Dragging on knees tangled to an oversized shirt, Caroline squinted into the stream of light her flashlight allowed. The crawlspace wasn’t off-limits to the eight year-old, but it had the intimidation of sealed boxes and dark; this was the first time she remembered hoisting herself to the chalky concrete instead of stepping into the warm give of a palm. Caroline imagined the boxes stacked with rope-bound children, girls mostly, sealed with a liquid dress train of ghost matter. She wasn’t sure where the image came from — a haunted movie or light tricks in an amusement park. She thought of ghosts only in how cold it would be to drink yourself.
Caroline wasn’t scared, though. Her pride left that assurance repeating sternly behind the thumping pulse. Her flashlight swayed against the dust-cluttered cobwebs and shapeless figures of home goods, and she squinted at the objects too dull to reflect back. At the base of a box lay something out of place even against the rest of the disorder. Caroline pushed her wrists forward, copying the careful search of a morning inchworm. Between the brown shadows rested seven mice. Their tails were tangled around their bodies, emphasizing the breathlessness. Without touching them, Caroline knew they were cold and much lighter than the ones whose nails scritched between the house’s roof, even lighter than the one she’d seen split by a metal trap. She couldn’t remember hearing about nests of mice babies dying together; she wasn’t sure if it was common. Her hand rested against their fur as her flashlight flicked once. With her eyes closed, she didn’t notice the light go out.
