“Pandora doesn’t live here anymore.” That’s what the hand-written note said, and I couldn’t blame her. The door it was tacked to, and the wall on both sides, looked like they’d been hit by a flamethrower.
The seconds piled up following my third knock. I began to think no one else lived there either. The whole last month had gone like this, and my rent was overdue because of it. But the guy here had called me.
I counted to ten as I stared at the blackened front door of the old house at Six Plum Drop Circle. A fresh plywood patch clung where one of its raised panels should’ve been, and three heavily charred spots showed around it. It took me several moments to realize the door had once been red. It had suffered from such heat that only a small area at the bottom had escaped damage.
I turned to go, but halted at the sight of the solitary elm tree in the front yard. A three foot, round tunnel had been bored neatly through its dense foliage, branches and all. Blue sky and part of a neighbor’s roof showed within the gap. A few singed leaves clung to the edges of the opening.
“What do you want?” Rasped a timeworn voice.