Another sound joins the tense breathing that fills the air — a slow heartbeat. I stop, but still refuse to look. She could be standing right next to me, but to look would slow me down. I continue plunging the shovel into the ground and throwing the dirt out of the hole. The disembodied breathing continues, as does the sound of the heartbeat. Both grow louder and more rapid.

“… I can’t sleep …”

The whisper is right next to my ear — a child’s whisper.

Katherine.

I quicken my pace.

The beads of sweat feel like ice sliding down my face. The hole is now about a foot deep.

“… Hurry …”

I try to go faster. The pile of dirt on the floor next to the hole is growing.

“… Hurry …”

The breathing quickens. The heartbeat grows louder.

She has to be down here. She has to be.

“… He’s coming …”

The adrenalin that’s been fueling my spent nerves and exhausted muscles gives way to blinding terror. I swallow down the bile that’s rising in my throat. I can no longer tell if the pounding heartbeat I hear is in the air around me, or if it’s my own heart slamming against my ribcage.

“… Hurry …”

I frantically dig. The hole is now about two feet deep, oval-shaped, and wide enough for me to stand in.

“… He’s coming …”

The heartbeat sounds like thunder. I can hear the wooden shelves tremble with each thump. I feel like I’m about to burst into tears.

“… He’s coming …”

I scream while continuing to frantically throw dirt onto the floorboards. I clench my teeth and keep digging. I’m three feet down into the dirt. The heartbeat rumbles. The breathing rages. I throw two more shovelfuls across the floorboards.

Suddenly, everything stops.

The heartbeat and breathing cease.

It’s cold and silent.

“… Father …”

The whisper drifts away.

I wait, absolutely still.

Then, I hear it. It’s faint, but the sound travels through the house—the sound of the door to the master bedroom opening.

Footsteps.

I look up at the ceiling.

They’re moving down the hall, making their way to the stairs. They’re slow, heavy, and deliberate. They descend the stairs, and methodically cross the living room … through the dining room … now in the kitchen. They stop at the top of the basement stairs.

I can’t move.

The first footfall echoes on the top stair. I wait and watch, expecting the feet and legs to come into view but they don’t. The footsteps come down the stairs, which groan under a weight I cannot see. They reach the bottom of the stairs, cross the floor, and stop.

Whatever it is, it’s standing right in front of me, but I can’t see it.

I know it’s here, watching.

I’m waiting for something to happen, anything.