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Speaker 1: I grew up in a small, single story house on

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the outskirts of town. Our house was a mudge, just

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the squat little box of peeling white paint, with a

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porch that sag slightly in the middle. I always thought

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it looked like it was tired of holding itself up.

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I didn't care, though. To me, it was home. But

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what I remember most about that house wasn't the porch,

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or the yard or the tiny bedroom I shared with

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my younger brother. It was the crawl space. It stretched

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under the entire house, a hollow, black cavity barely two

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feet high, covered by warped wooden slats nailed haphazardly across

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the entrance. My dad always told me to stay away

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from it, said it was full of spiders and mold,

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sharp bits of rusted metal waiting to slice my hands

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open if I reached. My mom wanted me too, though

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she was less dramatic about it, more exasperated than afraid.

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But I was a curious kid. I'd kneel by the slats,

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peering through the gaps, trying to see what was inside.

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Most of the time it was just dirt or darkness. Sometimes,

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if the angle was just right, I catch a glimpse

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of the wooden beams holding up the house, or maybe

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a flash of something skittering out of sight. I never

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got too close, never reached inside, until one summer afternoon

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when I heard someone whisper my name. I was playing

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in the backyard alone, kicking a plastic soccer ball around

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when I heard it, faint at first, a dry voice

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slipping out from beneath the house, like a draft. When

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the voice slipped out from beneath the porch, it was

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so soft I almost didn't hear it over the sound

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of the ball bouncing. I stopped, turned toward the crawl space,

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nothing but darkness, then again, slightly louder. Come here for

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a second. Any adult would have ran inside and lured

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to the police or done anything. But I was seven,

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maybe eight, and I that stupid childlike fearlessness that makes

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kids think nothing bad can happen to them. So instead

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of being scared, I was just curious. I dropped my

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soccer ball and walked toward the crawled space, dropping to

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my knees to press my face to the gaps in

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the wooden slats. Her face stared back at me. I

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just stared back. The man didn't blink. His eyes were wide,

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locked onto mine, sunken deep into a skull, like he

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hadn't slept in a long time. His skin was sallow

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and streaked with dirt, and his hair, what little of

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it I could see, was long and stringy, clinging to

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his face in limp, greasy strands. When he spoke again,

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his voice was almost kind. Didn't mean to scare you, buddy,

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I still didn't answer. I'm an old friend of your dad's,

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he said, his lips curling. Really, I finally managed. He

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shifted slightly, just enough that I could see more of him,

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boney shoulders, his skin a mess of wounds. He looked filthy,

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like he'd been rolling into But his voice was calm, friendly,

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the way adults talk to kids when they want them

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to feel safe. Yeah, who used to be real close

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to the family. But it's been a while since we talked.

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He probably wouldn't remember me, he nodded. That made sense.

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Adults forgot things all the time. Hey, do me a favor,

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he added, lowering his voice. Don't tell him I'm here yet.

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Let's keep it a secret for now, just between us.

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Your dad might not understand at that age, I thought,

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secrets were fun. I don't know why I trusted him.

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Maybe it was the way he spoke, the softness in

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his voice. Maybe it was because I wanted it to

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be true, because of the idea of finally having a

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secret of my own to keep from my parents made

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it seem grand special. I didn't tell my parents, and

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I kept visiting the crawl space. We just talked. I'd

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go outside and kneel by the crawl space, whispering through

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the gaps in the wooden slats while the man lay

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on the dirt on the other side. He never came out,

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never reached for me, just stayed in the shadows, speaking

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in that same soft, friendly tone that made me feel

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like I was talking to someone I've known all my life.

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I felt safe. What's your favorite thing to do? He

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asked me. Once you play outside a lot, what do

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you want to be when you grow up. His questions

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were harmless at first, and he listened so intently, like

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every little thing I said was the most important thing

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he'd ever heard. I liked that, But over time the

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questions started to change. Your dad still works late. Where

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do you sleep in the house? Your mom locked the

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doors at night The first time. He asked that I hesitated. Yeah,

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I said, she locks them every night. I thought about it.

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Sometimes she forgets, I admitted. He was quiet for a

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long time. Really, he finally asked, she sometimes forgets. There

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was something in his voice, something I didn't understand yet,

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because I was just a kid. Looking back, I can

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see now that they were never just questions. They were tests,

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each one peeling back another layer, gauging how much I knew,

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how much I was willing to tell him, how much

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influence he had over me without me even realizing it,

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and I'd let him do it. I had fed him

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information piece by piece, unaware that I was giving him

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everything he needed. Hey, Boddy, I missed you yesterday. Sorry,

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I had whispered back. I went to my grandma's. Ah,

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that's nice that she makes good cookies. Yeah, your little

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brother go to The question was casual, effortless, like he

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was just making small talk, I'd answered without thinking. I

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didn't think back then of the fact that I'd never

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mentioned my little brother to him. Uh huh, he always

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comes with us. Of course, can't leave the little guy

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behind her, I laughed, and then I heard the screen

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door creak open. Hey, what are you doing. I flinched,

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jerking back from the crawl space so fast that I

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scraped my knee against the dirt. My little brother was

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standing on the porch watching me with wide, suspicious eyes,

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his small hands gripping the wooden railing, like he had

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caught me doing something I wasn't supposed to. I panicked nothing,

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I said, quickly, scrambling to my feet. I was just

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looking for something. His face twisted into something skeptical, his

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little brows knitting together as he took a step forward,

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craning his neck to look at the crawl space entrance,

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looking for what. The man was silent now. I could

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feel him waiting just beyond the slats, watching, listening. I

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had to think fast, my ball, I said, brushing dirt

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off my shorts and trying to sound as normal as possible.

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I think it rolled under there. My brother's gaze flicked

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back to me. Okay, I want to go play in

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the treehouse, I stumbled, and just like that, he forgot

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all about it. I wish he never believed me. The

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first time the man in the crawl space asked me

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for something, I almost didn't even register it as a request. Hey, buddy,

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can you do me a favor. He was an easy question.

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We were just two old friends at this point, trading secrets.

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I didn't even hesitate before nodding before giving him this simple,

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automatic sure, because why wouldn't I. He had never asked

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for anything before, He had never even implied that he

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wanted something from me beyond my company. Your dad keeps

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a spare key to the shed, right. I remember feeling

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the slightest pang of discomfort then, But he was vague, unformed,

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like the first tremor of a storm coming, a flicker

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of something wrong just beneath the surface that my young

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mind didn't yet know how to identify. I hesitated, but

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the response came anyway, Yeah, you know where he hides it,

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of course I did. It was under the porch, tucked

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behind a row of old cinder blocks near the back steps.

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My dad had told me once in case he ever

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needed me to get it for him, and I'd filed

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the information away, never thinking it would be useful for

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anything else. Yeah, I said, think you could grab it

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for me. That's when I finally hesitated for real. There

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was a shift, a barely perceptible change in the air

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between us, A tiny crack and the illusion that I

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had never noticed before. I didn't understand why I felt wrong,

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but it did, and for the first time since I'd

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started talking to him, I found myself wanting to leave.

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Why He laughed, as if the answer was obvious. Ah,

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it's stupid, he said, dismissing the whole thing as a joke,

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as if I was the silly one for taking it seriously.

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I left something in there a long time ago, something

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I meant to grab, A little keepsake, you know. That

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made sense to me. All the adults had little things

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they didn't need but couldn't bring themselves to throw away.

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Even marm had shoe boxes full of old birthday cards

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she never looked at. And my dad had a drawer

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full of broken watches he always swore he was going

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to fix. And maybe you noticed. Maybe he sensed that

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my willingness was starting to crack, because after a moment

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of silence, he gave me reassurance. It's all right, buddy,

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he said, you don't have to do it, and that

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was the end of it until the next time. But

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he didn't ask about the shed key. Hey. His voice

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was lower that day, quieter, like he didn't want any

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one else to hear, even though we were alone in

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the back yard, just as we always were. What could

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you leave the back door unlocked for me? To night?

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My stomach twists thinking back to it. Why I want

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to leave you a little present? Trust me, I really

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liked presents, and my parents hadn't gotten me a present

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since my birthday a couple of months back. And then,

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before I could decide what to do, dinner's ready. I

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turned toward the house, the sounds snapping me out of

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whatever fog I'd been slipping into, and when I looked back,

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he was gone. I unlocked the back door that night.

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I don't know if it was because I started trusting

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the man too much, or if I wanted a present

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that badly, or maybe I was just too caught up

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in the normal rhythm of family life to think about

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anything beyond the present moment. Either way, it didn't matter,

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because the moment came and went, and by the time

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we sat down for dinner, the whole thing was already

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slipping from my mind, already losing its weight. And then

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without thinking I said it, I'd talk to your friend

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to day. I didn't even notice the reaction I was

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focused on my plate, barely paying attention, my fork spearing

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a piece of overcooked chicken as I chewed slowly, distantly.

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But then the silence settled and I felt it. Dad's

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hand frozen mid cut, his knuckles white around the handle

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of his knife. Mom unmoving at the stove, her back

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to me, her posture stiff. She looked like her entire

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body had gone cold. All at once, What friend? Dad's

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voice was slow, careful, like he already knew the answer

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but was trying to delay it. I blinked at him,

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confused by the sudden change in the atmosphere. He your friend.

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In the cold space, the words landed. Mom dropped the

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pan she had been holding, the middle, clattering against the

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stove with a loud, jarring crash. Dad's face went white.

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For a long time, no one moved, Then all at once,

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Dad pushed back from the table, standing so fast his

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chair scraped against the floor with a shriek of wood

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and tile. Without a word, he turned, walked to the

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front door, and stormed outside. My father was already in

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motion before I could fully register what was happening, his

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movement sharp and frantic as he ripped at the wooden

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slats covering the crawl space entrance, his fingers prying at

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the brittle planks with a kind of strength I had

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never seen before. The nail shrieked as they were wrenched loose,

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the old wood splintering beneath the force of his grip.

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Dad My voice came out small, but he didn't answer.

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He was breathing too hard, too fast, his hands shaking

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as he pulled away the last of the boards and

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tossed them aside. The entrance to the crawl space yawned

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open before us, a gaping black mouth cut into the earth.

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Dad grabbed the flashlight from his belt, flicked it on,

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and shine the beam inside. For a moment, I expected

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to see him. I expected the pale, thin man from

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beneath our house to be crouched in the dirt, his

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sunken eyes reflecting the beam of light as he stared.

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But there was nothing, just emptiness. The flashlight beam swept

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across the crawl space, illuminating nothing but bare dirt and

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cobwebt wooden beams. The air that wafted out smelt stale

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and sour, thick with the scent of damp rot and

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things that had been left to decay in the dark

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for too long though, No footprints in the dirt, no

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sign that anyone had ever been inside, no mattress, no

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discarded clothes, no remnants of a person who might have

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been living there. Maybe I'd made up the entire thing

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in my head, a game of pretend that it spiraled

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out of control. But then the flashlight beam passed over

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something small and familiar, something that shouldn't have been there.

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A shoe, tiny red, half covered in dirt. I felt

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a jolt of recognition before my mind fully processed what

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I was looking at. My stomach twisted violently, and the

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air seemed to thin around me, the world tilting sideways

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as I stared at it. Because I knew that shoe

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didn't belong to me. It belonged to my little brother.

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What the hell? My dad's voice was hoarse, cracking at

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the edges as he stepped closer, his flashlight trained on

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the single out of place objects sitting in the dirt,

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his hands clenched at his sides, his whole body rigid

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with tension. He turned toward me, his face pale. Where

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is your brother? The words barely had time to register

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before my mother's voice rang out from behind us. Who

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are you talking about? I turned and saw us standing

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in the doorway, looking at us with an expression of deep,

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unsettled confusion. Her brows furrowed as she tugging the scene

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before her. Who was in the crawl space? She asked again,

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and then the screaming started. I don't remember running inside.

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I don't remember how I got from the front yard

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to the hallway, how my legs carried me forward so

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fast that my surroundings blurred, the walls stretching long and thin,

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like something from a fever dream. I don't remember how

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I ended up right behind my father, or how my

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mother's voice, shouting something I couldn't understand, faded into a

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dull hum. At the edges of my mind, I only

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remember the screaming. It was raw and high and jagged,

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something too broken to come from a person, something that

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didn't sound human at all, and it was coming from

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my brother's room. My father hit the door at full speed,

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his shoulder slamming into it so hard that it must

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have hurt. The wood buckled under his weight, and for

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a moment it didn't budge, but then it gave way.

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He stumbled forward nearly falling as he caught himself. And

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then I saw the blood. It was everywhere, splattered across

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the floor, painted up the walls, in thick visceral streaks,

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so much of it, more than I thought a person

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could even have inside them. He was still wet, still warm,

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still spreading in slow creeping rivers, beneath the flickering light

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of the ceiling van and in the center of it

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all my brother, or what was left of him. I

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don't think I screamed. I don't think I made any

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noise at all, because something inside me broke, something deep

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and dark and all consuming. And as I stood there,

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staring at the thing and the floor that had once

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been my little brother, the thought rose up in me,

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slow and suffocating, curling around my throat like smoke. I

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did this. I don't know when my mother pushed past me,

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or when a voice cracked into a sound i'd never

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heard before, something so shattered and animalistic that it didn't

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even sound like words. I don't know if they tried

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to shield me from the sight, if they pulled me

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back or turned me away. I don't know if I

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collapsed or ran or simply stood there as the room

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spun and folded inward around me, because in that moment,

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all I could hear was his voice, Where do you

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sleep in the house? Who mum locked the doors at night?

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She forgets sometimes? Really, the realization came slowly. It wasn't

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like a sudden impact, not an explosion of clarity. It

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was something worse, something creeping, something insidious, something that had

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been building for weeks, for months, for however long it

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had been listening to me. I had told him everything,

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I'd given him the key to my family. I don't

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know what happened after that. I don't know who called

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the police, or how long it took them to arrive,

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or how many times I was asked the same questions

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over and over and over again, until my mouth was

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dry and my voice cracked from the effort of trying

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to answer. I don't know if I ever answered at all,

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because how do you begin to explain something like that.

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I don't remember the funeral. I don't remember the weeks

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that followed, or the way my parents stopped talking to

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each other, or the way my mother wouldn't even look

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at me anymore. I don't remember how I got from

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that house to a different one, or how much time

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had passed before my father finally packed up all our

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things and moved us away. But I remember the guilt