My dad always said New England had a history to it. I put my suitcase down in the tiny apartment doorway and decided that was the case. The wooden floor creaked as I moved. Small square windows gazed out to Boston below. I smiled.
The landlady seemed to materialize behind me, gesturing in welcome.
“… And don’t worry about Emily,” she said after, making for the door.
“Who?” I asked.
“Oh, she died here in 1894. She’s very smart. You might learn from her.”
Then I was alone. A box near the kitchen moved on its own, slightly to the left.