EXTERIOR, A SPRAWLING FARMHOUSE AND BARN ON A HILLSIDE IN BROOKFIELD, N.H. — DAY

KRIS sits in her car parked on the street next to the barn, looking at the house.

KRIS (Voice over of internal monologue): What color is that? Baby poop beige? Why couldn’t they just leave the house white, like every other house in New Hampshire. Dear god, they capped the artesian well out front. The red hand pump is gone! What the hell? Grampa and Gramma’s ashes are spinning in their urns. Do ashes spin?

KRIS texts a photo of the house to her brother. He responds immediately.

INTERIOR, CAR—CLOSE UP OF PHONE

TEXT FROM BROTHER: That’s ugly as sh*t. Is the swing still hanging from the rafters in the barn?

INTERIOR, KITCHEN IN FARMHOUSE—DAY

WIFE and HUSBAND drinking coffee. WIFE peers through curtains.

WIFE: That woman is back again.

HUSBAND: What woman?

WIFE: The woman who stops here once a year and just sits and stares at the house.

HUSBAND: Maybe she’s a Jehovah’s Witness?

WIFE: Why would a Jehovah just sit in her car if she were here to preach to us? That doesn’t seem efficient.

EXTERIOR

KRIS (V.O.): Why on earth did they put that nasty ship-lap siding on the barn? It’s like some hipster’s idea of what a New Hampshire barn should look like. I’ll peek in the windows to see if the swing is still there. Man, you could get so much air on that thing, it was awesome. And terrifying. It’s a good thing kids bounce. Although that’s probably how I got the herniated disc in my neck. I wonder if they kept that big scythe I used for my “Ghost of Death” Halloween costume that one year.

INTERIOR

WIFE: She got out of her car. She’s walking around the barn.

HUSBAND: Does she have a weapon?

WIFE: It doesn’t look like it, but she’s carrying a phone.

HUSBAND: Maybe she’s an insurance inspector.

WIFE: Wouldn’t they have to call first and let us know they’re coming?

HUSBAND: I don’t know. Maybe they want to surprise us so we don’t hide stuff then put it back up when they leave. Like the swing.

WIFE: Oh no. The swing.

EXTERIOR

KRIS (V.O.): It’s still there! That’s amazing. Paving the driveway was a bad idea. Hitting that after a flying leap off the swing would definitely leave a mark. It was all nice soft dirt when Gramma and Grampa lived here. Learned how to ride a bike on that dirt. Dad pushing me, running alongside me yelling “pedal pedal pedal pedal” and then I was riding by myself like I always had known how and the bike wasn’t wobbly and I rode around for hours.

KRIS walks in front of the barn. Gazes past the house out over the hillside at the back of the property.

KRIS (V.O.): Chicken coop gone. Probably for the best. It stank so bad, but it was a great clubhouse. Looks like the leach field still doesn’t leach right. All of us barrel-rolling down that hill for fun and Mom rolled right into the leach field wearing Grandma’s cashmere sweater. Grandma didn’t know whether to laugh or cry when Mom came up to the house, hysterical and wet and smelling like poo. Come to think of it, she ended up the same color as this house.

INTERIOR

HUSBAND: What’s she doing now?

WIFE: She’s just standing there in front of the barn. She’s got this weird sort of smile on her face but I think she’s crying.

HUSBAND: What?

WIFE: I don’t know, Jim! Why don’t you go outside and find out what the heck she is doing here?!

HUSBAND: What if she’s …. you know… not right in the head?

WIFE: You’ll get along fine.

EXTERIOR

KRIS (V.O.): I should go introduce myself. Maybe they’ll let me see inside. I wonder if they messed with the layout. Building inspector probably made them fix the scary spiral stairs to the second-floor bedrooms. And remove that big, heavy wooden trap door at the top of the stairs that closed the floor off so you didn’t have to heat it. I couldn’t even lift that thing when I was a teenager. When that door fell down on Mom’s arm, the noise she made, I thought it killed her. What a bruise.

INTERIOR

WIFE: She’s coming this way.

HUSBAND: Ok, well, all will be revealed, won’t it?

WIFE: Should we answer it? What if she’s a burglar? Lots of burglars knock on the front door and then when no one answers it, they break in.

HUSBAND: Going out on a limb here but if we answer the knock…

EXTERIOR

KRIS approaches the front door, stops and stand in the portico.

KRIS (V.O.): Cocktail hour at 6 p.m., no matter what. Sitting in Grampa’s lap in his red leather chair, listening to his heart beat as he sipped his whiskey soda from a crystal highball glass. Cocktail hour always ran late. By the time Gramma put on the roast, we didn’t eat before 10. The continental way, she said. Her house was all linen napkins, table cloths, silver flatware and china. A crystal chandelier over the mahogany dining table. This was the first place I ever felt like a grownup. Learned which fork to use. Learned there were writers in the family going back generations so of course I should try. Gramma and Grampa had the best Christmas decorations and the tree was always huge. I can smell it.

INTERIOR

WIFE and HUSBAND stand inside the kitchen, watching KRIS through the curtain across the front-door window. Waiting. Tense.

EXTERIOR

KRIS lifts her hand to knock, stops, then steps back. She turns and walks back to her car.

INTERIOR

WIFE and HUSBAND look at each other and shrug.

HUSBAND: See you next year, weirdo.

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