There was no answer. He crept through the house, the only sound made by the creaking floorboards, the squeaking door hinges. The late afternoon sun made beams of dusty air that he hesitated to walk though. Outside, the moving van waited.
“Stella. Where will you go when they tear this house down?””
She refused to answer during the day. At night, she was all to happy to torture him with sudden noises and cold chills and whispered words.
“I’m not sorry, Stella. I’m glad. Do you hear? I’m glad you’re dead.”
Still, there was no answer.