I reached the narrow door to the attic stairs at the end of the hall. It was a part of the house we rarely used, a repository for Christmas decorations and forgotten memories.
As my hand touched the cool brass knob, Mara’s voice came through the phone again, a low, urgent whisper. “Do not hang up. Keep the line open no matter what.”
I pulled the door open, revealing a steep, narrow flight of wooden stairs ascending into darkness. I climbed slowly, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my sternum. Each step creaked a loud protest beneath my bare feet, a symphony of betrayal announcing my every move. The air in the attic was thick and stale, a cloying mix of dust, aging wood, and the faint, sweet scent of insulation. It smelled like the past.
I pulled the heavy door shut behind me, the click of the latch echoing in the small, oppressive space. I slid the small, rusty iron latch into its housing. It felt flimsy, like a child’s toy against an unknown threat.
“Lock it,” Mara’s voice commanded from the phone.
“I did,” I breathed back, my voice barely audible.
“Good. Now get away from the window. Stay low and stay quiet.”
And then the call dropped. The line went dead.
Silence. A profound, terrifying silence that was worse than any noise. I was alone in the dark, clutching a dead phone, my mind a whirlwind of confusion and fear. I crouched on the dusty floorboards, my body coiled like a spring, every nerve ending alight. For one long, awful, stretching minute, nothing happened. The only sounds were the rain on the roof and the frantic thumping of my own blood in my ears.
Then I heard Caleb’s voice from downstairs.
It was not the sleepy, gentle murmur of my husband. It was a voice I had never heard before. It was awake. It was alert.
And it was utterly, terrifyingly calm.
“Lights are off,” he said.
