19 November 2027
Friday. Somebody asked the walls tonight how old my house is. The walls didn’t answer. They never do. I answered, but nobody heard, so I will write it here: older than you, and older than your grandmother, and it has never once been tidy.
People on Lake Street whisper about it. They say there are noises at night and a mist round the basement vents and that the people who come out don’t talk properly for days. That is all true, but they make it sound so unfriendly.
It is called Atkins House. I don’t know who Atkins was. I have looked in every cupboard. Margery thinks Atkins was the one who left first, and that everybody has been leaving ever since, and that I am the only one with any manners.
The Beeping Man has started researching the history. He brought a library book and read it on the footpath with a torch. The book was about a different house. I didn’t tell him.
— Cathy (please come back)
