At night, the sounds from the canyon shifted and changed. The bungalow seemed to lift itself with every echo and the walls were breathing. Panting. Just after two, she’d wake, her eyes stinging, as if someone had waved a flashlight across them. And then, she’d hear the noise. Every night. The tapping noise, like a small animal trapped behind the wall. That was what it reminded her of. Like when she was a girl, and that possum got caught in the crawlspace. For weeks, they just heard scratching. They only found it when the walls started to smell. It’s not the little men, she told herself. It’s not. And then she’d hear a whimper and startle herself. Because it was her whimper and she was so frightened. I’m not afraid I’m not I’m not It had begun four months ago, the day Penny first set foot in the Canyon Arms. The chocolate and pink bungalows, the high arched windows and French doors, the tiled courtyard, cosseted on all sides by eucalyptus, pepper, and olive trees, miniature date palms—it was like a dream of a place, not a place itself.
