CHAP 1 — Mrs. Gable at the Gate
Mrs. Gable stopped me at the front gate on a Thursday evening.
I was still in my construction boots, keys in one hand, lunch cooler in the other, dust in my hair, pain sitting deep in my back from twelve hours framing a commercial build outside Oakhurst.
“Elias,” she said, “I’m sorry to interfere, but every afternoon I hear a little girl screaming inside your house.”
I nearly laughed because the idea was absurd.
Nobody was home in the afternoons.
My wife Rebecca worked at a dental clinic. I left before sunrise and came back after dinner. Our daughter Josephine was supposed to be at school until three-thirty, then at robotics club or tutoring.
“That can’t be right,” I said.
Mrs. Gable did not blink.
“She screams like she’s begging someone to stop.”
My hand tightened around my keys.
“Are you saying someone is in my house?”
“I’m saying you need to check.”
I wanted to be offended. It was easier than being afraid.
Mrs. Gable lived alone, watched the street too closely, and had opinions about every delivery truck and dog walker. Rebecca had called her lonely more than once.
So when I told Rebecca that night, I expected concern.
Instead, she set her purse on the couch and sighed.
“Lonely people imagine things. Don’t pay any attention to her, Elias.”
“She said it happens every afternoon.”
Rebecca rubbed her temples.
“Josephine is fifteen. Girls cry. They make noise. Maybe Mrs. Gable heard television.”
“Josephine isn’t home then.”
Rebecca’s face closed.
“Then there’s your answer.”
I wanted to believe her.
For years, I had believed being a good father meant providing. Rent paid. Groceries stocked. Car fixed. Shoes replaced before Josephine outgrew them completely. I worked until my hands cracked and told myself love could be measured in receipts.
Josephine had been quieter lately.
Barely eating.
Always wearing long sleeves.
Always turning her phone face-down when I entered a room.
I called it teenage moodiness because that required nothing from me.
Two days later, Mrs. Gable waited again.
“She screamed louder today,” she said. “She kept saying, ‘Please leave me alone.’ Elias, I know what fear sounds like.”
That sentence followed me into the house.
That night, I knocked on Josephine’s bedroom door.
She opened it only a crack.
“Everything okay, Jo?”
Her eyes looked swollen.
“Yes, Dad.”
“You sure?”
She smiled the way people smile when they want you to leave.
“Everything’s normal.”
Normal.
The word sounded rehearsed.
The next morning, I put on my jacket, kissed Rebecca’s cheek, called goodbye to Josephine, and drove away.
Then I parked two blocks over.
Fifteen minutes later, I walked back through my own rear door.
The house was silent.
May you like
I checked every room and felt ridiculous.
Then, because fear makes men do strange things, I crawled under my own bed and waited.
