Our parents agreed with me. This was an old, old farm, and no one had lived in the house for a long time. It was exactly the sort of place that inspired people to make up stories. “It must be a country version of an urban legend,” Dad said. “Like the man with the—” Mom stopped him with a sharp look. “The man with a what?” Erica asked. “The man with a monkey,” I said, to rescue Dad. I definitely didn’t want him telling Erica about the man with the hook. In fact, I myself didn’t want to hear that story, not here, not at night, not when anything could be out there howling in the dark, watching us through the tall living room windows Mom hadn’t gotten around to covering with curtains. “Does the monkey disappear?” Erica persisted. “Of course not,” I told her. “He and the man run away from the circus and live happily ever after in a tarpaper shack.” Erica laughed. “And they eat wild berries for breakfast, lunch, and dinner?” Dad winked at me. “Exactly!”
