Bound by Blood

The Victorian townhouse groaned around me, a familiar symphony of old wood and settling foundations. But this morning, it was punctuated by an unfamiliar, ominous creaking from the upper floor. "Pete—don't you dare!" I yelled, my voice hoarse from a night spent wrestling with dissertation notes.

A thud, then a rapid series of thunks echoed down the main staircase, followed by a resounding smash from the floor below. 7 a.m. was far too early for this.

I dragged myself downstairs, my eyes scanning the museum's ground floor for damage. The rows of haunted dolls stared, unblinking. Glass cases, filled with shrunken heads and cursed coins, remained intact. Nothing seemed out of place, save for the bowling ball now resting innocently at the foot of the stairs, its destructive energy apparently spent.

I replaced Pete's favorite projectile on its pedestal and stepped outside to retrieve the mail, the crisp Santa Marina air a welcome change from the museum's musty interior. As I reached the ornate, powder-blue mailbox, a voice cut through the morning quiet, a sound I'd come to dread.

"Mr. Lorenfield!" Mrs. Owens called, her voice distressingly familiar, and my heart sank. Another day, another lecture on historic preservation.