In the summer of 2003, I spent a week at the Magnolia Inn outside Elkins, West Virginia. It was a roadside motel with a cracked sign and a swimming pool full of dead leaves. The room had a faint smell of bleach and something floral underneath. There were crayon marks on the wall behind the headboard. Not the kind a child makes. The kind a child leaves behind. The manager was a woman named Doreen who wore the same yellow dress every day. She told me the room had been sealed for ten years. She told me it was because of the little girl. She told me not to draw anything. I found a drawing in the nightstand drawer. It was a house with every window filled with faces. I made the mistake of adding one more. This is a story about what happens when you complete a picture someone else started. It is not a ghost story. It is a story about being seen.

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