Dad spends most of his free time in the basement. He barely even says hello to us all before he walks down those stairs and disappears until dinnertime. 

It began about a year ago. He found a YouTube channel about model cities, and instantly became obsessed with it. Something about those tiny houses, the ornate details carved into the miniature walls and roofs, the streets paved with paint and the trees crafted with real leaves that were punched with a hole-puncher, then cut to size and stuck on cardboard trunks. 

We don’t live in a city. We live in a small suburb, a tiny, underdeveloped speck on the map. Dad wanted to build something he was familiar with, so he began building our little community. A tiny version, down there in the basement. 

It’s not a secret, or anything. He lets us in to inspect his progress most of the time, and it’s certainly coming along. The diorama is practically a perfect recreation of our suburb, and no detail, not even minor ones, were overlooked. The neighbour’s bicycle was sitting in his driveway, neglected. The couple a few doors down were there, sitting on their lawnchairs and watching the street. The postman was riding by on his little scooter, his cap a little too loose on his head. It was already huge, spanning most of our basement on multiple different tables, but much of the suburb was yet to be built. 

As wonderful as it was, I always thought something was off about it. No sane, grown man would ever spend this long constructing a tiny version of anything. Not willingly at least. 

Today, my suspicions were all but confirmed. 

He walked into the house, sweating when it’s freezing outside. His movements were frantic, stomping on his way to the basement, clutching his messenger bag close to his chest. He didn’t even stop to wipe his shoes before running down the stairs, and shouting up at us, “don’t touch the house on sixty-three Rivers Lane!” 

That was it. 

Today was the only day that Dad woke up in the morning to build. When I checked yesterday, sixty-three Rivers Lane wasn’t built yet. 

Why’d he get up specifically to build it? 

Was everything leading up to it? Is there a demon in that building that could only escape through a perfect miniature replica because it was trapped inside the real one by a family of exorcists who discovered that their only child was the victim of an ancient ritual performed five hundred and sixty-six years ago that trapped the demon inside a person from the future so it could never terrorize the ritual performers ever again? 

I had to find out. 

I waited in bed, far past my bedtime. I waited for hours, listening intently for the sounds of Dad’s footsteps up the stairs and into his room. 

Eventually, I heard them, and my heart started to race. It was time. 

As soon as the footsteps stopped and the door of my parents’ room closed, I sprang into action. Creeping out on my tiptoes, I shuffled down the stairs, shuffled across the hallway, and shuffled into the basement, ready to discover the truth. 

The diorama stood before me in all of its shady glory. I shuffled around it, searching for the house on Rivers Lane. 

Of course, it stood right in the centre of the basement. A perfectly tiny little house, inconspicuous as all the rest. 

Except for the obvious demon compelling Dad to free him so he can continue his nefarious schemes. 

I wouldn’t let that happen.  

I reached my hand in slowly, carefully, and pinched the house with two fingers. 

It was wet. 

I pulled my hand away in disgust. Ectoplasm, no doubt. 

I looked down at my fingers to examine it. My eyes narrowed. 

It wasn’t ectoplasm. 

It was paint. 

Wet paint. 

“Charles!” 

I let out a rather girly screech and jumped into the air, my muscles seizing. I slowly turned to find Dad in the doorway, arms crossed, and a frown on his face. 

“What did I say about touching that house? And isn’t it far past your bedtime?” 

I looked down at my paint-coated fingers, and then back at the house, which now had two fingerprint marks on either side of the roof. 

“I thought there was a demon,” I muttered, slowly hiding the evidence of my crime behind my back.