Chapter 4 - The House on the Hill
Sheriff Turner killed his engine and stepped out of the cruiser, drawing his firearm with a smooth, practiced motion that made my stomach lurch. Behind him, a second backup unit—Deputy Miller—pulled up kicking up a cloud of white dust, doors flying open as two armed deputies took up tactical positions around the perimeter of the decaying farmhouse.
“Evie, stay in the truck,” Sam ordered, putting his hand firmly on my knee as I reached for the door handle.
“No,” I said, shaking my head with fierce determination. “I’m not sitting in this truck while my daughter is fifty yards away. I walk with you, Sam. That’s final.”
Sam looked into my eyes, saw the cold, unyielding resolve burning there, and nodded once. He climbed out, and I pushed my door open right behind him.
The air smelled of cedar, dry earth, and old wood, mixed with the faint, sickening scent of woodsmoke and damp limestone.
Sheriff Turner motioned for us to stay close as he approached the front porch. The wooden boards groaned loudly under his boots. He didn’t bother knocking; he tried the brass doorknob, found it unlocked, and shoved the heavy oak door open with the barrel of his service pistol raised.
“Police! Clear!” Turner shouted into the dim, musty interior of the house.
No answer. Only the grandfather clock in the hallway ticking away with a heavy, hollow pendulum swing.
We stepped inside. The house smelled of mothballs, peppermint, and boiled cabbage—the distinct, suffocating scent of Linda’s domestic tyranny. Family portraits lined the hallway wall, but they were all pictures of Ryan as a smiling boy, Ryan graduating high school, Ryan standing beside Linda at church. There wasn't a single trace of Janet anywhere in the main rooms, as if her five years of marriage to Ryan had been scrubbed clean from the timeline of the universe.
“Check the kitchen and back pantry,” Turner muttered to Deputy Miller, while he and Sam moved toward the narrow hallway leading toward the rear cellar stairs.
I followed right behind Sam, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
At the end of the hall, past the laundry room and a closed pantry door, sat a heavy, deadbolted wooden door set flush into the floorboards—reinforced with iron straps and secured with a commercial-grade master lock.
And from beneath the crack of that heavy door, faint, irregular scratching sounds drifted up into the hallway.
Followed by a raspy, broken voice whimpering in the dark.
“Please... please just let me out... Mama... please...”
The sound shattered whatever fragile composure I had left. I let out a choked cry and dropped to my knees beside the cellar door, hammering my palms against the cold wood.
“Janet!” I screamed, my voice cracking into a raw sob. “Janet, honey, it’s Mom! We’re here! Open the door!”
May you like
Inside the vault, the scratching stopped instantly. A breathless, terrified silence descended, followed by a weak, disbelieving gasp from the other side.
“Mom...?” the voice whispered back, so thin and frail it sounded like wind blowing through dry leaves. “Mom... am I... am I dreaming again...?”
