I pick my way across the floor to one of the bedrooms on the second floor.

  I think if I touch Grampire’s hoard in the living room, I’ll be a dead wolf. But I’ve been here for a week and she’s never ventured into the guest rooms on the second floor. I peeked in a few of them earlier and they’re just as filthy as the rest of the house. So if I clean up a room she never uses, maybe she’ll be okay with losing some items in there. It’s a gamble, but I may only be maimed instead of killed if I throw some things away.

  I examine the room I chose first. It has a shiny “2A” still nailed to the middle of the door, though the luster has faded. There’s also a peephole, but it’s clouded with age so I doubt any guest could actually see out of it. I touch the handle and I’m startled by its icy temperature. The doorknob is a pretty clear crystal, but I didn’t know they’d be so cold even in the middle of summer. I turn the knob and it gives easily, but the door won’t open more than a few inches. Uh oh. I press my shoulder into it, straining against the heavy wood. The door groans and I hear trash shifting and crashing as I ease the door open inch by inch. Despite my best effort, I can’t get it open more than halfway. I poke my head into the room.

  2A is full of trash, like I expected, but it’s wall to wall. There’s a thin pathway to the back wall and a busted window, but the rest is floor to ceiling stuff. I gape at the room, stunned and a little horrified. This is outrageous, Grampire! Furniture stacked on top of itself, broken mirrors, wooden trunks and so many clothes piled on top of each other in massive mountains of fabric. I touch the lacy sleeve of what I think is a dress, and it crumbles to dust in my hands. I groan and scrub my face. This is going to suck. And there’s no way I’m clearing this before Grampire gets home.

  “Nothing to do but to do it,” I mutter, then straighten. If I can at least organize some of this, that’ll be a win. And then I can throw out the egregious trash next time she goes to town.

  I tackle the obviously-trash first. There are chewing gum wrappers, empty glass bottles with a horrible sour smell, rusted out cast iron pans, a dresser that’s so sodden with rot it falls apart as soon as I touch it. I tote everything burnable outside to a growing pile. I’ll let Grampire look through it before I set it alight. I need to find a lighter and gasoline, but knowing Grampire, I’m sure I’ll find both somewhere in her hoard. It takes me an hour, but eventually I can see part of the dirty wooden floor. Progress!

  Next, I try to organize. The clothes and furniture are easy. I take the clothing in big armfuls to the hallway, just to clear the room a bit. I do the same with the smaller furniture that’s not rotten, like a nice mahogany music box (it doesn’t work, but maybe it can be fixed) and a stack of picture frames. But the problem is everything else. It’s all mixed together, and some things are definitely not trash; and I’m not talking about wooden spoons or greasy, spaghetti-stained Tupperware. I pull a genuine diamond necklace from inside a coffee mug, and a fifty-dollar bill (dated 1912??) between a stack of mouse-chewed paper. I can’t just sweep everything out the door, because I might lose something valuable in the mess. I also need to be careful because some of the jewelry is pure silver, which is expensive, but also burns the heck out of my fingertips. I meticulously sort Grampire’s jewelry into one pile, money in another, and collectibles (I guess) in another. I’m moving a filthy salt and pepper shaker to the collectible pile when I spy a hefty trunk under the cracked window. The top is slightly ajar.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  “Ooh, treasure?” I abandon my piles and go to the treasure chest. I open the trunk and cough at the cloud of dust. I blink, eyes stinging, and wait for my eyes to stop watering. My shoulders wilt. It’s just a bunch of papers again. Oh well, maybe I’ll find some money—

  My thoughts grind to a halt when I read the heading of the first paper. It’s a marriage certificate. The man’s name is scratched out in rough pencil, but the woman’s name is Phyllis Elaine Bergamont. She was twenty-six, and it’s dated November 6, 1934. Wait…could this be Grampire’s real name? She refused to tell me, but it could be!

  I dig eagerly through the papers. An ancient passport with pages missing, several official-looking bank things, and a birth certificate…for a baby! A boy, John Walter Bergamont. Born February 13, 1935, only five pounds and three ounces. I guess I never thought about it, but could Grampire actually be someone’s grandma? I get lost in imagining Grampire holding the hand of a faceless little boy, both dressed in this awful old-timey clothing. I wonder what happened to the husband? His name is scratched out on the baby’s birth certificate as well. Was he mean to her? I frown at the thought, the beginnings of a growl in my throat. It’s silly to feel so bothered by something that clearly happened almost a hundred years ago, but the thought of some guy hurting Grampire makes my blood boil. I guess if there was a mean husband involved, I get why Grampire doesn’t want to talk about her past much. There’s just so much I don’t know about her, and I’m so curious. Grampire had a whole life before we met.

  Wait, Grampire’s apparently-complicated history aside—does this also mean she’s turned, not born a vampire? If so, that’s huge. I don’t know too much about it, but I heard vampires aren’t allowed to turn humans anymore. Something about using human-turned-vampires in war? There are very few left now, so Grampire is rare if she was actually human once. I scratch my head, frustrated. One of my cousins who only comes to town for the solstice is really into dangerous cryptids, including vampires. He used to talk about them all the time, but I thought it was boring, so I tuned him out. Curse me for not paying attention!

  I grab my phone (on ten percent, ugh) and open a chat with Fern. I take pictures of each document and send them to Fern along with the text, can you look this person up for me?

  Fern: who is this

  Malia: your cousin??

  Fern: not you dummy, Phyllis

  Malia: oh lol idk! I think maybe she’s Grampire? I can’t look her up because my phone’s about to die

  Fern: okay sure. But will she kill you for snooping?

  I hesitate. Fern makes a good point…

  Malia: she doesn’t have to know. I’m just curious because she might be a human-turned-vampire. What do you know about them?

  Fern: that they’re a myth. All the vassals were killed years ago in some kind of vampire agreement. Idk, I don’t really listen to Ash when he’s rambling

  Hmm. At least I didn’t imagine whatever Ash was telling us. Now I want to get to the bottom of this mystery even more.

  Malia: okay, let me know what you find out.

  I close my apps and put my phone in low power mode. Can’t let it die before Fern gets back to me. This is so exciting! Almost like real treasure hunting, but the treasure is Grampire’s mysterious backstory. And I guess I did find actual diamonds, but those pale in comparison.

  I pick up another document, but the hairs on my arms suddenly lift. I pause, confused, and then the hair on my neck follows. My body tenses and my heart speeds up, all before my brain registers that something—someone—is in the room with me.

  The temperature in the room plummets. I inhale frigid air, like I’m going for a run on a January morning. But it’s not January. It’s July in Alabama. I breathe out and my breath clouds white before my eyes. My body trembles, half in cold, half in warning. The presence is right behind me.

  I turn, slowly, and blink against a bright white light. No, it’s not a light, it’s a glow. I look up, in disbelief, into the icy blue eyes of a ghost.