Speaker 1: The moving truck backed into the gravel drive just as
the late afternoon sun slanted through the oaks, turning the
old Victorian farmhouse gold and shadow. I killed the engine
and sat there for a second, key still in my hand,
watching dust settle around the tires. Six months since Sarah's accident,
and this was the first place that didn't feel like
a temporary crashpad. Sophie was already out of the car,
sneakers crunching on the stones, pointing at the wrap around
porch like she discovered a castle. Dad, Look, there's a swing.
I forced the smile. Yeah, bug, we can fix it up.
Money was tight. Sarah's life insurance had covered the funeral
in the first few months, but not much else. The
house had come to me through a will left by
a grandmother, Eleanor, who'd race Sarah alone after her husband
walked out. Eleanor had died five years ago, leaving the
place untouched. We couldn't afford much else, and the realtor
said the market was soft. Renovate, sell, start over, somewhere smaller,
somewhat brighter. That was the plan. Inside the air smelled
of old wood and faint lavender. The wall paper was
peeling in long curls. The hardwood floor scratched from decades
of feet. Sophie ran from room to room, claiming the
one with the window seat as hers. I let her
she needed something to be excited about. That first night,
we ordered Peter because the kitchen was still half boxed.
Sophie ate three slices sauce on a chin and asked
for a story before bed. Tell me about Grandma Eleanor,
she said, tugging the quilt up to a chin. Mommy
said she was the best mammy ever. I hesitated. Sarah
had always spoken of Eleanor with a mix of fondness
and something sharper, something she never quite named. I pulled
the rocking chair closer. She was very careful, I said.
She loved your mom a lot, made sure she had
everything she needed. So his eyes were wide. Did she
took Mommy in every night? Yeah? I said every night.
She smiled, satisfied, and fell asleep holding my hand. Later,
while unpacking the hallway closet, I found a small photo
album tucked behind a stack of moth eat and coat.
The cover was cracked leather. I opened it. The first
picture was black and white, Eleanor, maybe thirty, sitting at
a kitchen table with a young Sarah five or six
on a lap. Eleanor was smiling, but the smile was
too wide, lips stretched thin over teeth, eyes bright and unblinking.
Sarah's face was pinched, her mouth was open. A spoonful
of something halfway in Eleanor's hand was firm on the
back of Sarah's head, pressing the spoon forward. The caption
written a neat cursive, Good girls finish their supper. I
stared at it too long. The smile didn't reach Eleanor's eyes.
It was the kind of smile you give when you're
trying to prove something to yourself. I closed the album
and shoved it back on the shelf. Creepy family history,
nothing more. Downstairs, the house settled around me, old timbers,
creaking wind moving through the eaves. I told myself it
was just grief, making everything feel heavier. Sophie was asleep.
We were here, We were going to be okay. I
turned off the kitchen light and went to bed, telling
myself the faint smell of milk and bleach in the
hallway was just the old house. It had to be
for the first time in months, I let myself hope
that maybe, just maybe this place could be a second chance.
The renovation started small, ripping up the pealing linonium in
the kitchen, pulling down the water dammage dry wall in
the hallway. I figured we'd patch things up enough to
sell the place by summer. Sophie helped where she could,
handing me tools with serious little nods, proud to be
daddy's helper. On the third day, I pried open a
section of baseboard under the main staircase. The check for rart.
Behind the trim was a narrow panel nailed shut and
painted over years ago. I worked to the crowbar until
it popped free with a dry crack. Inside was a
crawl space barely three feet high, dark and dusty, smelling
faintly of milk gone sour and something chemical. A few
old jars and a child's shoe sat inside the opening.
I stared at it for a long moment, then nailed
the panel back in place. I told myself i'd deal
with it later. The house was full of weird little corners.
That night, I went to bed, exhausted, Sophie already asleep
down the hall I left the bedroom door cracked the
way she liked it, and sleep came fast. I woke
at two point fifty seven a m. The digital clock
glowed red on the night stand. The room was cold,
colder than it should have been with a heat running.
I sat up, slowly, rubbing my eyes, and that's when
I saw her. She stood at the foot of the bed,
too tall for the ceiling. Her head bent slightly forward,
so the crown nearly brushed the plaster, thin as a
coat hanger, under a long, stained nightgown that hung to
the floor. The fabric was yellowed, streaked with old stains
and something darker. Her face was pale, almost gray, But
the smile was the worst part. Lips stretched too wide,
too many teeth, sh going gumbs pulled back like she
was trying to prove how happy she was. She didn't
move at first, just watched me. Then she stepped closer, silent,
no creak of floorboards, and reached down. Her hands were long, fingers,
knobby and white. She took the edge of the quilt
and gently, carefully tugged it around my shoulders, smoothing it
flat against my chest like I was a child. Good
boys need their rest, she whispered. Her voice was soft,
almost sweet, but it carried an echo that didn't belong
in the room, like it came from farther away than
the foot of the bed. She lingered a second, longer,
smile fixed, then turned and walked out The hallway. Light
was off, but I saw her silhouette pass through the
open doorway and disappear towards Sophie's room. I sat there,
heart hammering, sweat, cold on my back, sleep paralysis, I
told myself, brief hallucination. I'd read about it, widowers seeing
their wives, parents seeing lost kids. This wasn't Sarah, this
was something else. I lay back down, pulled the blanket tighter,
and stared at the ceiling until the clocket three point
fifteen and the cold eased. The next morning, Sophie was
already at the kitchen table, eating cereal, humming to herself.
I poured coffee with shaking hands. Sleep okay, bug. She nodded,
spoon halfway to her mouth. A nice, tall lady tugged
me in. I froze. She said, good girls, neither rest.
Sophie smiled, milk on her upper lip. She has a
really big smile like this. She stretched the mouth wide
with her fingers, showing all her teeth. My stomach dropped.
I looked toward the hallway. The crawl space under the
stairs was still nailed shut. Nothing had moved. I forced
to laugh, thin and unconvincing. Must have been a dream, kiddo.
Sophie shrugged and went back to a cereal. I stood there,
coffee going cold in my mug, staring at the closed panel.
The house had been empty for years before we moved in.
No one else had lived here since Eleanor died. The
second night came quieter than the first. I'd left every
light in the house burning, hallway, bathroom, Sophie's night light
shaped like a star, even the porch bowlb outside. I
told myself it was for comfort. Sophie had asked why
we were camping with lights, and I said it was
because the house was old and we were chasing away
the dark. She accepted it, like kids do. I went
to bed at ten, exhausted from prying up more floorboards
and patching dry wall. Sophie was already asleep. Her door
cracked open. I left mine the same way. I woke
at two fifty seven a m. The room was cold, again,
colder than last night. I sat up fast, heart already
racing before I even knew why. She was in the doorway,
taller than before, head bent to clear the frame, nightgown
hanging like a wet cloth. The smile was wider, lips
stretched so far I could see the dark line where
her gums met teeth, too many of them, overlapping like
broken tiles. She didn't speak at first, just watched with
those bright, unblinking eyes. Then she moved. She crossed the
room in three long steps and reached for me. Her
hand clamped around my jaw, fingers like cold iron, impossibly strong.
I tried to pull away, my neck strained, muscles burning,
but she held me still, as if I were a doll.
With her other hand, she produced the chipped porcelain bowl
from nowhere, old flooral pattern, the kind Eleanor would have used.
Inside was cold milk and torn hunks of white bread,
sodden and dripping. Good boys finished their supper. She whispered,
voice soft and sing song. She forced my mouth open.
I tasted the milk, first, sour, too cold, coating my tongue.
Then the bread, wet, heavy, was shoved in until it
filled my cheeks. I gagged, tried to spit, but a
grip tightened fingers dug into my jaw, hinges, forcing my
teeth apart wider. I thrashed. My left hand clawed at
a wrist, skin smooth, unnaturally cool, with no give. My
right hand swung wild, catching the bed post. Two fingers
bent backward with a six snap. Pain exploded up my arm.
White heart. She kept feeding bread after bread. Milk poured
straight down my throat. I choked, coughed, milk bubbling out
of my nose. My stomach heaved. I tried to scream,
but nothing came but wet gurgles. The ball emptied. She
set it aside and smiled, wider teeth gleaming in the
clock light. Good boy, she said, all done. She released me.
I fell forward, vomiting onto the sheets, milk, bread, bile.
My broken fingers throbbed, useless. I gasped, wretched again. Tears
streaming from the hallway. Came small footsteps. Sophie appeared in
the doorway, rubbing her eyes, hair wild from sleep. Daddy.
She saw the mess, the spilled milk pooling on the floor,
the vomit, my shaking hands, clutching the sheet. The smiling
woman was gone. No sound of retreat, no creak of stairs,
just gone. I wiped my mouth with the back of
my arm, forced my voice steady. It's okky, bug, just
a nightmare. I had a bad dream and got sick.
Sophie's eyes were wide. She looked at the milk, the
broken fingers I was trying to hide, the soaked sheets.
Was it the tall lady, she asked quietly. My heart stopped.
I swallowed bile. No, Sweetie, just a bad dream. Go
back to bed. I'll clean up. She hesitated, then nodded
slowly and padded back down the hall. I sat there
in the dark, broken fingers curled against my chest, tasting
sour milk and fear. The smile hadn't wavered once, not
when she fed me, not when I fought, not when
I vomited. It never wavered, And now I knew it
could kill me, not with claws or teeth, with care.
With good boys finished their supper. I looked towards Sophie's room.
The hallway light flickered once, then stayed steady. I didn't
sleep again that night. I just sat up, broken hand
cradled in my lap, listening for footsteps that didn't come.
The morning after the force feeding, I could only taste
sour milk and bile, no matter how much I brush
my teeth. Sunlight poured through the bedroom curtains in thin,
dusty bars. My hand was a swollen, purple mess, fingers
taped crookedly with electrical tape, throbbing every time my heart beat.
The sheets were stiff with dried vomit and spilled milk,
the room still smelling faintly of sour, dairy and fear.
I sat up slowly, ribs aching from where I'd hit
the floor, and looked at the clock seven forty two
a m. The room felt normal, no cold spots or whispers.
Daylight had come, and the house fell quiet, like any
other old farmhouse on a sunny morning. I exhaled hard.
Maybe the thing only came at night. Maybe it was
tied to the dark, to the hours when grief and
exhaustion made everything feel realer than it should. If that
was true, if daylight was safe, then we could leave
right now before sunset. I swung my legs over the
side of the bed, ignored the sharp pain in my hand,
and started moving. I backed light one duffel for me, clothes,
Sophie's meads, the little cash I had left, her birth certificate,
and my phone charger, another for her pajamas, stuffed animals,
the blanket she couldn't sleep without. I worked fast, quiet,
listening for any creek that didn't belong. Sophie was still
asleep in a room. I cracked the door, watched the
chest rise and fall under the quilt, then closed it softly. Downstairs,
I zipped the bags, set them by the front door,
and went back up to wake her. She blinked a
wake hair a wild halo, rubbing her eyes with both fists. Hey, bug,
I said, keeping my voice light even though my hands screamed.
When I lifted a blanket. We're going on a surprise
adventure trip today. I like camping, but in a motel
with a pool. Pack your favorite toys and pajamas. Quick. Okay,
we're leaving soon. Her face lit up like Christmas. A
pool really really adventure starts the day. Go on, pack fast.
She scrambled at a bed, giggling, and ran to a
toy chest. I heard her talking to a stuffed rabbit
about the big trip. As I hurried back downstairs, I
loaded the car in the driveway, duffals in the trunk,
Sophie's car seat buckled in the back. The morning air
was crisp, birds chirping, sun climbing higher. No shadows moved wrong,
just a normal day. I slammed the trunk, shot and
called toward the house, Sophie, come on, bug, time to go. Silence.
I called again, louder, Sophie adventures, Waiting nothing. A small
cold prickle started at the base of my neck. I
stepped back inside, voiced sharper, Now, Sophie. The hallway was empty.
Her backpack lay at the bottom of the stairs. Empty
toys scattered across the floor, like they'd been dropped in
a hurry. A single milky white footprint, still fresh, led
from the bottom step up into the shadowed landing above.
I froze. From the darkness at the top of the
stairs came a soft, wet sound, drip, drip, drip. Then
a voice, not Sophie's, but close enough to twist my guts,
sweet and sing song echoing down the stairwell. Grandma says,
naughty boys don't get to play with their toys. The
air turned cold. I looked up. She stood at the top,
landing taller than the ceiling, aloud, head bent forward, nightgown
dripping sour milk onto the wood. Her smile stretched wider
than yesterday, teeth gleaming in the morning light that shouldn't
have reached her. Naughty boy, she whispered, trying to run
away with my new baby. Her long arm lashed out
faster than anything that tall should move. He caught me
across the chest and slammed me backward. I hit the
stairs hard, tumbling down in a tangle of limbs and pain.
My broken fingers smashed against the railing. Fresh agony exploded
up my arm. I landed at the bottom in a heap,
gasping from upstairs. Sophie's excited laugh cut off mid tone,
sharp and sudden, like a switch. Flipped. The front door
slam shut behind me with a sound like bones breaking.
The clicked. The windows fogged over from the inside, all
exits sealed. I lay on the floorboards, staring up at
the ceiling, chest heaving, hand throbbing. Sophie was silent. I
searched the house like a man, possessed every closet, under
every bed, behind every curtain. I called Sophy's name, onto
my throat fell like sandpaper. Nothing, no sign of her
except that abandoned backpack at the bottom of the stairs.
Toys scattered, like she'd been playing one second and gone
the next. Then I saw the footprints, small, perfect child
sized prints made of sour milk, leading from the stairs
straight the sealed crawl space panel under the landing. The
milk was still fresh, still glistening on the wood. I
dropped my knees and pressed my ear against the painted panel. Faint, breathing, slow, shallow,
but alive, Sophie, I whispered, voice cracking, bug, I'm here,
Daddy's here. A soft, muffled sound came back, her breathing hitched,
like she was trying not to cry. Then the voice
rolled through the house, gentle and patient, the way my
own grandmother used to speak when I was small, and
scraped my knee. Good boys, stay and learn, dear behave yourself,
and you'll get your toy back. The hallway lights flickered once,
and in front of me was a hattered paper note.
Three sentences were on it, written in neat, looping cursive,
like a grandmother's birthday card. Finish everything Grandma puts on
your plate. Waste not want not keep all the lights
off after the sun goes down. We don't want you
staying up all night do We never speak your little
girl's name after bedtime. Little ones need their rest, and
calling wakes them up. They stared at the words until
my eyes burned. They weren't threads. They were polite reminders,
the kind of things a loving grandma would say, or
pressing another helping of mashed potatoes on you, or tucking
you in at night for a good night's rest, while
shushing you when you try to call for your child
after lights out because she needs a beauty sleep. Except
that these rules were law, and breaking them could cost
me my daughter. I stood slowly and walked to the kitchen.
A chipped porcelain bowl lay on the table, cold milk,
torn hunks of white bread, exactly like last night. It
hadn't been there five minutes ago. The voice came again, coaxing,
almost fond, Eat up, dear growing boys, need their strength,
finish everything on your plate. I looked toward the crawl
space sop. His breathing was still there, faint and waiting,
trusting me to do the right thing. So I sat
and picked up the spoon with my good hand. I
forced the first bite down. It was soggy, sour and cold.
My stomach lurched, but I swallowed another bite, another. When
the ball was empty, a new one appeared beside it, identical,
refilling itself. The voice sighed, happily, there's a good boy.
Clean your plate, and we'll talk about letting your little
one come out to play. From the crawl space came
Sophie's faint breathing. I choked down the next spoonful, tears
mixing with the milk on my chin. I obeyed because
every time I finished the bowl, the breathing from the
crawl space grew a little louder, a little closer. But
every time I hesitated, even for a second, the house responded.
Doors creaked and narrower. Ceilings sagged an inch lower. The
hallway wallpaper tightened like skin over bone. I kept eating.
I kept the lights off at a sunset. I didn't
say Sophy's name once the sun went down. All while
my mind raced quietly, coldly, mapping the house, noting every
weak floorboard, every loose nail, every corner where the entity
seemed slower to appear. The next day, I sat at
the kitchen table. My broken fingers were rapt tighter now,
the tape cutting into swollen skin. But the pain was
background noise compared to the silence from the cruel space.
I hadn't heard Sophy's breathing since waking up. I prepared
myself for the worst, because the rules said to finish
everything on my plate, and I couldn't risk another tightening
of the house. The chipped porsain bowl was already there
when I sat down, the same cold milk, torn hunks
of white bread floating like drowned islands. The milk had
been cold five minutes ago, Now it was icy, condensation
beating on the rim. I picked up the spoon with
my good hand. The first bite went down like wet cement.
My stomach clenched, still roar from last night. I swallowed
another bite. The ball never emptied. Every time I scraped
to the bottom clean the milk rose again, bread appearing
in fresh pieces, as if someone were silently tearing it
from the loaf behind my back. I ate faster, My
throat burned, my stomach swelled, pressing against my ribs, until
each breath fell like inhaling through a straw. Then she
was there. The smiling grandma stood at the far end
of the table, head bent under the light fixture, nightgown,
dripping slow drops of sour milk onto the floorboards. Her
smile stretched wider. You're not eating fast enough? Are you
not hungry? She said, voice soft and fond, the way
her grandmother might try the picky eater. She reached across
the table, arms stretching longer than it should, and clamped
her cold fingers around my jaw. The grip was iron.
I tried to pull away, my neck, strained muscles tearing.
She forced my mouth open wider. The spoon appeared in
her other hand, heaped with sodden bread and milk. She
shoved it in. I gagged, Milk bubbled out of my nose.
I choked, coughed, tried to spit, but her fingers tightened,
holding my jaw shut until I had to swallow or drown.
Bite bite, ball after ball. My stomach ballooned, painful, distended,
pressing against my ribs. In my struggle, I felt something
crack inside a rib gave with a wet snap. I
screamed around the bread, but the sound came out muffled,
wet from the crawl space came Sophie's breaths again weak,
I fought, clawed out a wrist with my good hand.
My broken fingers smashed against the table edge, fresh agony
exploding up my arm. I kicked the chair backward, tried
to stand, but she pinned me to the seat with
one hand on my shoulder. Weight like stone, More bread,
more milk. My vision tunneled. Milk poured down my chin,
soaked my shirt and pulled in my lap. I vomited once, twice,
hot hour, burning my throat on the way up. She
didn't stop. The vomits splattered on the table. She scooped
it back into the bowl with a spoon and fed
it to me again. Good boys don't waste food, she soothed, smile,
never wavering, eyes bright and unblinking. I clapsed forward, forehead
hitting the table, half drowned in milk, stomach so swollen,
I couldn't draw a full breath. My cracked riped ground
against itself with every gasp. My broken fingers dangled uselessly.
She released me. The ball was empty again for now.
She straightened, head brushing the ceiling, and glided backward toward
the hallway. Finish your supper, deer, she said sweetly, and
Ma will check on you later. She vanished into the shadows.
I slid to the floor, milk pooling around me, tears
mixing with a mess of my face. From the crawl
space came Sophie's faint gasps. I pressed my forehead to
the cold foreboards and sobbed, quiet, broken and helpless. I
had to keep going because every time I obeyed, I
bought her a few more hours, and every time I fought,
the house closed in tighter. I was playing the perfect
grandson while my body broke, while my daughter waited in
the dark, while the smiling grandma smiled and waited for
me to finish my plate. The endless supper left me
broken on the kitchen floor. I lay there for what
felt like hours, staring at the ceiling beams, listening to
the house breathe around me. Sophie's faint breathing from the
crawl space had gone quiet again, just silence. I was done.
I had nothing left, no fight and no plan, just
a hollowed out shell that had tried to be a
good boy and failed. If obeying forever meant she'd be
let out someday safe hall. Even if she called that
thin grandma, then fine. I'd eat every ball, I'd keep
the lights off, I'd never say a name after dark again.
Whatever it took, I dragged myself across the floorboard to
my elbows, broken hand, trailing uselessly behind me. Milk smeared
in my wake. The crawl space panel under the loomed ahead,
sealed tight, painted wood, smooth and unyielding. I reached it,
collapsed against it, and pressed my forehead to the cool surface.
I could hear her breathing again, so faint, so far away,
it sounded like she was underwater. I'm sorry, bug, I whispered,
voice cracking, I'm so sorry. I tried, I really tried.
Tears mixed with the milk on my face. I closed
my eyes, and something small inside me, something that had
been buried under the pain and milk and fear, caught fire. No,
not like this. I would not let that smiling thing
raise my daughter. I would not let it teach her
to finish her play, to keep quiet after dark, to
call it grandma. Sophie was mine, she was Sarah's, she
was ours, and if the only way to get her
back was the crawl into the dark and die trying.
Then that was what I'd do. I opened my eyes.
The panel was still there, nailed shut, but the nails
looked just loose enough to pull open. I pried at
the edge of my good hand. Splinters dug into my palm.
I wedged my fingers under the wood and pulled. The
panel came away with a dry crack. The crawl space
gasped open, narrow, barely two feet high. The sour milk
smell rolled out like fog, thick and choking dust motes
drifted in the hallway light. I didn't hesitate. I squeezed
in on my belly, shoulder, scraping plaster, broken fingers dragging
uselessly behind me. The space was tight, tighter than it looked.
My cracked rips screamed with every inch. Dust rained down
into my eyes my mouth. The milk smell coated my tongue.
Behind me, the panel snapped shut on its own, boards groaned,
The crawl space tight and immediately, walls pressing in, ceiling
dropping like the house was exhaling and closing around me.
I kept crawling forward into the dark because Sophie was
in there somewhere, and I was coming for her. Rules
be damned. I was going to get my daughter back,
or die trying the crawl. Space swallowed me. Whole darkness
was thick. I filled my mouth, my nose, my ears,
my broken fingers dragged uselessly behind me, scraping plaster and wood,
sending fresh jolts of pain up my arm with every inch,
like someone was slowly twisting a blade inside my chest.
I crawled on elbows and knees, shoulders wedging against the
narrow joists, forcing me to exail completely, to squeeze forward.
The walls felt like they were breathing in time with me,
closing tighter each time I inhaled. I kept moving because
Sophie was in here, somewhere. Her faint breathing echoed ahead,
like a heartbeat in the dark. Then the voice came, soft, grandmotherly,
sweet as milk. Come along, dear Grandma, will make you
both perfect. It wasn't from one direction. It rolled through
the beams, the plaster, the dirt under my palms, everywhere
at once. My froze breath catching the space behind me.
Groaned floorboards creaked dust rained down into my eyes. Wet,
dragging sounds followed nightgown, fabric rustling against wood, milk dripping
in thick, slow plops. Good boys don't leave their toys behind,
she whispered, clos enow. Grandma is very disappointed. Panic clawed
up my throat, the passage narrowed, shoulders jammed hard. I
had a tow a sideways, ribs, screaming to inch forward.
The walls pressed to my chest like a closing coffin.
I couldn't, couldn't turn, just crawl forward, always forward. Her
long fingers brushed my ankle, cold, knobby and wet. I lunged,
clawed through a tighter section, where a joist pinched even closer.
Plaster tore at my shoulders, skin splitting blood slicked my shirt.
I pushed hard, her elbows, bleeding, rib grinding bone on bone,
until I broke through into a small, hidden pocket chamber.
The space opened just enough to let me roll onto
my back. I gasped, sucking air that tasted like rot.
And there she was, Sophie, waist deep in it, encased
in a thick, off, white, lumpy mass that clung to
her like wet dough. It looked exactly like old milk
soaked bread left rot spongy and curdled, pale yellow in places,
faintly sweet sour, the surface slowly pulsing as if digesting her.
Strands of it wrapped over her arms, her chest, her
closed eyes, her head lowed to the side, lips parted, breathing,
shallow but steady, unconscious. Called to the touch, I gagged once,
then lunged forward. I tore at the mass with my
good hand, fingers sank in spongy. The texture was wrong,
too much like flesh. I ripped handfuls away, gagging on
the sour, sweet smell and the way it clung to
my skin. I used my teeth when my hands warn't enough.
Bit tore spat the substance pulsed under my fingers, trying
to refer. I kept going piece by piece until I
freed her arms, her waist, her legs. She was limp,
cold but breathing. I scooped her against my chest, broken hand, useless,
cracked ribs stabbing with every movement, and started crawling backward.
Shoulders scraped raw against the joists. The space was even
tighter now, walls closer. I dragged her with me, elbows bleeding,
breath coming in short, ragged gasps. The dragging sound behind
me grew louder, closer. Naughty boy, The boy said, no
longer sweet. She shot the words sharp, hungry, bringing my
new baby back out. Grandma is very disappointed. Long fingers
brush my ankle, then gripped. I twisted in panic, trying
to kick, but the space was too tight. My ribs screamed.
I couldn't breathe couldn't turn, just feel her grip tightening,
pulling me back inch by inch into the dark. Sophie,
still unconscious in my arms, stirred weakly for the first
time since I'd freed her. Her small voice rasped out,
cracked and faint. Daddy. The word cut through the crawl
space like a blade, and in that small moment, the
walls loosened, ever so slightly. The smiling grandma recoiled a
heart broken wail, tore from her high, grandmotherly and broken
all at one. But I'm the better mother. Her fingers
loosened just for a heartbeat. I didn't hesitate. I kicked, boots,
slammed into her arm and the joists around me, desperate,
the same frantic motion I'd used when she pinned me
to the kitchen table the impact cracked something inside the
crawl space. Boards snapped, blasted, rained down in heavy sheets.
The weakened structure, already stressed from years of damp and neglect,
gave way behind me. The smiling grandma shrieked in disappointment,
naughty boy breaking the house. The collapse roared forward, joist buckling,
dust choking the air, milk soaked bread masks splattering like
wet concrete. Her fingers slipped from my ankle as the
tunnel caved. My hoards. Sophie forward through the chaos, shoulders
tearing against splintered wood, rips stabbing with every inch. Debris
reined on my back. A board cracked against my skull.
I kept moving, A head a faint gray square of light.
I lunged. I dragged Sophie through into the basement, then
up the stairs, out the side door, into the yard
behind us. The house groaned deep, like a beast exhaling
its last breath. We collapsed in the grass. The smiling
grandma's wail faded into the walls. The farmhouse stood silent,
partially caved in where the crawl space had been. Sophie
coughed once, weakly, eyes still closed but breathing steadier now.
I held her against my chest, broken hand old protectively
around her, cracked rib aching with every gasp. We didn't
go back inside. We never would. We spent the night
in the car at a distant gas station lot, doors
locked lights. On the next day, I drove us far
away to relatives and never looked back. The farmhouse was
condemned and demolished by the county two weeks later.