Chapter 4 — The Sound in the Rafters
The morning after the whispering, Thomas climbed onto the roof. Clouds moved low and fast, gray against a sun too weak to burn through. The hammer in his hand felt heavier than it should have. Every nail he drove into the warped shingles made the house flinch beneath him, as if the old boards could still feel.
Below, the lake lay flat and dull. The willow’s branches hung motionless. For the first time since they had arrived, he felt certain someone was watching—not from the water, but from inside the house.
He told himself it was exhaustion, the ache of work and too many quiet nights. Still, when the wind slipped past his ear, it carried something almost musical, a hum that matched the broken lullaby the radio had played. He paused mid-swing. The hum didn’t fade; it circled him, soft and deliberate.
Thomas set the hammer down. “Margaret?” he called, half laughing at himself.
Only the rafters answered, creaking like slow breathing.
He leaned over the roof’s edge. Through the attic vent he caught a glimpse of something pale—a scrap of fabric or maybe paper—tucked between the joists. Curious, he pried up a board near the ridge. Beneath the layer of dust was a small wooden box, its lid tied with a bit of twine. The twine crumbled in his fingers.
Inside lay a lock of fine, faded hair; a glass marble cloudy with age; and a sheet of paper so thin it nearly fell apart when he unfolded it. In childish handwriting, faint but legible, were the words:
“If I hide it high enough, she won’t make me go.”
Thomas felt the air change. The humming stopped. Then, from somewhere below his feet, came the light patter of steps—quick, skipping, circling the house. Too small to be Margaret’s, too light to be his daughter’s heavy boots.
He closed the box and set it aside, trying to steady his breath. “Josephine?” he called toward the hatch.
No answer. Only the echo of his own voice.
He climbed down into the attic. Dust floated through the sunbeams like drifting ash. The air was still, but a faint draft brushed his neck. The boards behind him gave a low, stretching sigh.
Then the footsteps came again—this time directly above him. Impossible; there was nothing above the rafters but sky. Yet the rhythm was clear: two short steps, a pause, another. As though a small figure were pacing just out of sight.
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