Chapter 9 – The Therapist
Lucy stood frozen in the hallway.
Three knocks.
Pause.
Two knocks.
The pattern echoed faintly from upstairs, exactly the same as every other night.
For a moment she simply stared at the staircase.
The therapist’s words were still fresh in her mind.
Sleep deprivation.
Pattern recognition.
The brain trying to make sense of random sounds.
Lucy closed her eyes and exhaled slowly.
Maybe the therapist was right.
Maybe she had become too focused on the knocking. Once the mind begins searching for patterns, it often finds them everywhere—even where none exist.
Lucy forced herself to relax.
“Just a house,” she whispered to herself.
She placed her bag on the kitchen table and walked calmly toward the staircase.
The knocking had already stopped.
A Quiet Dinner
Emma ran down the stairs a moment later.
“Mom!”
Lucy smiled.
“Hey, kiddo.”
Emma wrapped her arms around Lucy’s waist in a quick hug.
“You’re home late.”
“I had an appointment,” Lucy said.
“With who?”
Lucy hesitated.
“Just someone who helps people think.”
Emma seemed satisfied with that answer.
“Can we have spaghetti tonight?”
Lucy laughed softly.
“Sure.”
The evening passed peacefully.
They cooked dinner together.
Emma stirred the sauce while Lucy boiled pasta.
At one point Emma started humming quietly to herself.
Lucy noticed that Emma occasionally glanced toward the wall beside the staircase.
But she didn’t mention it.
Not tonight.
Lucy had decided to follow the therapist’s advice.
Stop focusing on the sounds.
Stop feeding the idea that something strange was happening.
Normal life.
That’s what they needed.
Dinner finished.
The dishes were washed.
Emma brushed her teeth.
At nine o’clock Lucy tucked her into bed.
Emma yawned sleepily.
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
Emma pointed at the wall beside her bed.
“They were knocking again earlier.”
Lucy kept her voice calm.
“Old houses make sounds.”
Emma frowned slightly.
“But they only knock like that when someone answers.”
Lucy felt a flicker of unease.
“What do you mean?”
Emma shrugged.
“They knock first. Then sometimes they wait.”
Lucy smoothed the blanket over her daughter.
“Try not to think about it too much.”
Emma didn’t argue.
But as Lucy turned off the lamp, Emma said quietly:
“They liked when you knocked back.”
Lucy paused.
Her heart skipped a beat.
“How do you know that?”
Emma’s eyes were already closing.
“The girl told me.”
Lucy didn’t respond.
She simply stepped out of the room and closed the door halfway.
The Quiet Observation
Instead of going to bed, Lucy returned downstairs.
She made tea.
Sat at the kitchen table.
And waited.
She told herself she wasn’t watching for the knocking.
But she still found herself listening.
Every creak of the house.
Every movement of wind through the trees.
Every small noise felt amplified in the stillness.
Lucy looked at the notebook again.
She hadn’t written anything in it for two days.
The therapist had suggested she stop documenting the sounds.
It would only reinforce the obsession.
Lucy closed the notebook firmly.
“No more,” she said under her breath.
She stood up and turned off the kitchen light.
The house sank into darkness.
Lucy walked upstairs slowly.
Halfway down the hallway she stopped.
The silence felt unusually thick.
Even the usual creaks of the house seemed absent.
Lucy stood outside Emma’s door.
Emma was asleep.
Lucy could hear her gentle breathing.
Everything seemed normal.
Lucy turned toward her own bedroom.
Then—
Tap.
Lucy froze.
The sound came from Emma’s wall again.
Tap.
Tap.
Lucy closed her eyes.
“Random noise,” she whispered.
The knocking continued.
Tap.
Pause.
Then—
Tap.
Tap.
Lucy felt frustration rising now.
The therapist had told her this was exactly what would happen.
Once you expect a pattern, your brain fills in the rest.
Lucy walked into Emma’s room.
The moonlight illuminated the wall.
Emma slept peacefully.
Lucy stared at the plaster surface.
“See?” she murmured. “Nothing.”
Then Lucy did something she hadn’t done before.
She leaned closer.
Placed her ear against the wall.
At first she heard nothing.
Then—
A faint scratching sound.
Soft.
Like something brushing lightly against wood.
Lucy frowned.
It wasn’t knocking anymore.
It sounded like movement.
Very faint.
Very slow.
Lucy stepped back.
Her mind raced through possibilities.
Mice.
Rats.
Animals sometimes got inside walls.
That could easily explain everything.
Lucy felt relief rush through her chest.
Of course.
That had to be it.
Animals inside the walls.
That explained the sounds.
The patterns.
Everything.
Lucy laughed quietly.
“I knew it,” she whispered.
She turned toward the door.
But as she reached it—
The scratching stopped.
And the knocking returned.
Three knocks.
Pause.
Two knocks.
Lucy turned slowly toward the wall again.
The pattern repeated.
Exactly.
Perfectly.
And this time—
Emma spoke in her sleep.
Her voice soft and distant.
“Goodnight.”
