At first it was faint.
Scratching.
Slow, dragging sounds above the ceiling.
My first thought was squirrels in the roof again. Vermont has plenty of them. But this sound was different—too deliberate, almost rhythmic, as if something heavy was being moved across the floor.
And every time it happened, it came from the exact same place.
Right above the kitchen.
Right under the attic.
One evening curiosity finally got the better of me.
I grabbed my old Navy flashlight and the keyring Martha kept in the kitchen drawer. That ring held every key in the house—the shed, the basement, even cars we’d sold years ago.
I climbed the stairs and stood before that attic door.
One by one, I tried every key.
None fit.
That bothered me more than the scratching.
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