The House on Tradd Street by Karen White

off long ago.”
    She didn’t wait for an answer as she closed the office door, leaving me standing on the sidewalk, staring at the closed door with a mixture of resentment and admiration. I headed down the street toward my car with a small feeling of hope that maybe I wasn’t so desperate in the home-horticulture department.
    But as I stood on the other side of the gate at 55 Tradd Street, I knew without a doubt that Nancy had been all wrong, and I thought again of my idea to pave over the garden as a strong contender on my list of options.
    I opened the gate and stepped through it, noticing again how easily it swung on its hinges without any protest. I stood for a moment, listening, and was relieved to hear nothing but birds and the occasional drone of a bee before proceeding into the side garden with its impressive collection of weeds and the forlorn fountain.
    The smell of roses was overpowering there, but not in a sickening, cloying way. Rather, it was more of a good memory, like that of a beloved grandmother putting you to bed at night. I had no such memory, but I still found an odd comfort from the aroma that permeated this corner of the garden.
    I put down the bag Nancy had given me and walked slowly around the fountain again, avoiding the pained look of the lonely cherub, and tramping down the tall weeds with my Keds-clad feet until I stood in the middle of the rose garden. I marveled again at the smell a mere four rosebushes could create before bending down to tug out a weed that had managed to creep up through the freshly laid cedar shavings. I spotted another and bent down to pull it out, too. Before I knew it, I was hunkered down by the base of the fountain and working my way around it with the single determination to rid it of weeds.
    I don’t know how long I was bent at my task, but eventually I became aware of the fact that I was no longer alone. I stopped and slowly stood, feeling my back pop from the effort after having been stooped over for so long. The back of my neck tingled with the familiar mixture of heat and cold, and I turned to where I’d seen the swing before with the woman and the little boy.
    I knew before I turned around that I wouldn’t find them there. There was no sound of rope against tree trunk and even the chirping of the birds had ceased. The aroma of roses had changed from that of fresh flowers to that of dead and decaying petals that had sat in a vase of water too long. I wrinkled my nose as I faced the side of the house, and my eyes were drawn to the second-story windows.
    The sun dipped behind a cloud as I stared at the dark shadow that seemed to fill the window. It took on the distinct shape of a man, and I could feel the penetrating stare from where the face would be. The stench in the garden thickened, and I gagged as I staggered away from the rose garden and made my way to the steps leading up to the piazza.
    Sun glinted off the Tiffany rose window on the front door as I fished the key out of my pocket with trembling fingers. In my long experience with these things, I knew I had two choices: I could ignore it in the hopes it would go away, or I could confront whatever it was to make them go away faster. With this thought, I thrust the key in the lock and pushed the door open.
    The cloying aroma of decay was stronger inside, and I pressed the hem of my shirt up to my nose as I forced myself up the main staircase and found my way to the room on the side of the house where I’d seen the ominous shadow in the window. I am stronger than you. I am stronger than you, I whispered quietly to myself, surprised to find the words my mother taught me so readily on my lips.
    I stood outside the door and slowly turned the brass doorknob. With a quick shove, the door opened on quiet hinges, softly hitting the wall behind it. I sensed immediately that whatever had been in there was gone. I peeked inside the room, taking in the large half-tester bed, the thick damask draperies, and the heavy