Chapter 2 - The Cold Floor
The silver locket seemed to burn Sarah’s skin with freezing clarity. It was an oval piece of tarnished heirloom jewelry, intricately engraved with weeping willows, its hinge loose from decades of handling. Sarah's breath hitched, her lungs failing to draw enough oxygen from the dim nursery. Her mind scrambled for rational explanations: grave robbers, a cruel prank by her estranged sister, or perhaps Toby had somehow snatched it from the viewing parlor before the casket lid was sealed shut. But she distinctly remembered pinning that exact trinket to the lace collar of Evelyn’s burial dress with her own hands.
""Where did you get this, Toby?"" Sarah asked, kneeling down so close her lips brushed his temple. She could smell the scent of lavender baby soap mixed with a sharp, faint trace of damp earth.
Toby did not roll over. He stayed huddled facing the crib, his small forehead pressed against the lowest wooden rail. ""She dropped it when she reached in to check Brendan's chest,"" he whispered, his voice thin and hollow. ""Two nights ago. She told me if I stayed on the floor, she wouldn't step on me to get to him.""
""Stop it, Toby,"" Sarah snapped, fear sharpening her tone far more than she intended. She recoiled immediately, softening her voice as the boy flinched. ""I’m sorry. But you have to tell Mommy the truth. Were you looking through my old dresser drawers? Did you find another locket?""
Toby slowly turned his head to look at her over his shoulder. The light of a projected constellation crossed over his hazel eyes, momentarily turning them an empty, milky white. ""Grandma’s breath smells like dead grass, Mom. She told me Brendan’s heart beats too slow. She said she’s making a room ready for him so he won’t be lonely.""
A sudden violent thud resonated from inside the baby monitor receiver sitting on the dresser. Sarah jumped, her knuckles scraping against the carpet. She whirled around to look into the crib. Brendan had not moved; his round cheek was still squished against the breathable mattress, his tiny arms tucked beneath his chest. Yet the monitor crackled with heavy, rhythmic static, followed by the dry, distinct rasp of someone dragging a fingernail across the microphone.
Sarah stood up on trembling legs, clutching the silver locket in her closed fist so tightly the metal edges bit into her palm. She walked toward the audio monitor, her slippers making no sound on the floorboards. As she reached out to turn down the volume knob, the red sound-indicator lights suddenly spiked into the maximum red zone.
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Through the tiny plastic speaker, a woman's voice rasped in a dry, wheezing cadence: Move the boy, Sarah. He’s in my way.
Sarah dropped the monitor. It hit the dresser with a plastic clatter and tumbled into the laundry hamper below. At the same moment, the star projector whirred violently, spun three times faster, and popped with a shower of tiny sparks, plunging the room into absolute, suffocating darkness. In the pitch black, the crib gave a slow, deliberate creak, as if weight was being leaned against the rail from the opposite side.
