October 2022. A bed-and-breakfast in northern Vermont, just off Route 100, called the Birch Hollow Inn. The place had been operating for a hundred and twenty years — same family, same rules, same guestbook bound in red leather. I was there for four nights, cataloging the property's history for a preservation grant. The first two nights were ordinary. The third night, I found a spare key under a ceramic toadstool on the back porch. I didn't use it. I returned it. But the next morning, something had changed in every room. The furniture had been rearranged — exactly one inch to the left. The paintings on the walls were reversed — the frames faced the plaster. And the guestbook was open to a page dated 1898, with a single entry in a child's handwriting: 'We moved the house so the sun would not see us.' This is what I found in the walls, in the dark, in the hours that followed.

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