Chapter 5
I didn't move. Emma didn't move. Sarah didn't move.
Dust hung in low warm light. Small window threw rectangle across concrete floor. Wardrobe stood against patched drywall, eight feet tall, dark walnut catching shadow. Red-handled crowbars and tape measure still by its base where I'd left them.
Emma's hand stayed locked in mine. Her breathing was fast, shallow. Mine was heavier. Sarah stood shoulder to shoulder with me, close enough I felt her sleeve brush my shirt. Nobody spoke.
That was idea. Sarah had said it after I told her wardrobe wasn't furniture, it was cover. She'd admitted she knew patch was there, that prior owner had drywalled over something. "If we listen," she whispered, "we'll know if it's real."
So we listened.
First seconds were nothing. Heating vent ticked. Dust settled. Emma's tears had dried in streaks across her cheeks. She stared at paneled doors like they might open on their own. Her blonde hair stuck damp to her forehead.
Sarah inhaled, held it. I did same. Emma tried to copy us, chest rising, then letting out small shaky exhale. Micro-pause stretched. I watched Sarah's eyes flick to patch above wardrobe seam, to small uneven spackle line where drywall didn't match.
Five seconds. Ten.
I almost said we imagined it. I almost told Emma we could go get ice cream, leave this half-finished room alone. My hand twitched toward her shoulder to pull her back.
Then scrape came.
Faint. Not loud. Tap-drag behind paneled doors, low, through drywall. Like something shifting weight. Or fingernail catching wood. Two short taps, pause, then longer scrape.
Emma stiffened. Her fingers dug into my palm.
Sarah's breath caught. She didn't speak at first. Just stared. Her mouth opened slightly, closed again.
Again. Same sound. Tap. Tap. Drag. From behind wardrobe, behind patch. Muffled but distinct in silent room.
I leaned forward inch without thinking. Hand reached toward panel edge, toward hairline gap where wardrobe met wall. Not to pull yet. Just to feel air, to test if draft came through. My fingertips hovered centimeter from dark wood.
Emma yanked my wrist.
"Stop!"
Word sharp, loud in quiet. Same word she'd screamed in video moment, same frantic pitch. She wasn't crying now. She was commanding. Her other arm shot out pointing again, same gesture from earlier.
I froze. Hand midair. Sarah grabbed my elbow.
We held that pose. Three people breathing hard, staring at wall that shouldn't make sound.
Sarah spoke first. Voice low, barely above whisper. She took long pause before words came, breath trembling.
"I heard it," she said.
I looked at her.
She swallowed. Eyes didn't leave wardrobe.
"Last week," she said. "While you were at work. I was measuring for paint. Heard same tap. Thought it was pipes. Or mouse."
Pause. She shook head slightly.
"I dismissed it," she said. "Told myself I imagined. Didn't want to tell you. Didn't want another project. Another delay."
Her confession hung there. No excuse. Just truth. She'd heard scrape behind paneled doors and chosen to ignore it. Same way I'd chosen to restrain Emma earlier instead of listening when she said open that wall.
Emma looked up at her mother, then at me. Her expression wasn't vindicated. It was scared that we finally believed.
Tap came again. Louder this time, like response to our stillness breaking. Three quick taps behind walnut panel.
No one pretended anymore. Sarah's hand tightened on my arm. My breathing went shallow again. Emma pressed into my side, but she kept pointing. Not frantic now. Steady.
We all heard it. Wardrobe hadn't moved. Panel hadn't opened. But space behind it wasn't empty. Something occupied that sealed void, enough to make sound through patch and wood.
May you like
Sarah whispered, "It's not pipes."
I nodded. Didn't answer. Didn't need to. We stood in dim unfinished room, dust in light, listening to faint scrape from behind dark doors we hadn't yet opened, knowing next decision couldn't be dismissal.
