Grace was gone, and no one in the world could help me. I didn’t know if I had minutes or hours, but I knew exactly how it would go if I talked to the police.

I’d be bawling, telling them about the Crone, her old car, everything that had happened. And then all at once, we’d all forget Grace had ever existed. We’d look at each other awkwardly, not quite knowing what we were just talking about. And then they’d leave, and I’d go happily on with my life, forgetting I’d ever had a daughter in the first place.

There was only one place I could turn to, and it wasn’t a person: my house. I dropped Derek off with Amy, promising I’d explain everything later. Then I headed home.

“I need you,” I said as I got inside. “Anything you can do. Maybe you’ve got some kind of psychic link to other houses like you. Maybe you can eat the floorboards and make letters to tell me something. Maybe you can just magically teleport me where she is. Please. Anything. For Grace. I’m begging you.”

I felt crazy.. Delirious. Of course, these were all just guesses. For all I knew, the house didn’t even fully speak English or have any abilities beyond basic consumption.

I had never prayed, but then, I’d never really believed in anything. But I believed in my house. I fell to my knees, begging.

“Please,” I said. “Please.”

I didn’t know what I was asking.

Slowly, the house began to shake, little vibrations rattling from its foundation to its attic. At first the tremors were small, but then they began to grow, great heaves.

And as the smell of bile filled the air, I realized what was happening: my house was throwing up.

I walked through the rooms and halls, following the rancid waft of vomit, until I realized what I should have known all along. It was emanating from the basement. I ran down, holding my breath the whole way. As I did, the house gave one last great heave, shattering every window.

I raised an arm to my eyes, trying to protect myself from the falling glass. Then, when I looked up, I saw something in the hot spot, a tiny quivering lump.

When I approached, I saw feathers soaked in stomach acid. Then I recognized the bird. It had been the very one the Crone sacrificed to the house when she visited.

Now, looking half dead and soaked in the house’s acid, the bird took a hesitant step and fell. It got up and took another. Finally, it grew steady and looked up at me with the one good eye that had made it back from the other side.

“Help me,” I said. “Find Grace.”

The bird shook its feathers, a fine mist flying off in all directions. Then it flew out the window, barely making the ascent.

I sprinted up the stairs and ran outside, spotting the bird as it cleared my rooftop. It was headed northwest, weaving a little through the rain, but definitely headed in that direction. I got in the car and began to follow.

As I followed the bird, I ran every red light and stop sign. I went the wrong way on one way streets. I didn’t care. Whatever kept me on course. Every second, I thought of Grace, holding onto her memory in my mind as if that very act would keep her from disappearing.

I’m sure I would have hit a semi and died if I’d had to drive far. Lucky for me, the drive wasn’t far. Less than a mile from home, the bird suddenly stopped and fell from the sky. It landed in a dead lump in the middle of the street.

Somehow, I’d ended up in a quiet neighborhood I’d never visited before. Two long rows of upscale houses lined the sides, leading down to a pleasant cul de sac. The neighborhood must have been filled with children: tricycles and playhouses littered the front yards, and minivans parked in nearly every driveway.

Not knowing where to go next, I ran to the closest house and knocked on the door. After a few minutes, a gaunt looking woman answered it. She had a thousand yard stare, and her breath stank of wine.

“I need help,” I said. “I’m looking for my daughter.”

“I’ve always wanted a daughter,” she said, kind of dreamily.

I looked out at her lawn at a pink bike.

“Whose is that?” I asked, and she shrugged.

“No one’s, I guess. Been there a few weeks now. I didn’t want to throw it out. I guess I thought the little girl who it belongs to might come back and get it sometime. But I just wait and wait and wait…”

“Listen,” I said. “I need you to think. Is there an old woman that lives in this neighborhood? One that drives an old Buick?”

“Oh, you mean Sara White? Such a sweetheart. Always baking treats for the neighborhood.”

“Which house is she in?”

“The one at the end of the street,” she said. “The one with the roses. Can’t miss it.”

She paused for a second.

“Do you think that little girl will ever come back for her bike? Maybe your daughter would want it. If you ever find her. You can take it if you want. I don’t think that girl is coming back, now that I’m talking about it.”

She looked off, lost in thought again and repeated, “I’ve always wanted a daughter.”

The house wasn’t hard to find. Even pelted with rain, the Crone’s house was yellow and bright, bursting with roses everywhere. On the way there, I grabbed a hunting knife from the trunk of my car–I’d acquired a few good ones now, and had gotten good at using them.

The Crone’s door was unlocked. I opened it and walked in. As I did, the overpowering smell of cookies washed over me, and not in a good way. The air was thick with sugar, and definitely too warm, like I was in a baker’s oven.

“Grace!” I shouted, and I heard a whimper from a room down the hall. Without even thinking about it, I ran toward her. Stupid.

Of course, the Crone was waiting just at the side of the doorway as I entered, crouched with her own knife. I heard it before I felt it, a meaty squelch as the blade pierced my abdomen. Blood poured from the wound as I fell to the ground. The Crone backed up, practically gleeful.

“You mothers are all the same when it comes to your little ones,” she said. “That’s what makes it so easy.”

And for a second, the fear took me. I could see it all playing out as the Crone had planned. I’d disappear into nothing, then Grace soon after. Derek would be next. All of us gone forever, erased for eternity.

The blood poured from my wound, and I saw all of our futures slipping away, ready to join the hundred other children she’d already erased.

Then I looked across the room to see Grace. She was tied to a chair and placed at a table laden with cakes and pies, cookies and candies. Her face was smeared with chocolates and crumbs. She looked alive, but half asleep.

“Oh, don’t worry,” said the Crone. “She’s almost ready. Almost stuffed. And my oven… my oven is heating up nicely.”

She took a hesitant step toward me, kitchen knife in hand.

“I suppose I should ask how you found me,” she said. “These houses are so funny aren’t they? They do surprise you with their… abilities. Even after all this time, I’m still getting to know mine. And we’ve been together for a long, long time.”

As she spoke, I got to my feet, knife in hand. The Crone took a step back, suddenly less sure of herself.

“You’re stronger than you look,” she said. “I’ll give you that. Just how much have you been feeding that thing?”

It was true. Over the last few months, as I’d fed the house man after man, I’d noticed it was easier to lift the kids on the way to bed and that I no longer got winded on the stairs.

I took a step toward her, knife out.

“I’ve gotten to be something of an expert at stabbing people,” I told her. “I even took the time to study some basic human anatomy. Now, if I were a little shorter. Say, the height of a child, that stab you gave me probably would have been fatal. Probably would have torn my liver right in half. But the the thing is, bitch, I’m not a child. I’m a full grown woman.”

And then I lunged at her, stabbing forward. She brought up her hand to protect herself, and my blade went right through it. She drew her hand back, screaming. We were both dripping blood now. It was pooling at our feet as we assessed each other.

“I’m going to kill you,” I said. “Just like the rest of them. And then I’m going to feed you to your own house.”

“I told you before,” she said, holding up her blade. “Mine has very particular tastes.”

I nodded at her feet, where the blood was quickly disappearing. A faint scratching sound filled the air.

“Or maybe it’s just you,” I said. “Maybe there’s something vile you like to do. Something you like to blame on the house. Maybe you’re the one who likes children.”

As the words left my mouth, she screamed and lunged at me. It was exactly what I wanted. I easily dodged her swing and plunged my knife into her chest, right into her heart. She fell into a bloody lump on the floor.

As she bled out, her house continued to drink. Maybe it had been hungry for her for a long time. I’d never seen my own house eat so fast. Her body couldn’t have lasted more than a few seconds before she disappeared.

I ran to Grace and untied her. As soon as she got up from the chair, she threw up everywhere. Then she looked at me with wide eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “She made me eat. I didn’t even want to. She made me.”

“I know,” I said. “I know.”

I looked all around us. The kitchen was like nothing I’d ever seen before. There were maybe four or five ovens, a couple of them twice the size of mine at home. There were also three fridges, a walk-in pantry, and a deep fryer.

I didn’t want to think about how the Crone had used everything in here. How old had she been? And how many children had she fed to the house?

It wasn’t the house’s fault. I genuinely believed that. Like Aaron had used to say, it was just a tool, one with a bad master. At the same time, I wasn’t sure who would wind up on its deed next. For all I knew, the Crone had a sister or a nephew with the exact same appetites, all ready to inherit it next.

And so I did the only thing that made sense. I turned on every burner on every gas stove to max. And then I took the gallons and gallons of cooking oil I found in the pantry and threw it everywhere.

The house tried to slurp it all up, but there was just too much to consume.

“I’m sorry,” I told it. “It’s not your fault. But you’re just too dangerous. I hope you’ll forgive me.”

And then I threw in the match.

By the time Grace and I were halfway to the car, the house was fully ablaze. And somewhere, beyond the sounds of breaking glass and crashing beams, I heard what I could only guess was the house screaming. It was a sound I’ll never forget, like a trillion cicadas all dying at once.

And it wasn’t just the house. Because as it died, so did its forgetting. And all through the neighborhood, all through the city, a hundred moms and dads suddenly ran to their windows, screaming into the dark as the memories hit in a tidal wave.

Step after step, I heard them calling out their names.

“Abby!”

“Pete!”

“Maresha!”

“Darius!”

Name after name screamed into the falling rain. And as I looked back into the flames behind me, I swear I saw a hundred small silhouettes looking out from the flames, watching me as I carried my beautiful, living Grace back to the car.

By the time I got Grace and Derek both home, the rain had cut through the broken windows, soaking the house to its bones. Though the wind howled, inside it was strangely quiet. I plucked a few flowers from outside and left them in a hot spot, but they didn’t wilt a bit.

What had I asked when I told it to find Grace? What had the house given up?

“Eat,” I told it, but it felt like I was shouting into a canyon, listening to my own echo.

Had I killed two houses, mine and hers? I sat in a ball, holding the children, weeping.

“You’re bleeding, mom,” said Derek. “You need to go to the hospital.”

“I know,” I said. “I know.”

And then I had one last idea. I walked over to the hot spot, standing right inside it, and let the blood and tears drip down.

“Please,” I said. “Please.” And I waited and waited, praying the blood would disappear.