Oct 9, 1986. Crescent & Pine sent me to catalog the Lisle house. Mrs. Augusta Lisle, no family left. Sixteen rooms. I record every room on my little cassette recorder and type it up at home. Apt 3, on Magazine.

Oct 9, night. Played back the study. Me: “Partners’ desk, maybe 1920s?” Then a quiet voice on the tape: “1911.” The receipt was in the drawer. 1911.

Oct 10. Every tape is three seconds longer than I talked. Back stairs. Up. Past the sewing room. Under the roses.

Oct 11. A room behind the roses. Empty. Nine feet. Exactly the size of my apartment.

Oct 14. The quiet voice is [[a woman’s|a man’s]], younger than mine. It knows my name. On the last tape it said: “Don’t finish it, Odile.”

Oct 15. I finished it. 211 lots. Then I bought the house at the sale, with everything in it. All my savings, and a loan.

1987. I built my apartment in the room, so it can’t surprise me. Had the house wired. A speaker in every room, a deck with a voice switch. If it answers, I want to answer back.

Aug 2026. (the handwriting shakes) The next one will come for the sale. They always guess 1920s. I’ll tell them. Somebody should have told me.