"Turn left. Yeah here," Sirabelle said.

"Yeah, this is it, number six-four-two," she stated with a sense of satisfaction. She'd made it homes on the street. What a long journey, but she was finally here.

The house at 642 Long Lace Lane stood tall, towering over the street's other homes. Its red brick facade with blue trim shutters made it appear to be living two different lives. On one hand, the 200-year-old house was strong and steadfast. On the other, it looked fatigued from weather, drama, and various other outdoor and indoor elements. Flowers had succumbed to weeds in the front yard. Paint chips littered the front porch. Yet, there was still a sense of welcome surrounding it.

"That'll be thirty-six dollars and eighty-four cents, ma'am," the cabbie said to her. Sirabelle stuffed her hand in her purse and handed him forty dollars. The cabbie took the money and unloaded her luggage from the trunk. She sighed, glanced downward at her magenta colored toenails peeking from her sandals and turned toward the front entrance. The physical features of the house were going to be the focus of her attention for the duration of the period she was here.

She reached for the key her grandmother had bequeathed to her a very long time ago. Turn, turn, click. The lock unwound itself. She was in. Sirabelle gasped from the thick, dust permeating the air. It was apparent from the pungent smell that the windows hadn't been open in a very long time. The yellow, floral couch had faded and the wallpaper's orange petals looked worse. She'd been here 3 months ago, when the house was alive with people and in spirit. Now it stood lifeless and its muse was gone.

She continued scanning the rambled Victorian, running up and down stairs, flicking lights on in every room. She lost track of time, and was shocked when she glanced outside and saw the sun going down.

Grandma Me'Lee was gone. She still couldn't believe it. Her grandmother passed away uneventfully in her sleep. At least she was thankful she didn't suffer. It wasn't some long drawn out death in a hospice that she had to relive over and over as final memories. She decided to pack it in for the evening, though it was still a little early. She was beat from the trip. A good night's sleep was just what she needed.

Rap ... rap ... rap.

Sirabelle jumped at the sound, arching her back against the headboard. She glanced at the clock: 1:46 am. Was it the old house merely creaking from the outside wind, or an unwelcome visitor attempting to break in?

Rap ... rap ... rap.

The sound shook her again. She pulled her bed covers around her and closed her eyes tightly, afraid at what would be staring back at her if she dared to look.

"Sira ... Sira it's me," a scratchy voice whispered through the darkness. Deciding to tempt fate, Sira muscled a little courage and opened one eye warily. A thin bony figure stood at the edge of the bed. Once she recognized the shadow, she began to relax a little.

"I'm glad you made it. Thank you for honoring my wishes." the voice said.

"I'm glad I'm here." Sirabelle replied.