Chapter 3 - Voices in the Ceiling
Leo pressed his back hard against the rough plaster at the rear of the closet, burying his face in the musty folds of heavy winter coats. The voice lingering in the hallway was an exact duplicate of Eleanor’s, down to the gentle pitch she used whenever he had a fever as a toddler.
"Leo, sweetheart, open the door," the voice pleaded, sounding breathless, almost tearful. "It’s too cold out here. Come hold my hand."
Just inches away, on the other side of the thin wood, he could hear the wet drag of bare feet against the floorboards. The scent of mud, brackish pond water, and old decay seeped through the cracks around the doorframe. Leo clamped both hands over his mouth, his teeth chattering uncontrollably. Tears streamed down his cheeks, hot against his freezing fingers. He remembered what his mother had said: Do not answer him, no matter whose voice he borrows.
Suddenly, a loud crash echoed from the upper landing. A heavy glass vase shattered against the floorboards, followed by Eleanor’s furious, unmasked voice shouting from the top of the stairs: "Get away from that hatch, you bastard! You don't belong in this light!"
The thing outside Leo's closet paused. The gentle imitation of Eleanor’s voice instantly warped into a guttural, wet growl that made the hair on Leo’s arms stand on end. The floorboards groaned as the intruder pivoted, moving with terrifying speed back toward the staircase. Every footstep was accompanied by the sound of damp squelching, as if waterlogged boots were trudging through deep mud.
Leo peered through the keyhole. The hallway was swallowed in gloom, illuminated only by the faint blue moonlight spilling from the shattered window in the living room. At the foot of the stairs stood the figure. In the dim light, Leo could see the ruined state of the man's clothes—a torn, decayed flannel shirt clinging to a gaunt torso, covered in clinging moss and jagged rips. But it was the back of the creature’s neck that caught Leo’s attention: etched into the pale, dead flesh was a dark, blackened mark, an intricate brand resembling three interlocking triangles.
Upstairs, Eleanor was chanting loudly, her words rising in pitch and urgency. She slammed something heavy onto the floor—a thud that reverberated through the studs of the house. A flash of brilliant, amber light flickered at the top of the staircase, casting long, distorted shadows down the wall. The dead man recoiled, his spine arching unnaturally, his head snapping backward until Leo heard the distinct pop of vertebrae.
The creature let out a high-pitched, vibrating screech that caused the light fixtures in the hallway to hum and pop. The singular bulb dangling above the hallway shattered into rain of fine glass. In the sudden dark, the creature launched itself up the wooden steps, moving on all fours with horrifying agility, clawing at the risers like a starving predator.
Leo couldn't stay in the closet. The horrific thuds upstairs—the sound of furniture being overturned, walls being struck, and his mother’s choking gasps—shattered his paralysis. He pushed the closet door open and stumbled into the dark hall.
He looked up toward the landing. A trail of black, foul-smelling grease smeared the white risers of the stairs. At the top, the master bedroom door was slammed shut with violent force.
Then, utter silence fell once more.
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Leo crept toward the stairs, clutching the banister. Halfway up, his foot brushed against something small and metallic lying on a tread. He knelt down, his fingers closing around an old silver pocket watch, its glass face cracked, its ticking mechanism silent. On the back, engraved deeply into the silver, was an inscription: To Julian. May the earth hold your silence.
Before he could process the name, the bedroom door at the top of the stairs creaked open an inch. A pool of thick, dark liquid began spreading from beneath the threshold.
