Chapter 8 - The Voice on the Stairs
“She left the door unlocked... she left the door unlocked...”
The voice was thin and raspy, echoing down the wooden steps like a ghost from a forgotten memory. Mr. Bell stopped dead in his tracks, his blood running cold. It wasn't Clara’s voice. It wasn't Eleanor’s.
It sounded hauntingly like a man who was supposed to be sitting in a maximum-security federal holding facility three hundred miles away.
“Who’s up there?” Mr. Bell demanded, his voice cracking slightly as he gripped his pocketknife.
The footsteps stopped. A cold draft swept down the stairs, carrying the unmistakable scent of expensive cigar smoke—the exact brand Eleanor’s late husband used to smoke before his sudden death.
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From the darkness of the landing, a small, metallic object bounced down the steps, clattering against the wooden risers before coming to rest right at Mr. Bell’s feet.
He looked down. It was a heavy, silver-plated pocket watch with a cracked glass face. The hands were frozen permanently at 11:47.
