Every horror movie begins the same: a mouth swollen with rain water. We didn’t hear the dogs bark. Every night, a wishbone thrown on the porch. We thought only of her car sinking the bottom of the lake, of the skins we left in the backyard. We knew our place. The dinner table, our tongue ripe with nostalgia, smiling with no teeth, ghostwater leaking from the closet. We didn’t hear the dogs bark. And then, her hair like a halo, the killer ourselves, our mouths, empty, hands, still as water.