It didn’t sound like scurrying now. No scrape, no shuffle, just contained force meeting resistance. Lucy sat up, heart racing, listening for a second round. None came. In the morning, the traps were still empty, their metal bars clean and waiting, as though whatever moved inside the wall understood their purpose and stepped neatly around them.
One evening, Lucy paused in the hallway, hearing Emma’s soft voice drift from her bedroom. “Shh, we have to be quiet,” the girl murmured. “They’ll hear if we laugh too loud.” Lucy froze, pulse quickening—the words sounded too pointed, too aware of the wall’s silence.