1998: Linnet Street 14 [Chapter 1]

Chapter 1: The Move-In

August 14th, 1998

We moved into the new house on a Friday. The air was thick with the late summer heat, but it didn’t feel like summer at all. It felt like something else—like the end of something. I watched from the backseat as the moving truck rattled up the narrow street, finally coming to a stop in front of the pale blue house on Linnet Street 14. It was the kind of house that was supposed to look welcoming, with its neatly trimmed lawn and bright white shutters, but to me, it felt like it was hiding something.

My little sister, Therése, jumped out of the car as soon as the engine cut off, her excitement spilling over in the form of giggles as she raced toward the front door. She was always like that, full of energy and eager to find the fun in everything. Even now, when we’d just left behind the only home she’d known, she was ready to dive into whatever came next. Her blonde pigtails bounced as she ran, and I could already hear her chattering about how she was going to pick the best room, how she’d decorate it with all her drawings and stuffed animals. Therése had a way of turning everything into a game, and part of me envied her for that.

Rickard, only six and always trailing behind her, followed with his own shouts of delight. He wasn’t as loud as Therése, but he was just as excited. Rickard had always been a quieter kid, more thoughtful, and sometimes it seemed like he saw things the rest of us didn’t. As he ran after Therése, he kept glancing back at the house, like he was trying to figure something out. I noticed the way his eyes lingered on the windows, the way he hesitated before stepping onto the porch. But then Therése called for him, and he was off again, his small feet kicking up dust from the driveway.

Their mother, Yvonne, watched them with a weary smile, one hand shading her eyes from the sun. She was a petite woman, her figure slight but strong, with lines of determination etched into her face. Her auburn hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail, and her blue eyes, usually sharp and clear, were tinged with fatigue. Yvonne was optimistic about the move, determined to make this house a home, but I could see the weight she carried—work, family, and the constant worry about Duane.

Duane was Yvonne’s second husband and the father of Therése and Rickard. He was a big man, broad-shouldered and solid, with a presence that could be either comforting or intimidating, depending on his mood. Today, he was in good spirits, keeping himself busy unloading boxes from the truck. Christer watched as Duane carefully placed a box labeled "Fragile" on the porch, his movements precise and deliberate. For now, Duane was sober, his steps steady, his voice light as he called out to the kids, teasing them about their new "castle."

But Christer knew this side of Duane wouldn’t last. It never did.

“Christer, give us a hand, will ya?” Duane’s voice broke through Christer’s thoughts, pulling him back to the present. There was an awkwardness in Duane’s tone, an underlying tension that Christer had become all too familiar with. It was as if Duane was trying to bridge a gap between them, a gap that had been growing wider with each passing year.

Christer nodded, forcing himself to move, to help. He wanted to be useful, to show Duane that he wasn’t just some sullen teenager, that he could be more than just Yvonne’s son from her first marriage. But there was always something holding him back, a hesitance born from the memories of Duane’s drunken rages, the slurred words, and the glassy-eyed stares that seemed to see right through him.

As Christer approached the truck, Yvonne placed a hand on his shoulder, her touch light but grounding. “How are you holding up, sweetheart?” she asked, her voice soft, meant just for him. She knew he was struggling with the move, with leaving behind the friends he’d grown up with, the only neighborhood he’d ever known.

Christer shrugged, avoiding her gaze. “It’s fine, I guess. Just... different.”

Yvonne squeezed his shoulder gently, offering a small smile. “I know it’s a big change, but I really think this place will be good for us. A fresh start.” There was hope in her voice, but also a trace of something else—a quiet desperation. She needed this to work. She needed Duane to stay sober, to be the man she knew he could be when the bottle wasn’t calling his name.

“Yeah,” Christer muttered, his eyes flicking back to the house. It was just a house, he told himself. Just a new place to live. But there was something about it, something that made his skin prickle with unease.

Duane interrupted the moment, slapping Christer on the back with a broad grin. “Come on, champ, let’s get your room set up. Got all your stuff in here.” He gestured to a box labeled "Christer’s Room" and handed it to him. “It’s a good spot. You’ll like it.”

Christer nodded again, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He followed Duane into the house, the box in his arms feeling heavier than it should have. As they stepped through the front door, Christer’s unease deepened. The air inside the house was different—cooler, despite the summer heat outside. It smelled faintly of old wood and something else, something musty, like the lingering scent of damp earth.

The living room was spacious, with hardwood floors that creaked underfoot and large windows that let in plenty of light. Duane set down another box and gestured around. “Nice, huh? Plenty of room for you kids to run around.” He was trying, Christer knew, trying to make this move seem like an adventure.

“Yeah, it’s nice,” Christer replied, though his voice lacked conviction. He looked around, his eyes drawn to the far corner of the room, where a shadow seemed to linger despite the sunlight streaming in through the windows. He shivered, trying to shake off the feeling that someone—or something—was watching him.

As they moved through the house, Christer couldn’t shake the coldness that seemed to cling to certain areas. The living room, in particular, felt off. It wasn’t just the shadow in the corner or the way the floor creaked ominously beneath their feet. It was the sense of something else, something that didn’t belong. He tried to push the thought away, focusing instead on setting up his room, on unpacking the box in his hands.

His room was smaller than his old one, but it had a window that overlooked the backyard, where a few trees provided some shade. Christer liked the view—it felt safer somehow, more open, less confined. He placed his books on the shelf, his posters on the walls, trying to make the space his own. But even here, the feeling of being watched persisted.

Downstairs, he could hear Therése and Rickard playing, their laughter bright and carefree. But their voices weren’t the same. Therése’s chatter was a little too loud, too forced, like she was trying to drown out the silence of the house. And Rickard…he had gone quiet, which was strange for him. He was the kind of kid who always had something to say, who was always asking questions or making up stories. But now, there was nothing. Just the sound of their feet on the hardwood floor and the occasional squeak of a door opening.

Christer heard Duane’s voice, low and steady, talking to Yvonne about dinner, about how they could celebrate their first night in the new house. Her laughter floated up the stairs, a little too high-pitched, a little too bright. But Christer couldn’t bring himself to feel excited. The house felt too quiet, too cold.

“Christer?” Therése’s voice broke through his thoughts. She stood in the doorway, her bunny clutched to her chest, her eyes wide. “Can you help me find my crayons? I want to draw something for my room.”

“Sure,” Christer said, setting down the book he’d been holding. “Let’s go find them.”

Therése took his hand as they walked down the hall, her small fingers clutching his tightly. “I’m going to draw a picture of our new house,” she said, her voice determined. “I want it to feel like home.”

Christer nodded, though he couldn’t shake the feeling that no amount of drawings would make this place feel like home. They found her crayons in one of the boxes in the living room, and she sat down at the kitchen table, immediately engrossed in her work.

Rickard wandered over, his thumb in his mouth, his eyes darting around the room. “Christer, do you think we’ll like it here?” he asked quietly, almost as if he was afraid of the answer.

“I don’t know, Rickard,” Christer admitted. “But we’ll try to make the best of it, okay?”

Rickard nodded but didn’t seem convinced. He stood close to Christer, not saying much, just watching as Therése colored her picture. It wasn’t like him to be so quiet, and that worried Christer more than anything else. Rickard was sensitive, always picking up on things that others didn’t notice. He had this way of seeing the world that made you wonder if he knew more than he let on.

Later, as they sat down to dinner, Therése piped up, her voice bright and curious. “Mom, have you seen my bunny? The one I got for my birthday?”

Yvonne frowned, glancing around the room. “I thought you had it in your room, sweetie. Did you check the boxes?”

Therése nodded, her face serious. “I did, but it wasn’t there. I looked everywhere.”

Rickard, ever the little mimic, added, “I saw a man in the hallway. He was sad.”

The table went silent for a moment, the adults exchanging uneasy glances. Duane chuckled awkwardly, ruffling Rickard’s hair. “You’ve got quite the imagination, buddy. There’s no man here, just us.”

But Christer’s heart skipped a beat. He hadn’t seen anything, but he had felt it—the coldness, the sense of being watched. He looked at Therése, her small face scrunched in confusion, and Rickard, who seemed unbothered by his own comment, and I felt a surge of protectiveness. I didn’t know what was going on in this house, but I knew I had to keep them safe.

After dinner, as the sun dipped below the horizon and the house was bathed in the dim light of early evening, Christer helped Therése search for her bunny. They found it eventually, tucked away in the back of a closet neither of them had opened yet. Therése was thrilled, hugging the stuffed bunny close, but Christer felt a chill run down his spine. He hadn’t put it there, and he was certain she hadn’t either.

“Thanks, Christer,” Therése said softly, her eyes full of trust as she looked up at him.

“Anytime, kiddo,” Christer replied, forcing a smile. “You can always count on me.”

Later that night, Christer lay awake in his bed, staring at the ceiling. The house was quiet, but it wasn’t a comforting silence. It was the kind of silence that felt like it was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen. He could hear Yvonne and Duane talking quietly in their room, their voices too low for him to make out the words, but he could guess the conversation. She was probably telling him how this was their chance to start fresh, how they could make it work if they just tried hard enough. He’d be agreeing, promising that he was done with the drinking, that things would be different this time.

But Christer knew better. He knew that promises were just words, and words didn’t stop the things that happened in the dark.

He closed his eyes, willing himself to sleep, but the unease that had been gnawing at him all day only grew stronger in the quiet of the night. He thought about what Rickard had said, about the man in the hallway, and he couldn’t help but wonder if maybe this house wasn’t as empty as it seemed.

The shadows in his room seemed to stretch and shift, playing tricks on his eyes, and he pulled the covers up tighter around him. He could feel the coldness creeping in, settling into his bones, and he knew, deep down, that this house held secrets, secrets that we were only just beginning to uncover.

And as he drifted off into a fitful sleep, the only thing Christer could think was that maybe they should have stayed where they were. Maybe this move was the worst mistake they’d ever made.