When I was around seven years old, a girl called Mia moved into our neighborhood. She was a poor child, born blind, with a red birthmark imprinted on her forehead like Harry Potter. Once I met her walking her dog at night wearing a black gown that covered three-fourth of her body, and the only visible part was her dilated pupil reflecting white light. Rumors said that she was a ghost, but that was just rumors. Mia seemed different from the start, but it was not because of her blindness or her oddly-placed birthmark –– it was the burning heat that summer, the childish curiosity that rallied the paranoid first-graders, the mysterious power of that house, and the trespassers. 

Mia had a guide dog who followed her everywhere. It was a Labrador retriever, purebred and lovely. The dog was very loyal to Mia. He would fiercely bark at passers-by, warning them to keep their distance from her. Every time I saw them walking around the neighborhood, I could feel a scorching stare from Rocky, as if I were threatening to steal his private property; animosity radiated from the dog –– I knew he could perceive my morbid curiosity. 

The kids were annoyed by the dog, because it protected Mia too well, and people like to destroy well-protected and untouchable things. So a few kids decided to venture into Mia’s haunted house. Some suspected that she was performing a kind of sacrifice ritual and would one day turn us all into offerings for some evil spirits. Others saw her as a witch, the bad kind, one of the cannibals. So the kids secretly plotted an operation to sneak into Mia’s house when her whole family was out on a vacation, and I, out of curiosity, joined the operation as an outsider. 

Mia’s house was larger than most of the houses in our neighborhood, and it was unusually colorful. The outside wall was like a collage of garnet, evergreen, and dark brown, and the front yard, although small in size, was filled with a bizarre but attractive smell –– the mix of tulip, cherry blossom, lily, and orchid melting into the fresh night air. Although it felt odd breaking into someone else’s house, my seven year-old curiosity was unstoppable. Judy, the girl in the front, attempted to open the side window, and found it unlocked, as if we had been invited in. Starting with Judy, a total of five kids climbed in one after another. I didn’t enter the house; I was looking for Rocky. Knowing that he was such a sensitive, alert, and protective guardian of this house, I kept wondering why he hadn’t made any noise to scare us off. Nervous, I walked through a narrow path to the backyard, and I saw Rocky. He was sitting on the ground in his usual position, calmly staring at me — as if he knew there were intruders on the property and was letting it happen. There must be something in the house that he wanted to hide from us, something bad, creepy, or intimidated that would substantiate the rumors. The ghoulish silence continued. He stared at me stoically, revealing no intention to disturb the calm Sunday night; he wanted me to feel this tension, and I did. Then, suddenly, I heard someone parking the car and I speedily exited the backyard and ran back home. 

The next morning, the five kids returned. None of them had been caught, and none of them mentioned what they saw in the house, how they left the house, and where they were for the whole night. Despite their studied silence, I noticed how anxious and alert they became when they saw Mia and Rocky walking around the neighborhood. The murmurs, malice, and rumors stopped. Then, a week later, I heard from my parents that Mia had not gone on vacation. Although I had no idea of what happened in that house that night, or what the five kids saw, I knew that I was the only one who had escaped it.