Chapter 6 – The Neighbor’s Story
Lucy didn’t tell Emma about what had happened the night before.
She made pancakes the next morning, moving slowly around the kitchen while her mind replayed the events over and over.
Three knocks.
Pause.
Two knocks.
And when she had knocked back…
The wall had answered.
Lucy kept telling herself there had to be a logical explanation. Pipes, maybe. Old houses sometimes carried sound through strange channels. A branch tapping against the outside siding could echo inside the wall.
There had to be a reason.
Emma sat at the table, happily drowning her pancakes in syrup.
“You look tired, Mom,” she said.
Lucy forced a smile.
“Just didn’t sleep very well.”
Emma nodded knowingly.
“They’re louder at night.”
Lucy nearly dropped the spatula.
“Who?”
Emma took another bite of pancake.
“The people knocking.”
Lucy stared at her daughter for a moment.
“Emma,” she said carefully, “what do you think is inside the wall?”
Emma shrugged.
“I don’t know.”
“Then why do you call them people?”
Emma thought about it.
“Because they answer.”
Lucy didn’t respond.
A quiet unease settled over the kitchen.
The Walk Next Door
Later that afternoon, Lucy decided she needed another opinion.
Not from Emma.
From someone who actually knew the house.
She walked down the gravel road toward the nearest neighboring property. The house was about a five-minute walk away, partially hidden behind a row of tall hedges.
An elderly man was working in the yard, trimming the branches of a small apple tree.
He looked up when Lucy approached.
“You must be the new owner,” he said with a friendly smile.
Lucy nodded.
“Yes. I’m Lucy.”
“Harold,” he replied, wiping dirt from his hands.
They chatted briefly about the weather, the neighborhood, and how quiet the area was.
Lucy hesitated before asking her real question.
“I wanted to ask you something about the house,” she said.
Harold’s smile faded slightly.
“What about it?”
Lucy tried to sound casual.
“Has it always been… noisy?”
Harold raised an eyebrow.
“Noisy?”
“Just old house sounds,” Lucy explained quickly. “Knocking in the walls sometimes.”
Harold studied her face for a long moment.
Then he slowly nodded.
“Ah.”
The single word carried an uncomfortable weight.
Lucy felt her stomach tighten.
“You’ve heard it before?” she asked.
Harold scratched his chin thoughtfully.
“Well,” he said slowly, “that house has been around a long time.”
“How long?”
“Built sometime in the 1930s, I believe.”
Lucy hadn’t known that.
“That’s older than I expected.”
Harold nodded again.
“Back then houses were built very differently. Lots of hidden spaces, storage cavities, strange layouts.”
Lucy felt a quiet tension building.
“Hidden spaces?”
Harold shrugged.
“Old construction tricks. Nothing unusual for that era.”
Lucy studied his expression.
“You sound like you know something.”
Harold chuckled softly.
“I know a few stories.”
Lucy waited.
But Harold didn’t continue.
Instead he picked up his gardening shears again.
“Stories?” Lucy pressed.
Harold glanced up at her.
“Well… people around here used to say strange things about that place.”
Lucy felt a chill creep down her arms.
“What kind of things?”
Harold paused.
Then he gave a small dismissive wave.
“Oh, nothing you should worry about.”
Lucy folded her arms.
“You wouldn’t say that if you heard what I heard.”
Harold studied her again.
“Knocking, you said?”
Lucy nodded.
“Inside the wall.”
Harold sighed.
Then he set the shears down and leaned against the fence.
“Let me ask you something,” he said.
“Alright.”
“Does it sound random?”
Lucy shook her head slowly.
“No.”
Harold nodded.
“Patterned?”
Lucy swallowed.
“Yes.”
Harold looked toward Lucy’s house in the distance.
His expression had grown thoughtful.
“That’s interesting.”
Lucy waited.
After a moment she asked quietly:
“Why?”
Harold took a deep breath.
“Well… there’s an old rumor.”
Lucy’s heart began to beat faster.
“About the house?”
“Yes.”
“What rumor?”
Harold rubbed the back of his neck.
“Back during the war,” he said slowly, “people used to hide things in houses.”
Lucy frowned.
“What kind of things?”
Harold didn’t answer immediately.
Instead he glanced toward the tree line, as if making sure no one else was listening.
“Sometimes people,” he said.
Lucy felt the words settle heavily in the air.
“What do you mean?”
Harold shrugged again.
“There were all sorts of reasons back then. Refugees. Families hiding from soldiers. Runaways. You never really know.”
Lucy stared at him.
“You’re saying someone could have been hiding in the house?”
“Not now,” Harold said quickly.
“Of course not.”
He pointed toward Lucy’s house.
“But sometimes old buildings remember things.”
Lucy blinked.
“That doesn’t make sense.”
Harold chuckled lightly.
“No. It doesn’t.”
He picked up the shears again and began trimming another branch.
Lucy felt frustration rising.
“You’re not telling me everything.”
Harold smiled faintly.
“No one ever tells everything about old houses.”
Lucy looked back toward her home.
The house stood silently at the end of the gravel road, surrounded by trees.
From this distance it looked perfectly peaceful.
Harold spoke again, almost casually.
“Let me ask you something.”
Lucy turned back toward him.
“Does the knocking ever sound like… three knocks?”
Lucy felt her stomach drop.
“Yes.”
Harold nodded slowly.
“Then a pause?”
“Yes.”
“And then two more?”
Lucy felt the world tilt slightly.
“Yes.”
Harold sighed.
“Well,” he said quietly, “that’s exactly how the story goes.”
Lucy stared at him.
“What story?”
Harold didn’t answer.
Instead he simply said:
“Old houses keep secrets.”
And then he returned to trimming the tree, as if the conversation had ended.
