The Glass of Water Nobody Left

Chapter 1: Upstairs Mystery

The first thing I found in the house was a glass of water beside the upstairs bed.

It was half full.

A pale ring of dust circled its base, but the water itself looked clean enough to drink. Beside it sat an old windup clock, stopped at 2:17, and a paperback with a grocery receipt marking the final page.

The house had been empty for almost a month.

I carried the glass downstairs and poured the water into the kitchen sink. As it disappeared, the pipes gave a low, hollow groan somewhere behind the walls.

That was the first sound the house made for me.

At the time, I thought nothing of it.

We bought the place from an eighty-five-year-old man named Walter Bell. He had been its only owner. He and his wife had moved into it in 1961, when the neighborhood was still surrounded by cornfields and the elm trees along the road were no thicker than broom handles.

By the time I met him, the trees were enormous and Walter was alone.

He was a small man with careful white hair and hands that trembled only when they were resting. During the showing, he wore a brown cardigan despite the heat. He followed us from room to room, touching doorframes and light switches as though silently counting them.