  the photo she was turned away looking back toward   the house as if distracted she’d never seen this  photo before clare put it down and turned toward   the second upstairs room it was empty unfernished  the third room was locked she stepped closer the   door was clean no dust as if someone had opened  it recently and on the wall beside it just above

the light switch was something drawn in red  wax a smile childlike just two curved lines   simple and waiting clare stepped back the hallway  darkened slightly even though the sun outside had   not changed she turned and walked quickly down  the stairs past the warm room with the crayon   circle past the bookshelf past the coffee table  ringed by someone else’s forgotten tea outside   the cold hit her like a question and she had no  answer not yet but when she returned home there   was another drawing waiting on her doorstep folded  once no envelope no message just an image the red

house one door open and six stick figures inside  one was circled in red her name beneath it clare   the audio tape was in a box marked junk 2003 clare  found it in the basement of her mother’s house the   next morning after waking to the sound of wind  that wasn’t moving the trees she hadn’t intended   to look through the past but some part of her had  known even before she opened the lid that there   would be something in that box something left  behind or maybe something that had waited the   cassette was unlabeled its case cracked beneath  it were a few old polaroids mostly washed out

birthday parties someone’s dog a crooked picture  of the culdesac clare didn’t remember taking any   of them or maybe she just didn’t want to she  dusted off her father’s old tape player the   one with the faint burn mark near the volume dial  and pressed play at first just static a few quiet   pops then children’s laughter clare froze she  recognized it all of it the pitch of Aby’s giggle   the way Liam always shouted too loudly too close  to the mic the breathy squeaky whisper that was   Ray when she got excited and her own voice higher  thinner saying “Let’s play again i’ll count this

time.

” Another voice softer “michael no let’s  do the sixth room again it’s better when we all   hide.

” Someone hesitated “june we’re not supposed  to use the red house my mom said it’s still empty   a long pause then Clare’s own voice again quiet  almost a whisper it’s not empty i saw the light   come on laughter footsteps the sound of wind  through the mic and then counting but not by   any of the children it was deeper slow deliberate  1 2 3 the voice wasn’t angry it wasn’t even unkind   but it wasn’t right it skipped almost casually  6 7 11 Clare’s breath caught in her throat the

recording continued with faint rustling more  laughter but it had changed the tones were   quieter distant as if someone had walked away from  the group and taken the recorder with them there   was a faint creek a door and then just before the  tape cut off a whisper so faint she could barely   catch it found you then silence clare sat for  a long time before ejecting the tape she didn’t   know why it had been recorded or who had left  it behind but she knew where it ended in the red   house the sound of the creaking door it matched  the one upstairs the locked room she turned the

tape over in her hand there was a name scratched  faintly into the plastic clare she returned to   number six that afternoon the house opened like it  had been waiting the key slid more easily into the   lock this time as though it had grown used to her  upstairs she didn’t hesitate the third room was   still locked the red wax smile still marked beside  the switch but now on the door itself something   had been added handprints small ones several  smudged into the dust like children had pressed   their palms against the wood and left them behind  clare reached into her coat pocket and pulled out

the drawing that had been left that morning the  one with six figures and the open door one figure   was circled hers she pressed her palm against the  wood the door clicked she pushed it open the room   was wrong not unfamiliar but impossible it was  too large far larger than the footprint of the   house the ceiling was high curved like a chapel  and the wallpaper was made of drawings layered   overlapping thousands of them all in crayon all  childlike some torn some half-finish and in the   center of the room placed gently on the floor was  a circle of sidewalk chalk inside the circle a

shoe small worn blue with a yellow lightning bolt  clare remembered it instantly michael’s she had   helped him draw that lightning bolt in chalk once  the week before he was gone she stepped into the   room the door behind her didn’t close it didn’t  need to the room wasn’t threatening just waiting   in the far corner another figure not moving just  watching a girl her own age number not her age   her her younger self claire age 11 in a denim  jacket braided hair she didn’t speak she didn’t   blink she simply raised one finger and pointed to  the wall to a drawing hung just above the window

clare turned it was the red house again but not  drawn from the outside it was drawn from inside   the view was from a window looking out at the  culde-sac from the top floor in the foreground a   hand holding a red crayon clare looked back at her  younger self she was gone only the circle of chalk   in the shoe remained and the drawing still watched  the window the drawing wouldn’t leave her alone   clare had taken it from the red house folded it  carefully and slipped it into her coat pocket but

by the time she reached her front porch she could  feel it warm not in temperature but in weight like   it wanted to be seen again inside she placed it  on the kitchen table and stared at it for hours   the perspective was all wrong no child could have  drawn it that way not from imagination the angle   was too specific the shadows fell exactly as  they had that afternoon it wasn’t a drawing   of the red house it was a drawing from the red  house the hand holding the crayon wasn’t her own   not quite the fingers were too thin the wrist too  small but something about the posture the way the

lines were drawn with hesitation at first and then  certainty it felt like memory trying to come back   clare tried to look away she couldn’t the edges  of the paper curled slightly in the warmth of the   kitchen the colors remained vivid and in the  corner written so faintly it almost vanished   against the background was a phrase “Draw where  you want to go.

” She read it three times then a   fourth by the fifth she was pulling an old  notebook from her childhood desk she opened   it to a blank page picked up a pencil her hand  hovered this was absurd but she remembered the   circle drawn in the warm room the crayon lines  on the floor the growing impossibility of the   upstairs room too big too curved too knowing  what would happen if she drew she lowered the   pencil and began to sketch she drew a door simple  narrow the kind they had in the older houses the   ones that never quite shut all the way she added  a handle a keyhole a light above it and then she

shaded in the crack beneath the door just a line  of darkness nothing dramatic she stared at it when   she was done then slowly she closed the notebook  it was only a few minutes before she heard the   sound a faint thud not in the kitchen not outside  inside the house clare stood her breath caught as   the air changed not colder but expectant she  turned in a slow circle listening then she saw   it down the hall near the old linen closet  where the wallpaper curled at the seams and   the floorboards creaked slightly if you stepped in  just the right place a door not one she remembered

not one that had ever been there before it  looked exactly like the one she had drawn   the light above it flickered faintly the handle  was brass dulled with age and beneath the door   just as she’d sketched a thin line of shadow bled  across the floor like something remembering how to   be solid she stepped closer each footfall  felt padded like the air had thickened   the walls around her didn’t move but they felt  closer somehow clare touched the doororknob warm   she turned it the door swung open behind it a  room she hadn’t seen since she was a child the

classroom her fourth grade classroom Mrs leman’s  room with a faded globe the alphabet banner and   the stained whiteboard that never quite erased  cleanly she blinked there was no smell no sound   only the faint echo of chairs scraping and  children whispering just below hearing on the   teacher’s desk sat a folded piece of paper clare  stepped through the doorway heart pounding the   paper was blank she turned it over and there drawn  in pencil with soft careful strokes the red house   again but this time it wasn’t just one image it  was a sequence four frames in a row a comic strip

maybe or a memory breaking apart into moments  frame one the six children playing hopscotch   frame two Michael turning away frame three Michael  standing at the front door of the red house crayon   in hand frame four the door opened behind him  a tall figure drawn in gray clare stepped back   the door she’d entered through was gone not shut  gone the classroom wall now stood solid behind   her the only exit another door this one drawn in  chalk on the blackboard its edges glowing faintly   and above it in small white script draw the way  out clare turned to the blank paper her hand shook

as she picked up the stub of chalk from the desk  she didn’t know where to go but she remembered   something an image from a drawing Michael had  once made a treehouse tall safe high enough   that the house couldn’t reach she drew it now not  perfectly but carefully a rope ladder a wooden   trap door a lantern in the window she closed her  eyes and pressed the drawing to the chalkboard   when she opened them the door had changed it  now bore the rough sketch lines of a trapped   door half open clare stepped through she emerged  back in her mother’s kitchen but the drawing was

gone so was the notebook only one thing remained  resting on the kitchen floor near the table leg   a crayon red used dull still warm the red house no  longer felt empty clare returned just after sunset   though the sun hadn’t so much set as faded the  sky above Brier Lane had dimmed slowly as if   light were being absorbed instead of replaced her  footsteps echoed differently now not louder but   slower like the air was stretching time the front  door of number six was unlocked it had been locked

that morning clare pushed it open and stepped  inside this time the house greeted her with warmth   not cozy warmth but the kind that clings like air  exhaled from something that shouldn’t breathe she   stood in the entryway letting her eyes adjust the  interior looked the same as before worn furniture   shelves half-filled curtains drawn against a  dusk that pressed in close but now there were   sounds faint laughter not distant not recorded but  nearby children giggling whispering playing clare   followed the sound it led her to the staircase  then down the narrow hall to the warm room

with the unfinished red circle on the floor the  door was slightly a jar now a soft light spilled   through the gap she opened it fully and paused the  room had changed the wallpaper was gone the floors   were clean polished even a toy box sat beneath  the window lid a skew a lamp in the corner glowed   with amber light but what caught her breath was  the game board in the center of the room it was   homemade squares drawn on construction paper taped  together plastic figures stood on spaces labeled

things like hopscotch secret base snack break and  the sixth room one of the figures was Claire’s   someone had drawn her face in marker tiny but  unmistakable her gamepiece stood three squares   behind Michael’s clare stepped into the room the  laughter stopped the air grew thick on the toy box   someone had placed a notebook she recognized it  it was hers the one from her own house but it had   changed the cover was different now it looked  older worn from use the pages inside were no   longer blank they were filled with drawings not  hers the first page showed the six children all

of them sitting in a circle beneath it in neat  block letters our last game the second page showed   Michael standing alone in front of the red house  holding a crayon the third page was torn clare   turned the page and her breath caught the fourth  showed a new scene her older standing at the edge   of the circle of chalk watching hesitating someone  had drawn her just as she was now at the bottom of   the page in soft pencil she never came in so we  stayed clare’s hands shook she remembered that

day vaguely like a smudged page in a book they  were playing tag or hideand seek and Michael had   said they should all go into the red house one  more time just for a minute he’d said but Clare   had gone home she hadn’t wanted to play anymore it  was getting dark her mother was calling her in she   left and the next morning Michael was gone then  June then Liam one by one and now here in this   room that remembered too much the truth settled  over her they hadn’t disappeared they had been   kept not taken not harmed held somewhere between  memory and story clare flipped to the last page

it was blank except for a question scrolled in the  same childlike hand can we finish the game now she   stood slowly her knees stiff from kneeling on the  floor a soft sound came from the hall footsteps   bare light clare turned but saw nothing then  the game board moved not all at once just one   piece her marker it slid forward one square clare  didn’t touch it the air changed again not cold not   hot but full like someone had taken a breath just  behind her the window curtain fluttered though the

glass was shut clare stepped backward her heart  thutting a whisper passed through the room not   in words but in feeling something like “You were  supposed to stay.

” She didn’t answer aloud she   walked out of the room down the hall and back out  the front door the night air hit her hard crisp   and real she didn’t look back not yet but when she  reached her own porch there was something waiting   again not a drawing this time a photo old faded  corners curled it showed five children sitting   in the living room of the red house clare stood  behind them watching through the window on the

back written in faded pencil “Where did you go?”  The girl was waiting in the mirror clare had gone   to the bathroom to splash water on her face to  ground herself to prove she was still real that   the air outside the red house still obeyed time  that her reflection would look the way it always   had older tired trying to remember things she  had spent years learning how to forget but the   face that stared back wasn’t hers it was her at  age 11 same eyes same hairline same way her lips   pressed together when she was scared but didn’t  want anyone to know the girl didn’t blink clare

stepped back the reflection didn’t for a heartbeat  the silence between them grew too large then the   girl raised her hand and pointed not at Clare at  the hallway behind her clare turned empty but when   she looked back the mirror showed something else  the hallway was not empty in the reflection the   wallpaper had changed toys littered the floor  the light at the end of the hall was warmer   flickering like candle light and the girl Clare 11  stepped away from the mirror and walked down that   hall clare spun to follow but her hallway remained  unchanged old quiet real still she walked at the

end of her hallway Clare reached the attic stairs  she hadn’t opened that door in over a decade she   climbed slowly her flashlight flickering once as  if to protest the air grew thinner with each step   colder too as if the attic were a separate season  altogether dust moes floated in quiet spirals the   attic was as she remembered boxes old Christmas  decorations forgotten furniture but in the far   corner tucked behind a stack of her father’s  college books was something she did not remember   a door small wooden painted with peeling white  enamel no knob it was the kind of door a child

would draw oddly proportioned centered in the wall  as if it had always been waiting to be noticed   clare stepped closer a child’s handwriting had  been scrolled across the bottom in crayon clare’s   room keep out her heart tightened she placed her  hand flat against the wood warm the door opened   inward inside her childhood room but not the one  from photographs this was the memory of it exactly   as it had been on the last night before Michael  disappeared stuffed animals arranged by height a   poster of a comet taped crookedly to the wall  a notebook on the bed flipped to a half-finish

drawing of a ladder reaching into clouds and  sitting on the bed barefoot legs swinging   lightly clare the younger version didn’t look  surprised she looked tired “hi,” she said softly   clare nodded unsure what to say the girl looked  down at the floor we were supposed to play one   more round “you left,” Clare swallowed “i didn’t  know it would i didn’t know it meant something   you heard it.

” Clare nodded slowly “the counting,”  the girl said “it skipped numbers that’s how you   knew it wasn’t real.

” Clare sat beside her younger  self “they didn’t touch.

” I got scared,” she said   quietly the girl looked at her so did we but we  stayed clare didn’t speak for a long moment the   only sound was the ticking of an old wall clock  that hadn’t worked since 2002 then the girl said   “He’s still in there you know Michael the others  too.

” Clare felt the tears before she knew they   were coming they’re not are they okay the girl’s  eyes softened they’re waiting they think you’ll   come back clare wiped her cheek what happens  if I don’t the girl didn’t answer instead she   slid something off her wrist and held it out a  bracelet plastic beads strung in alternating red   and white the kind they used to make at summer  camp on it the letters spelled C L A I R E6   clare took it as her fingers closed around the  plastic the room began to fade not vanish not   break just fade like a memory finally ready to let  go the bed the poster the girl all softening at

the edges clare stood the door behind her was gone  but there was a window now cracked open cold air   drifting in and beyond it the red house its attic  window was open too and in that window six figures   stood in silhouette one of them waved back in her  home Clare found a new drawing waiting beneath her   pillow she hadn’t been in bed she hadn’t even  been upstairs but there it was folded creased   once this one wasn’t in crayon it was pencil faint  rushed it showed the red house the attic windows

glowing and in the margin in a child’s handwriting  “You can still finish the game we’re almost done.

”   Clare remembered the sidewalk she remembered how  they used to fill it every summer every stretch   of sundrenched concrete between the driveways  of Brier Lane with drawings games mazes pretend   worlds that ran from number one all the way to  the curve at number six and she remembered the   circles they had started as a game chalk portals  Michael called them whoever stood in got to make   a wish sometimes it was silly a puppy a snow day  a chocolate milk fountain but other times Clare

stepped outside just after sunrise the grass still  beated with cold she carried a bucket of water and   a sponge not because she planned to clean anything  but because she needed to know if they were still   there she reached the edge of the sidewalk in  front of the red house and she saw it faint almost   erased a chalk circle drawn in red and white a  little crooked slightly oval but unmistakably one   of theirs clare dropped to her knees she dipped  the sponge in the bucket and pressed it to the

pavement the chalk blurred slightly then returned  stronger clearer as if the water had woken it up   clare’s heart began to race she looked up and  down the street empty silent no cars no windows   open the culde-sac might as well have been  held in a moment she turned back to the circle   inside faint letters had been written in the  center june her breath caught the next sidewalk   square just a few steps ahead bore another lion  she stood water forgotten and followed them one   after another faded chalk rings left exactly where  the children had stood all those years ago each

with a name inside a quiet record of a moment just  before something changed clare kept walking abby   Ray and then at the bend in the sidewalk where  the path turned toward number six she saw her own   drawn smaller like it had been done quickly almost  an afterthought clare but something was different   hers was the only circle not filled in the lines  were faint incomplete the chalk had broken before   it was finished or maybe it had never been drawn  all the way she crouched beside it and remembered

michael had drawn hers she had said no said she  didn’t want to play anymore but he insisted said   the game couldn’t end unless everyone had a  circle he’d started to draw it and she’d run   home before it was done before she had stepped  inside clare closed her eyes and suddenly she   heard it again the counting voice from the old  cassette tape 5 6 7 11 her hands trembled the   red house loomed behind her quiet and still back  inside her home she opened her old photo album   near the back tucked behind a loose snapshot of  her fifth grade play was a folded paper unfamiliar

she unfolded it carefully another drawing but  this one wasn’t of the red house it was of her   own house the kitchen window and in the corner  inside a small chalk circle Clare as a child   sitting with her arms wrapped around her knees a  line of red connected her circle to the red house   clare traced it with her finger it passed over  three more circles along the way paths connections   a map she flipped the paper over four words were  written on the back finish what we started she   spent the rest of the day collecting things the  broken bracelet her younger self had given her

the photographs the notebook with a comic strip  sequence and one last item she hadn’t dared to   touch until now the red crayon she held it gently  surprised by how solid it felt in her hand not   soft or waxy but firm grounded like it had soaked  up the weight of everything that had been asked of   it that night she returned to the red house this  time she went through the back the door opened   with no resistance the house exhaled softly as if  relieved to see her she found the children’s game   board still spread on the floor but it had changed  now there were seven pieces the sixth stood at the

center square circled in red the seventh hers  rested just outside the edge of the board clare   placed her piece on the square beside Michael’s  immediately the room warmed the crayon in her hand   pulsed slightly like a heartbeat and across the  wall a new circle began to draw itself in red wax   slow deliberate completing the one that had never  been finished above it one word appeared in blocky   handwriting ready the circle on the wall glowed  faintly not with light exactly but with attention

like the house had turned toward her fully and  without hesitation no more games no more whispered   memories only one question remained clare stood  in the center of the room the red crayon in her   hand warm now nearly hot the game board at her  feet shimmerred its handdrawn pieces trembling   slightly as if waiting for a move the room had  changed again it looked smaller not because it   was closing in but because it was drawing closer  walls curving gently inward the ceiling slightly   lower than she remembered the air was thick  like breath held just under the surface of water

she stepped toward the wall the red circle was  complete now inside it a faint shimmer not color   not motion just possibility she touched the center  the wall yielded softly like stepping through fog   the space beyond the wall was narrow and dim not a  hallway not a tunnel just space folded into itself   she walked forward the crayon still in her grip  and the world around her muted into soft hums and   breathlike warmth then a room it was not part of  the house she knew no blueprints could have held

this the walls were paper thick parchment drawn  on in every color of crayon chalk pencil and ink   the drawings layered and overlapped stars houses  games names symbols each one carried the careful   uneven hand of a child in the center a table and  around it five children: Michael June Liam Abby   Ry they looked exactly as they had the day they  disappeared no older no different only more still   they weren’t statues they weren’t ghosts they were  something in between held like photographs pinned

inside the house’s memory they turned to her as  one and they smiled michael stood first he walked   to her barefoot his smile shy we knew you’d come  back clare’s voice caught in her throat why are   you still here he looked around we stayed but you  didn’t have to he tilted his head we did you never   finish the circle she closed her eyes the crayon  shaking in her hand i didn’t know what it meant   you do now he held something out to her a folded  paper she took it and opened it slowly it was a

drawing one she hadn’t made but somehow recognized  the six of them standing outside the red house   holding hands the door opened behind them light  spilling out and this time the seventh figure   was there too her in the margin one sentence had  been written in delicate wavering pencil you can   let us go but something must stay behind clare’s  heart began to pound what do you mean michael’s   voice was quiet the house doesn’t keep people it  keeps stories the ones that are never finished   june spoke next we were a story without an ending  abby nodded it remembered us so we wouldn’t

disappear completely you can finish it now Michael  said you can end it the right way clare looked   down at the paper again her own figure stared  back at her i don’t understand she whispered   what does it want the air shifted the paper in  her hands curled slightly as if touched by wind   and a voice not loud not even spoken unfolded  inside her thoughts will you trade the words   weren’t cruel they weren’t cold they were curious  hopeful will you trade one story for another clare   looked at the children you want me to stay michael  didn’t nod but he didn’t deny it you don’t have

to he said softly but we can’t leave unless the  story is told and remembered clare stepped back   she turned in a slow circle taking in the drawings  that papered the walls all the moments they’d lost   all the memories preserved here like dried flowers  a thought pressed into her if I stay they leave if   I go they remain but then another thought smaller  fainter maybe there’s a third way she pulled the   bracelet from her pocket the one her younger  self had worn she placed it on the table then

she reached into her coat and took out every piece  she’d collected the first drawing the cassette   tape the red crayon the chalk dusted photo the  bracelet the unfinished notebook and the paper   with the final drawing she laid them in the center  of the table like offerings and she whispered “I   remember you.

” The children looked at her the  air grew still the walls rippled not with heat or   shadow but with relief the house sighed and one by  one the children faded not vanished released clare   found herself standing in the red house’s living  room the game board was gone the circle on the   wall had faded the house was quiet truly quiet for  the first time since she’d come back she walked to   the window and looked out at the sidewalk the  chalk circles had washed away in the night’s   rain but hers remained and in the center of it  written in soft red “Thank you.

” The street was   different the next morning not in a way anyone  else might notice the houses still stood where   they always had the trees were still bare the wind  still whispered through the eaves but Clare felt   it in her bones something had exhaled the kind  of breath you don’t realize you’ve been holding   until it’s gone she stepped outside with a cup of  tea that had already gone cold across the culdeac   the red house looked smaller now not physically  but in presence the windows no longer watched the   porch no longer waited it simply stood like any  other old house might just a place she crossed

the street barefoot careful not to step on the  faint chalk lines that still traced the sidewalk   like veins when she reached the spot where her  own circle had been she stopped it was gone all   of them were washed away in the night’s gentle  rain but something remained on the front steps   of the red house sat a small wooden box no lock no  note she opened it inside a single item a crayon   red worn down to a stub and beneath it a folded  piece of notebook paper she unfolded it slowly a   drawing six children holding hands smiling and  one more figure standing apart watching Clare

but this time her figure was turned toward them  not away at the bottom a line of text written in   the careful crooked handwriting of someone who’d  learned to write too young you didn’t stay but you   remembered that’s enough clare pressed the paper  to her chest her hands didn’t shake later she   found herself back in her childhood bedroom she  opened the old desk drawer and pulled out a blank   notebook its pages were crisp untouched the room  around her was quiet not the silence of something   waiting but the hush of something finished she  began to write dear Michael the words came slowly

at first then faster she wrote everything she  remembered the games the drawings the jokes the   rules only they knew the last summer the fear  the leaving and most importantly the returning   when the letter was done she didn’t fold it she  left it open on the desk just in case someone else   ever needed to find it just in case the house  ever needed to remember again before she left   Brier Lane she stood in the attic one final time  the strange room behind the paper walls was gone   now only old insulation dust forgotten boxes but  she placed the wooden box there crayon and drawing

inside wrapped it in an old quilt and tucked it  between the rafters then she closed the attic   door locked it left the key beneath the doormat of  number six and walked away a year passed the red   house was sold to a quiet couple with a daughter  who liked to draw they never saw anything strange   never heard whispers never found chalk circles  on the sidewalk but one morning the little girl   came downstairs holding an old photograph it  was tucked inside the wall behind her closet   six children stood in a row holding hands smiling  in front of the red house when her mother asked

who they were the girl just shrugged i think  they like to play here the mother nodded and   hung the photo above the fireplace that night  the girl placed a blank piece of paper on the   floor beside her bed and in the morning it wasn’t  blank anymore it showed a new drawing a girl with   glasses and messy hair standing at the edge of a  circle looking back and above her a single word