Chapter 1

(Emerald)

When I was fourteen, my parents bought me a German Shepherd puppy. I named her Samantha, after the dog from that movie, *I Am Legend*. Sam was just a little black ball of fur. Her legs were dipped in a light tan shade. Her face was solid black. Her eyes matched that solid black, with a deep brown ring wrapped around the pupil.

Sam is constantly with me. I cannot remember a time she hasn’t been by my side. I used to be very outgoing and happy. Then it happened. I didn’t care to leave the house or to make friends. You can call me antisocial, withdrawn, or even unfriendly, but the truth is, I just didn’t like people anymore. Besides that, once we relocated, our new home isolated me completely.

We were a happy family; my mother, father, brother, and I. That was until the day my brother died. When he died, we were fourteen, and instead of dealing with it like a normal family, my parents all but cut me off and bought a puppy, Sam, to make up for not being there for me. I guess I looked too much like my twin for them to face after his death. When he died, our family died with him.

That’s when they withdrew me from my school and moved us to That Lonely House, states away. Our family has owned it for generations. It is, literally, in the middle of nowhere. The town used to thrive. It was one of the biggest in the state, but one day, almost everyone packed up and left. I cannot remember the reason or reasons why everyone left. My grandma told me the story of the town when I was very young, so my memory is a little fuzzy.

You can’t see another house, or anything else for that matter, in any direction when you are at Lonely House. What’s left of the town is about six miles from That House. Imagine a huge, white, old house that sits close to the road but is surrounded by fields of crops and a dirt driveway.

There is a covered, wraparound porch on the first level with paint chipping everywhere, and a balcony over the front door that’s in the middle of the house. The balcony leads into the master bedroom with a set of French doors. There has been a sign in the yard for decades that says the house’s name in perfect cursive, That Lonely House.

Nothing works the way it should. The handyman my father employs is the closest thing I have to a friend. I have had to call him numerous times to fix a few insignificant things and a few bigger things over the past couple of years. He has fixed the sink, doorknobs, the roof, boards that came up on the porch, and more.

Both of my parents took jobs that compel them to travel. Dad used to be home while Mom was gone, and when Mom would get home, Dad would leave. Once I turned sixteen, they started to leave me home alone for a few days and just stocked the fridge. Now they leave me alone longer. Constantly.

You’re probably thinking, “Why don’t you call your grandma or a cousin or anyone to come over?” Well, that is easy. When we moved to the family-owned property, we moved hours away from my city, from my home, to a small town named New Corn. Yes, New Corn, as in corn on the cob. It is nothing but fields and fields of corn.

I can’t exactly pick up the phone—that doesn’t always work—and ask my dad’s mom to come out. She’s old and has the initial stages of dementia. My mom’s parents are both dead. Neither of my parents have siblings, so I have no cousins. It’s just me and Sam, of course.

Since my twin brother died, my parents have basically stayed to themselves. I don’t even know the last time I saw them speak to one another. A part of me thinks that they stay married for my sake. I think it would be better if they split up and took me out of this hellhole they make me call home.