I wanted to scream. I wanted to tear the floorboards open. It sounded exactly like him. It sounded like the brother who had protected us, who had teased us, who had promised to return.
She didn't answer. She stared down at the wooden floorboards, her face pale as death in the lamplight. The stories she had dismissed, the legends of the old house and the things that lived in the dark, came rushing back. The herbs in the kitchen had been for comfort, but the iron nails in the cellar door had been for protection.
But even as she said it, the lights flickered. Once. Twice. Then, with a final, defiant buzz, the kitchen plunged into darkness.
"Open! Open quickly!" The voice from outside shouted—his voice. The real voice.