That night she woke up at 3:12 a.m. to something that vaguely resembled footsteps just above her. Measured. Slow. She sat up, breath held. Waited. Nothing. She went to the hallway, flicked on the light. The bulb popped, sending a shower of dust down from the ceiling.
In the silence that followed, she stared at the attic door. Still locked. Still waiting. Michael showed up on a Tuesday. No call. No warning. Just a knock on the front door that felt too loud for a house that had gone so long without visitors.