Don't Let Her Hear You

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Every night at exactly 2:17, something knocked three times from inside the wall beside Barbara’s bed.

At first, she blamed the pipes.

The house was old enough to make its own collection of noises. Floorboards groaned when no one stepped on them. Radiators hissed like angry cats. Wind slipped through cracks in the windows and made the doors tremble in their frames.

But pipes didn’t keep time.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

2:17 a.m.

Every night.

On the sixth night, Barbara stopped sleeping in her bedroom. She dragged a blanket downstairs and curled up on the couch with every light in the house switched on.

At 2:17, she stared at the clock on the cable box.

Nothing happened.

Barbara let out a breath.

Then, from the wall directly behind the couch:

Knock. Knock. Knock.

She sat perfectly still.

A fourth knock came.

That had never happened before.

Then a voice, faint and muffled by plaster, whispered her name.

"Barbara."

Her stomach tightened.

She didn't move.

The voice came again.

"Barbara."

This time, she recognized it.

Her mother.

Barbara stood so quickly that the blanket tangled around her ankles. She stumbled backward, knocking a lamp from the side table. It hit the floor with a crack, and the room went half-dark.

"No," she whispered.

Her mother had been dead for eleven years.

There was a long silence inside the wall.

Then-

"Please."

Barbara grabbed her phone and ran outside.

She didn't bother with shoes. The wet grass was freezing under her feet as she crossed the yard and reached the sidewalk. She turned back toward the house.

Every downstairs light was still on.

For a few seconds, nothing moved.

Then the living-room light switched off.

Barbara stared.

The kitchen went dark next.

Then the hallway.

One by one, the lights disappeared until only her bedroom window glowed on the second floor.

A shadow passed behind the curtain.

Barbara called the police.

Two officers arrived twenty minutes later. By then, every light in the house was on again.

They searched each room.

They checked the basement, the attic, the closets and every window. There were no signs of forced entry.

One officer, a tired-looking man named Adeniran, examined the living-room wall.

"You said the sound came from here?"

Barbara nodded.

"And upstairs before that?"

"Same wall."

Adeniran tapped the plaster with his knuckles.

Hollow.

He moved a few feet to the left and knocked again.

Solid.

Then back.

Hollow.

His partner looked over.

"Could be an old chimney shaft."

"There isn't a fireplace," Barbara said.

Adeniran frowned.

"Maybe there used to be."

The officers left just before four.

Barbara didn't go back inside.

She slept in her car.

The next morning, she called a contractor.

His name was Lucas, and he arrived carrying a toolbox and the confident expression of someone who believed every strange noise had a boring explanation.

"Mice," he said after Barbara told him the story.

"Mice don't say people's names."

"Old houses do weird things with sound. Neighbor's TV, somebody outside, pipes carrying voices. You'd be surprised."

He tapped along the wall.

His expression changed.

"What?"

Lucas tapped again.

"There's space back here."

An old chimney?"

"Too wide."

He measured the living room from the inside, then walked outside and stretched his tape measure across the same side of the house.

He did it twice.

"Your living room should be about four feet wider."

Barbara stared at him. "What does that mean?"

"It means this isn't the exterior wall."

He pointed at the wall behind the couch.

The actual outer wall of the house stood roughly four feet beyond it. At some point, someone had built a second wall inside the house, creating a long, narrow cavity between the two. The space ran the entire length of the living room and continued behind the kitchen.

Barbara looked toward the ceiling.

"Then why did I hear it upstairs?"

Lucas's expression tightened.

"Because they did the same thing up there."

He explained that the false wall appeared to rise through both floors. If he was right, the house contained a hidden passage nearly four feet deep running along one entire side of it, with another section directly above this one.

Somewhere inside, there had to be stairs, a ladder, or an opening connecting the two levels.

He took a small saw from his toolbox.

Barbara almost told him not to do it.

Instead, she watched.

The blade cut into the plaster behind the couch.

A square section came loose.

Cold air rushed from the opening.

Lucas shone his flashlight inside.

Beyond the opening was the real exterior wall, its old brick surface visible in the beam. Between that brick and the newer plaster wall was a cramped corridor.

It was tall enough to stand in, but so narrow that an adult would have to turn sideways in places.

Electrical wires and pipes crossed overhead. Rough wooden studs divided sections of the false wall. The floor was unfinished boards covered in gray dust.

The passage extended to the left, behind the kitchen.

To the right, it disappeared behind the staircase.

And directly above them, a rectangular opening had been cut into the ceiling of the passage.

A wooden ladder led upward.

Toward Barbara's bedroom.

Lucas lowered the flashlight.

"Someone didn't accidentally leave this space here."

Barbara didn't answer.

She was looking at the floor.

Bare footprints disturbed the dust.

They came from the direction of the ladder.

They stopped directly behind the couch.

Barbara stared at them.

Not passed behind the couch.

Stopped.

She looked through the opening at the back of the sofa, then at the thin sheet of plaster separating it from the passage.

Last night, she had slept there.

Or tried to.

She remembered lying beneath the blanket with every light in the house switched on, staring at the clock on the cable box and waiting for 2:17.

Someone had been standing here.

Four feet away.

No.

Closer than that.

Only a few inches of plaster had separated them.

Barbara imagined bare feet settling silently into the dust. A body standing in the darkness behind her. Listening while she shifted beneath the blanket. Listening to her breathe.

Waiting.

Her eyes moved slowly along the footprints.

There were none leading away.

"Lucas."

He had gone very still.

"I see them."

"Where do they go?"

He didn't answer.

Barbara looked at him.

"Lucas."

His eyes remained fixed on the passage.

"They don't."

The cold air coming through the opening suddenly felt different.

Not like air from an empty space.

Like breath.

Lucas reached slowly for his phone.

"Call the police."

Barbara already had hers in her hand when a sound came from inside the passage.

Knock.

Lucas froze.

Knock.

Barbara couldn't breathe.

Knock.

Then something moved far inside the darkness.

Lucas raised his flashlight.

At first, Barbara saw only the narrow walls.

Then a face leaned slowly into the beam.

Her face.

Same dark hair.

Same eyes.

Same small scar above the left eyebrow.

But the woman inside the wall looked older.

Thinner.

Terrified.

She pressed one finger to her lips.

Then she whispered-

"Don't let her hear you."

Barbara's phone slipped from her hand.

Behind her, from somewhere upstairs, her mother's voice called-

"Barbara?"

The woman inside the wall went pale.

"Too late."

Every door in the house slammed shut at once.

The lights went out.

Lucas swore.

His flashlight remained on, its beam shaking across the opening.

"Barbara?" her mother's voice called again.

Closer.

It came from the ceiling.

Barbara stared upward.

Slow footsteps crossed the floor of her bedroom.

One.

Two.

Three.

Then silence.

Lucas grabbed Barbara's arm.

"We're leaving."

He pulled her toward the front door.

The knob wouldn't turn.

He threw his shoulder against it.

Nothing.

"Back door."

They ran through the kitchen.

Locked.

Lucas twisted the deadbolt.

It moved.

The door didn't.

As if someone were holding it shut from the other side.

Then the woman inside the wall hissed, "Here."

Barbara turned.

The older version of herself was reaching through the opening.

"Come on."

"Are you insane?" Lucas said.

Upstairs, a floorboard creaked.

Then another.

Something was coming down the stairs.

"Barbara, sweetheart?"

Her mother's voice.

Warm.

Patient.

Exactly as Barbara remembered it.

The voice she'd heard calling her in for dinner.

The voice that had sung badly in the car.

The voice that had said, I'll see you tomorrow during their last phone call.

Barbara took one step toward the staircase.

The woman in the wall slapped both hands against the plaster.

"That's not Mom."

Barbara stopped.

The voice came again.

"Baby?"

Her eyes filled with tears.

Lucas whispered, "Barbara."

She looked at him.

He shook his head.

The woman inside the wall stretched her hand farther into the room.

"Now."

Barbara took it.

The hand was cold.

Real.

Lucas climbed through first, turning sideways to squeeze into the passage. Barbara followed.

The older Barbara pulled the cut section of plaster back over the opening.

Darkness swallowed them.

Lucas's flashlight clicked on.

The woman flinched.

"Turn it off."

"Not happening."

"She sees light."

Lucas hesitated.

From the living room came a soft footstep.

Then another.

He switched off the flashlight.

Complete darkness.

Barbara heard her own breathing.

Lucas's.

The other woman's.

Three people packed into a space barely wide enough for one.

On the other side of the plaster, her mother entered the living room.

"Barbara?"

Something sniffed.

Not a human sniff.

Long.

Wet.

Searching.

Barbara covered her mouth.

The older woman found her hand in the dark and squeezed it.

The thing outside walked slowly past them.

Its fingernails scraped across the wall.

Scritch.

Scritch.

Scritch.

It stopped directly opposite Barbara.

Silence.

Then her mother's voice came from inches away.

"I know you're in there."

Barbara's heart hammered.

A fingernail tapped the plaster.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

The older Barbara pulled her deeper into the passage.

They moved sideways through the darkness.

Lucas followed.

After several feet, the woman stopped.

"There's a ladder."

Barbara felt wooden rungs.

"Up?"

"Down."

"But I saw it going upstairs."

"There's another one. This passage goes farther than he thought."

Lucas muttered something under his breath.

They descended.

The air became colder.

Barbara counted fourteen rungs before her feet touched dirt.

Lucas switched his flashlight on again.

They were beneath the house.

Not in the basement.

Below it.

A narrow brick tunnel stretched ahead.

Barbara stared at the older woman.

"Who are you?"

"You."

"No."

"I know."

"You can't be."

"I know."

Lucas raised the flashlight between them.

"One of you needs to start making sense."

The older Barbara looked toward the ceiling.

"We don't have much time."

"Then talk fast."

She looked at Barbara.

"What happened to Mom?"

Barbara stiffened.

"What?"

"Tell me how she died."

"You know how she died if you're me."

"Please."

Barbara swallowed.

"Car accident."

"When?"

"Eleven years ago."

"What time?"

Barbara opened her mouth.

Nothing came out.

She knew.

Of course she knew.

The police officer had told her.

The coroner's report had said it.

Her mother had been driving home after visiting Barbara at college.

The truck crossed the center line at 2:17 in the morning.

2:17.

Barbara looked up.

The older woman's eyes were wet.

"That's when it opens."

"What opens?"

"This place."

She pointed at the tunnel.

"The house isn't haunted. Not exactly. The passage doesn't just run through the walls."

Lucas stared at her.

"What does that mean?"

"It runs through different versions of the house."

Nobody spoke.

The older Barbara continued.

"Every night at 2:17, for a few minutes, the walls connect."

"Connect to what?"

"Other times. Other versions. I don't know. I stopped trying to understand it."

Barbara shook her head.

"That's impossible."

"I said the same thing."

The older woman lifted her sleeve.

Three long scars crossed her forearm.

"Then I met myself."

Barbara stared.

"What?"

"When I moved into this house, I heard knocking too. I opened the wall. I found another Barbara inside."

Lucas looked from one woman to the other.

"And?"

"I didn't listen to her."

Her voice cracked.

"I heard Mom."

Barbara felt suddenly cold.

The older woman continued.

"I followed her voice."

"What happened?"

"It came through."

A heavy thump sounded above them.

Dust fell from the ceiling.

The older Barbara looked up.

"Once it gets someone to follow the voice willingly, it can leave the house."

Barbara thought of the front door.

The thing holding it shut.

"What is it?"

"I don't know."

"Why Mom?"

"It doesn't care about Mom. It uses whoever you'll open the door for."

Another thump.

Closer.

Lucas aimed the flashlight down the tunnel.

"So how do we stop it?"

The older Barbara looked at him.

"We don't."

"Great."

"We close the passage."

"How?"

"At 2:17."

Barbara frowned.

"It's daytime."

"Not here."

The older woman pointed ahead.

At the end of the tunnel stood a door.

Barbara hadn't noticed it before.

Small.

Wooden.

Painted white.

A brass number was screwed into its center.

217.

"No," Barbara whispered.

The older Barbara walked toward it.

Barbara caught her arm.

"What's behind that?"

"The first room."

"What first room?"

"The one they built the house around."

Lucas stared at the door.

"Who are 'they'?"

"I don't know."

"You're saying you spent how long in these walls and never found out?"

The older Barbara looked at him.

"Eight years."

Barbara's breath caught.

"Eight?"

The woman nodded.

"Time doesn't move correctly in here."

"Then how old are you?"

"Thirty-six."

Barbara was twenty-eight.

The older Barbara gave a tired smile.

"See?"

A sound came from the ladder behind them.

A woman's humming.

Barbara knew the song.

Her mother used to hum it while cooking.

The older Barbara grabbed the doorknob marked 217.

"Once we're inside, whatever you hear, don't answer it."

She opened the door.

Beyond it was Barbara's bedroom.

But not her bedroom as it looked now.

The wallpaper was yellow.

The furniture was gone.

Candles covered the floor.

Symbols had been scratched into the walls.

And in the center of the room stood a wooden chair facing the false wall.

Leather straps hung from its arms.

Lucas whispered, "What the hell happened here?"

The older Barbara stepped inside.

"This house used to belong to a doctor named Charles Matthews. At least that's the name I found scratched into the brick. He thought grief left an imprint."

Barbara looked around.

"An imprint?"

"That when someone dies suddenly, the last moment of their life keeps happening somewhere. He believed you could reach that moment."

Barbara understood before the woman finished.

"Through the walls."

"Yes."

Lucas examined the symbols.

"So he built all this?"

"He built the passages. Then people started disappearing."

The humming stopped outside.

Silence.

The older Barbara shut the door.

A clock sat on the floor.

Its hands read 2:16.

The second hand ticked.

Barbara stared at it.

"How?"

"Don't watch the clock."

2:16:42.

"Barbara."

Her mother's voice came from behind her.

Barbara closed her eyes.

2:16:47.

"Sweetheart."

Barbara's chest hurt.

She could smell her mother's perfume.

Vanilla and lavender.

Impossible.

But there.

"Barbara, look at me."

The older Barbara whispered, "Don't."

2:16:54.

Barbara began crying.

"I just want to see you."

Her mother's voice broke.

Exactly the way it used to when she cried.

2:16:58.

"Barbara, please."

2:16:59.

The clock clicked.

2:17.

Three knocks came from inside the wall.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

The room changed.

For one impossible second, Barbara saw dozens of versions of it occupying the same space.

Burned.

Flooded.

Empty.

Newly built.

Rotting.

Filled with people.

Filled with bones.

And in every version, someone sat in the chair.

Then Barbara saw her mother.

Standing beside the bed.

She looked exactly as she had eleven years ago.

Blue coat.

Wet hair.

Car keys in one hand.

"Barbara."

Barbara forgot every warning.

"Mom?"

The older Barbara screamed.

The thing smiled.

Too wide.

Its jaw opened farther than a human jaw could.

The room went black.

Something grabbed Barbara.

Lucas shouted.

The older Barbara screamed, "The wall!"

Barbara hit the floor.

Hands moved through the darkness around her.

Too many hands.

She crawled toward where she remembered the false wall being.

Her fingers struck plaster.

"Three times!" the older Barbara shouted.

"What?"

"Knock three times!"

Barbara made a fist.

Knock.

Something seized her ankle.

She kicked.

Knock.

Her mother's voice shrieked behind her.

"Don't leave me!"

Barbara sobbed.

For eleven years, some part of her had wanted exactly those words.

Wanted one more chance.

One more conversation.

One more moment to say goodbye.

Chapter 2

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