I held my breath, my heart hammering so hard I feared whoever was up there would hear it.

The shadow that fell across the stairs was small and hunched.

It was not Nathan’s tall, athletic frame.

The footsteps were uneven, one foot sliding after the other with a dry, whispering sound.

“Nathan?” a voice called out.

It was Eleanor.

Her voice sounded thin and papery, like dry leaves scraping across concrete.

“Are you down there, Arthur?” she whispered.

I didn’t move.

The mention of his father’s name sent a chill straight down my spine.

“Arthur, please,” she said, her voice rising in a sharp, frightened peak. “I put him to bed. He’s quiet. I promise he’s quiet.”

I climbed the wooden steps slowly, pressing my weight near the wall to keep the old timber from creaking.

When my head cleared the floor level, I saw her.

Eleanor was standing in the center of the pantry, illuminated by the single bulb dangling from the ceiling.

She was wearing a faded pink nightgown, her thin arms crossed over her chest.