Chapter 6 - The Unbolted Rafters
Mark lunged toward the pull-string hanging from the ceiling, his fingers snatching at the wooden bead just as the attic hatch above groaned under an immense, unnatural weight. Dust and ancient insulation rained down over his shoulders, stinging his eyes as a second set of hurried footsteps began to pace across the ceiling boards directly above the master bedroom. Clara pulled the two identical girls back against the hallway wall, her breathing shallow and frantic as she stared up at the vibrating wood panels overhead.
“Mark, don’t pull it!” Clara screamed, her voice cracking with pure panic. “The stranger in the floor—he’s trying to lure you into the trap! That’s not our daughter up there!”
The stranger in the heating duct let out a raspy, mocking laugh that echoed through the hollow walls. “She was never just your daughter, Clara. Not after what happened in the winter of ninety-eight. You traded her safety for a bloodline guarantee, and now the contract is due.”
Mark ignored them both. The overwhelming surge of paternal fury eclipsed his terror, driving him forward with reckless abandon. He gripped the wooden bead and yanked downward with all his might. The heavy metal spring inside the hatch released with a deafening snap, and the folding wooden staircase slammed down into the hallway, stopping just inches from Mark’s chest. The air that poured down from the dark attic space smelled fiercely of ozone, old mothballs, and copper.
Without hesitation, Mark placed his boot on the first wooden step and began to climb into the pitch blackness, his hand sweeping blindly along the wall for the light switch. His fingers found the cold plastic toggle and flipped it up. A single, naked bulb flickered to life overhead, casting long, writhing shadows across rows of cardboard boxes and old furniture.
Standing in the center of the dusty floorboards was their third daughter—or at least someone wearing her face—her small frame illuminated by the harsh yellow light. She was holding a heavy, iron-banded wooden box open in her hands, its interior lined with faded velvet and filled not with toys or jewelry, but with rows of small, glowing glass vials containing a dark, swirling red liquid.
“You’re too late, Daddy,” the girl whispered, her voice carrying an unnatural, multi-layered resonance that sounded like three different people speaking at once. “The seal is already broken.”
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Mark froze on the top step, his foot hovering over the final board as the glass vials began to hum with a low, vibrational frequency that made his teeth ache. Below him, Clara screamed a warning, but it was drowned out by the sound of heavy boots suddenly kicking in the front door downstairs.
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