Chapter 4: The Voice Returns

Present day—

Back home, the house felt colder than usual, the lights too bright. I slammed the door behind me, panting, still shaking from what I’d seen—or heard—in that basement.

After hearing my account, Diane's first reaction was disbelief. She crossed her arms, scowling, her face pale. She always hid her fear behind anger.

"Mark, are you just too scared to bury Kelsey, so you made up a story to fool me? How could there be such a spooky thing in this world?"

She spat the words, but her hands were trembling. I could tell she wanted to believe I was lying.

I insisted over and over that I wasn't lying. I swore on my father’s grave, on our son’s happiness, but she just glared at me, lips pressed tight.

But Diane still didn't believe me. She turned away, shoulders rigid. I heard her mutter something under her breath—maybe a prayer, maybe a curse.

In the end, she left in a huff: "Can't count on you for anything. I'll go bury Kelsey myself."

She snatched her car keys from the counter and stormed out, slamming the door behind her hard enough to rattle the windows. I watched her go, dread gnawing at my insides.

My wife left. The silence stretched on, broken only by the hum of the fridge and the ticking clock on the wall. I poured myself a drink, hands shaking.

Not long after she left, the phone rang, sharp and insistent. I jumped, nearly spilling my beer.

My in-laws called, asking how the wedding preparations were going, and whether we'd found a fortune-teller to pick a date. Their voices were brisk, polite but probing, every word a reminder of how much was at stake. I tried to sound cheerful, making excuses as best I could.

"You know, Mark," my mother-in-law insisted, "the Blakes always pick their wedding dates with a professional. We can’t have any bad luck—not with the press coming."

My in-laws are businesspeople, very particular about luck and timing, and especially concerned about the wedding date. They talked about star charts, auspicious numbers, and how every detail had to be perfect. My head spun just listening to them.

I didn't dare tell the truth, so I lied that my wife was sick and promised we'd consult the fortune-teller in a few days. I forced a cough for effect, praying they’d buy it. They murmured sympathy and hung up quickly.

After hanging up, I took out a six-pack, planning to use beer to steady my nerves. I cracked open a cold one, the hiss loud in the quiet kitchen. The first sip burned, but I kept drinking, desperate to drown out the memory of that voice.

After several cans, I kept thinking about what was in the cabinet. No matter how much I drank, the questions circled, gnawing at the edge of my mind.

But I just couldn't figure it out. I stared at the ceiling, replaying every moment in that crawlspace, every echo of Kelsey’s voice.

If it was a person, how could she survive in a sealed cabinet for twenty years? It made no sense. Even animals in the wild didn’t last that long without food or air.

If it was a ghost, how could it be trapped by a cabinet? I tried to think rationally, but fear has a way of making everything seem possible—and impossible—all at once.

Thinking and thinking, I fell into a deep sleep. Eventually the exhaustion won out. I slumped over the table, empty cans rolling across the linoleum, and let darkness take me.

I don't know how much time had passed. I woke with a start, drool pooling on my arm, the room spinning around me. The TV flashed blue in the corner, casting strange shadows on the walls.

I was shaken awake violently. Fingers dug into my shoulders, shaking me so hard my teeth rattled.

"Mark, get up, get up..."

Diane’s voice was shrill, desperate. My heart raced as I blinked the sleep away, trying to focus.

I opened my eyes. The kitchen light was harsh, making everything look ghostly. Diane hovered above me, wild-eyed.

It was Diane. Her hair was a tangled mess, mascara smeared beneath her eyes. She looked half-crazed, like she’d seen the devil himself.

Night had fallen again, and my wife had returned from the old house. The clock on the wall read past midnight. I glanced out the window—her car was crooked in the driveway, one door still open.

Her hair was messy, her clothes torn, her eyes filled with fear. She was shaking all over, breathing hard. Dirt streaked her jeans and a trickle of blood ran down one forearm. She clung to my arm, nails biting into my skin.

I knew she must have heard that strange voice too. I tried to steady her, but she flinched at my touch, eyes darting toward the door.

"So, I wasn't lying, right? You heard Kelsey's voice from inside the cabinet. This is really freaky."

I tried to sound calm, but my voice broke on Kelsey’s name. Diane just stared at me, silent tears tracking down her cheeks.

Diane stared blankly, still in shock: "I heard it, I heard it. No, I didn't just hear it. I... I even opened the cabinet."

Her voice was barely a whisper, brittle and broken. She shook her head, as if trying to erase the memory. My blood ran cold.

"What!"

I jumped up at once, knocking my chair over in the process. The world spun.

"Who told you to open it? What was inside?"

I grabbed her shoulders, desperate for answers, dreading what she might say next.

Diane said again: "She... she's right outside the door now."

Her eyes fixed on the hallway. My skin prickled as a cold wind seemed to seep into the room. Somewhere, from the darkness beyond, I swore I heard the faintest sound—a child's laugh, echoing up from beneath the floorboards.