Chapter 1 - THE HAND BENEATH THE FLOOR
The first thing I saw when I walked into the kitchen was my six-year-old daughter crying.
Eva was sitting beside the pantry wall with one hand pressed against her cheek.
My wife, Monica, stood over her.
“What happened?”
I dropped my briefcase and crossed the room.
Eva looked at me.
“Daddy.”
I scooped her into my arms.
Her face was wet with tears.
I looked at Monica.
“What the hell are you doing? Why did you hit her?”
“I barely touched her.”
“Her cheek is red.”
“She was disobeying me.”
“By doing what?”
Monica looked toward the floor.
That was when I noticed the bread.
Several torn pieces lay beside the old metal drain grate near the pantry.
Our house outside Hartford was nearly ninety years old. The kitchen had once belonged to the staff wing, and several strange features remained from the original construction.
Including that drain.
I had always assumed it connected to some obsolete plumbing line.
Eva whispered:
“I was feeding her.”
I looked down.
“Feeding who?”
Monica snapped:
“Nobody.”
Eva flinched.
I felt her body tighten against mine.
That frightened me more than the slap.
I lowered my voice.
“Sweetheart, tell Daddy.”
She pointed at the grate.
“The lady.”
My stomach tightened.
“What lady?”
“She gets hungry.”
Monica stepped forward.
“William, she has an imaginary friend.”
Eva shook her head violently.
“No!”
She started crying again.
“She’s real!”
Then something moved beneath the grate.
I froze.
At first I thought it was a rat.
Then four human fingers slowly curled through one of the openings.
Monica stopped breathing.
Eva buried her face against my shoulder.
The hand trembled.
Thin.
Dirty.
Human.
I stepped backward.
“What the hell?”
Then a voice rose from somewhere beneath the floor.
Weak.
Terrified.
But unmistakable.
“William…”
My entire body went cold.
“Please help me.”
I stared at the drain.
No.
Impossible.
Then the voice came again.
“William, I’m here.”
I knew that voice.
I had heard it arguing with me through childhood.
Laughing during Christmas dinners.
Crying at our father’s funeral.
Leaving me angry voice messages because I forgot birthdays.
My younger sister.
“Lily?”
The hand tightened around the metal grate.
“Yes.”
Monica backed toward the kitchen door.
I turned.
Her face was completely white.
My sister Lily Carter had been missing for twenty-three days.
Monica had helped me print flyers.
She had held me while I called hospitals.
She had sat beside me when detectives asked whether Lily had enemies.
She had cried.
And all that time—
my sister had been underneath my house.
I set Eva down behind me.
“Stay right here.”
Then I reached for my phone.
Monica lunged.
“William, wait!”
I stepped away.
“Don’t touch me.”
“You don’t understand!”
“My missing sister is under our kitchen.”
“It isn’t what you think.”
I laughed once.
“What exactly could I possibly be thinking that makes this better?”
I called emergency services.
Monica started crying.
“Please.”
“No.”
“William, if police come—”
“They’re coming.”
“You’ll destroy everything.”
That sentence stopped me.
Not:
Lily needs help.
Not:
I’m sorry.
Everything.
“What did you do?”
Monica said nothing.
Eva pulled my sleeve.
“Daddy?”
I crouched.
“Yes?”
“Is the hungry lady Aunt Lily?”
I looked at my daughter.
“You knew her name?”
Eva shook her head.
“She never told me.”
“How long have you been feeding her?”
“Lots of sleeps.”
Monica whispered:
“Eva.”
I stood.
“Do not speak to her.”
Then I heard sirens.
Monica closed her eyes.
May you like
And for the first time in twelve years of marriage, I looked at my wife and realized I had absolutely no idea who she was.
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