The sound was precise: three faint taps, a pause, then two more. Lucy sat up in the dark, her pulse quickening. She checked the exterior of the house the next morning, but there were no branches near the windows and no loose shutters.
She began to notice Emma staring at the wall during the day, as if she could see through the floral patterns. “They’re saying goodnight, Mommy,” the little girl said one afternoon, her voice chillingly casual.
Desperate for a logical explanation, Lucy started logging the noises. 10:13 PM. 1:47 AM. 11:02 PM. The consistency was haunting. It didn’t sound like rodents; it sounded like a message.
When she mentioned the noises to her neighbor, the woman’s face went pale. “That house has many stories,” she whispered, “some that were meant to be forgotten.”
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