Chapter 12 - A Knock at Three in the Morning
The power failed at two-fifteen.
The entire north wing of the estate plunged into pitch blackness as the storm knocked a dead pine across the exterior service lines. The security panel by the front door began emitting a rhythmic, high-pitched beep before dying into dead silence.
Evelyn was sitting in the dark of the kitchen, boiling water on the gas range, when the knocking began.
It wasn't the frantic pounding of a stranded motorist. It was three slow, deliberate knocks against the solid oak of the kitchen’s service entrance.
*Thump. Thump. Thump.*
Evelyn froze, the matchbook shaking in her fingers. She didn't call out. She set the kettle down and walked silently to the pantry, her fingers wrapping around the handle of an iron fireplace poker.
*Thump. Thump. Thump.*
"Alexander?" she whispered into the corridor, but he was up on the third floor checking the circuit breakers.
Through the sheer curtains of the kitchen window, lightning split the sky, illuminating a silhouette standing on the porch. It was a woman, tall and slender, wearing a tailored black trench coat and wide-brimmed hat, water running off the brim in steady streams.
She wasn't trying the handle. She was simply standing there, staring straight at the glass.
Evelyn approached the door, keeping out of the frame. "Who are you?"
The voice that came through the heavy oak was low, melodic, and chillingly familiar. It had the same precise, mid-Atlantic inflection that Margaret Whitmore had used to cut down boardrooms and family members alike.
"You have Ethan playing with that train," the woman said, her voice entirely calm despite the gale howling behind her. "Tell Alexander that the blue car has two bottoms. If he doesn't bring the sapphires to the pier by sunrise, the state police will receive the original coroner’s report from Blackwater."
A beat of terrifying stillness hung in the kitchen.
"Who are you?" Evelyn repeated, her voice cracking.
"I’m the child she didn't put in the photo albums," the woman said.
May you like
When Evelyn unlocked the bolt and threw the door open, the porch was empty. Only two wet footprints remained on the flagstones, alongside a small, antique silver teething ring, tarnished black with age.
***
