“Just a lot of old junk down there,” he said, kissing my forehead. “Claire was a bit of a hoarder when it came to holiday decorations and old furniture. I keep it locked so the girls don’t go wandering and get hurt. You know how curious they are.”
It made sense. I didn’t push.
But over the next few weeks, I noticed things.
Sometimes, late at night, I would hear faint sounds coming from below the floor — a soft scratching, like someone moving boxes. Or was it footsteps? Daniel always said it was the old furnace or settling pipes. I told myself I was being paranoid.
The girls also behaved strangely around that door. They would stop playing and stare at it sometimes. Once, I caught Emily pressing her little ear against the wood, whispering something.
“What are you doing, sweetie?” I asked gently.
She jumped and smiled brightly. “Nothing, Mommy Mia.”
Grace was more careful, but I saw her glance at the door with an expression I couldn’t quite read — part fear, part longing.
---
The day everything changed started innocently enough.
Daniel had an important meeting in the city and wouldn’t be home until late. The girls had come down with mild colds — sniffles and low fevers — so I took the day off work to stay with them. I made chicken soup, gave them medicine, and tried to keep them in bed watching cartoons.
But four- and six-year-olds don’t stay still for long.
By mid-afternoon, they were running around in their pajamas playing an extremely loud game of hide-and-seek. I chased after them half-heartedly, laughing despite myself.
