Tsung-Long Wu

Ninety days sober and out of options, Mark Halvorsen takes the only job left to him: winter caretaker of a house at the end of a mountain road, in a town that will rent him a room but will not discuss the address. He brings his wife, Elaine, who has been keeping a private tally in pencil on the back of a pantry door, and their daughter, Anne, who has always been able to tell when a room is listening.
The house is warm. The pantry is stocked for far more than three people. The piano in the locked parlor finishes phrases no one has played. And somewhere beneath the knock of the boiler there is a waltz, a little more confident every night, as though it has waited a long time for the right family to practice on. By the time Mark understands what the house is preparing them for, the road is gone, the radio answers in his wife's voice, and the only person left who can read the blocking is a nine-year-old girl who has already been given her mark.
Some houses do not haunt. They rehearse.