Walter Bartoski always told anyone willing to listen-not that many were-that his estranged son and daughter would treat news of his death as cause for celebration; yet when it actually happens they show up at their childhood home, where their keys still turn in the locks, where their memories still stalk the dingy rooms and hallways, almost close enough to touch. But now something else stalks those same stale spaces; something lurks in the darkness of the basement, watching, whispering.

They are not the ones it’s been waiting for.

But now that they’re here, they’ll do.