Every couple hours I can hear the slap of a hand against the inside of the closet wall. No one else in the house has ever heard it. It doesn't matter what time of day— rain or shine— the slap will happen.

The door used to pop open when it happened too. So, I started leaving it ajar. Just a crack, so that I’d see something push it further. But I never have.

During stormy nights the windows in my sister’s room rattle like death maracas. My own room is greeted by the scratches of tree branches on the siding. I try to read during the storms— I don’t like the dreams they bring. The ones where the slap isn’t coming from the closet, but from the far corner or beneath my bed.

I’ve burned sage, prayed to various gods. But I haven’t seen anything. And it hasn’t gotten better. I want to tell my sister, but she only believes in science. I ask her about the footsteps we’d hear on the basement stairs when we were kids. The clear thud of heavy boots on old wood— at odds with the soft patter of our bare feet. She rolls her eyes and tells me it didn’t happen. I don’t bring up the closet.

The summer brought the usual frenzy of house projects and glamorized ideals. This year meant new carpet— which meant us kids had to rip up the old, turgid, pea soup green monstrosity that had dwelled on the floor since the 1970’s. I’d say it went gracefully, but it did not. It fought back at every turn with ancient moth balls, surprise staples, and the awkward weight of wool.

Success would have been sweet. But in my room we found a missing floorboard. There was a one by one hidey hole in the floor that had been clumsily boarded over. I didn’t want to look inside of it when my sister first noticed. A murder hole? In my room? Next to my bed?! The irony of all the creepy things happening to me was not lost. We looked after I finished my combined swearing/ panic attack. I wish we hadn’t.

Inside were old Polaroids. They were blurred, out of focus. But there always seemed to be a shadow at the edge of the photos. I recognized our house. But it looked different. It looked eerie. No people were shown, but an occasional hand popped into frame. A gnarled, club of a hand. The type you’d see on an aged prize fighter or rancher. I told my sister to put the photos back. They had stayed there all this time and we didn’t need to be the ones to let them into the light.

She didn’t listen.

The next day she heard the slap against the closet wall. She tried to put the photos back into the hidey hole, but it was too late. She had heard the hand.

The slaps started to happen faster. Less time in between them. It didn’t matter if we were together or apart— the noise continued. If anything, it sounded louder. It sounded angry.

We had forgotten the outside world. Our friends hadn’t seen us. Our grades were abysmal. But then I had to leave for summer camp. School ended before we knew what happened. Laney told me she’d be fine at home. That it was only noise. I didn’t know if I believed in God, but my worry gnawed on me until I began to pray for her at night. Tucked inside my sleeping bag in a drafty cabin, I begged the cosmic forces to just let this be a cruel joke. A ruse.

They didn’t listen.

Before the first week ended my mom came to pick me up. Laney went missing the day before and no one could find her. I asked my mom if she’d searched the house. She looked at me like I was crazy. I told her I didn’t want to go home.

We pulled into the driveway— our off white, two story New England bungalow loomed over me. I knew Laney was inside.

I didn’t know if I could join her.