“Thank you for your time, Mr. Howard.”

“Of course … Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“No. You’ve been a great help.”

*

The porch light of the Kingsbrook Historical Society goes dark as I get in the car and close the door.

I turn the key and the motor comes to life.

The Nightingale House is ten minutes away. I can do it in five.

I need to get to the Writing Room, because a whisper in that bookcase once told me, ‘Rebecca’s here’.

September 18th, 1900

No. Please. No.

26

The door to the Nightingale House slowly swings inward.

The lights are still on from when we left yesterday. I stand in the threshold, waiting and listening. There are no sounds of crying from the stairs and no dripping water.

I step inside, close the door behind me, and make my way to the kitchen.

The basement door is also still open. Without looking down into the darkness, I press it closed and go to the pantry. There, I find the small toolbox, tucked away on the top shelf. I bring it down and set it on the island counter. It’s one of those el-cheapo tool sets you find at Walmart that only has the basics: a few screwdrivers, adjustable wrenches, a boxcutter, a leveler you’ll probably never use. The only thing I’m interested in is the hammer.

I take it from the toolbox and carry it into the Writing Room.

I stand in front of the bookcase, hammer in hand. I’m about to do something that may necessitate some very costly repairs, but I don’t care. I feel around the panels on the side of the bookcase, where I had pressed my ear against the wood and heard the whisper. I start knocking on the panels, listening for anything that sounds hollow.

Right there. Third panel up from the floor. It’s about waist-high.

I run my hand over it, trying to discern if there’s anything different from the other panels. I can’t really tell.

Thunk.

I quickly draw my hand back. I felt that. I felt the soft impact of something hitting the other side of the panel.

I steady myself, take aim with the hammer, and swing.

The panel cracks.

I swing again. Part of the panel bows in. There’s empty space behind it. I strike one last time. The head of the hammer splits the wood and disappears into the bookcase. I have to work it back and forth to dislodge it.

I place the hammer on the floor and get out my phone. I turn on the flashlight app and peer into the space behind the panel through the hole I’ve created.

There’s something in there.

I carefully slide my fingers into the opening, grip the panel, and pull. It comes away with a loud crack. The space is about the size of a shoebox.