She crept closer and peeked through the half-open door. Emma sat cross-legged on the rug, facing her doll, a faded rag figure with button eyes. “Did you hear that tap?” Emma whispered, tilting her head toward the doll. “It’s them again, saying goodnight.” Lucy’s breath caught sharply.
The doll lay limp in Emma’s lap, of course—no movement, no reply. Yet the child’s earnest tone, the way her eyes flicked sideways toward the painted wall, sent ice through Lucy’s veins. Was this imagination, or had the tapping taught her daughter to listen for voices where none existed?