Page 35 of The House on Forgotten Hill

Confront him.

He’d deny everything.

Go public.

Without a body or a confession, all I had were twenty-year-old photographs taken through a window.

The truth was, I had no idea what to do next.

I turned onto my side and glanced at the clock on my nightstand.

12:43 a.m.

Then I heard it.

A creak, soft and deliberate.

A sound like someone walking across the floor downstairs.

I sat upright, every muscle in my body tightening.

For several seconds, I listened.

But the house had gone quiet again.

It’s nothing.

You’re imagining things.

The house was old, and old houses made noise.

Then I heard it again.

A second creak.

My heart was now racing.

I slid out of bed and crossed the room, careful not to make a sound. I opened my bedroom door and stepped into the hallway. The house was dark. Moonlight spilled through the downstairs windows, casting pale shadows across the floor.

Holding my breath, I descended the stairs one step at a time.

The living room was empty.

The dining room too.

I checked the front door.

Locked.

The back door.

Locked.

I checked the rest of the rooms but saw nothing.

Still, the uneasy feeling remained.

I entered the kitchen and reached for the knife block on the counter, wrapping my fingers around the handle of the largest knife I could find.