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Didn’t he love her?
What was wrong with him?
What was—?
There was a sound.
And they both froze.
“What was that?” she said, her voice thin and breathless.
He raised his head and listened. “What was what?”
“I heard something.”
She saw the brightness of his smile in the firelight. “The whole place sounds like it’s about to fall down.”
They listened. The wind was a banshee shriek. The bones of the old house creaked and complained. Water dripped somewhere inside.
“It’s just the storm,” he said.
“No, I heard something.”
“Hey,” he said gently, brushing hair from her face with a gentle sweep of his fingers, “it’s okay. We’re good here. It’s just the—”
He stopped.
She didn’t have to ask why.
They both heard it.
It wasn’t the creak of old timbers. It wasn’t the banging of loose shutters or the rattle of glass in loose panes.
It was a different kind of sound. The kind of sound houses don’t make unless they’re haunted houses in horror movies.
It was a human sound.
A moan.
Low, but not sneaky.
No, whatever made that sound was not some imp trying to hide. This wasn’t a poltergeist. This was something else.
An empty sound. Mostly empty. Not a voice calling out. Nothing like that. This wasn’t someone trying to warn the lovers that someone was about to enter their firelit nest.
No.
This was a moan.
And in its near emptiness it was directed in no particular direction. Yet it filled the house with meaning.
Without words, without articulation, it spoke of a need greater than anything Hannahlily had ever felt. Greater than Tucker felt
. Greater than the need that had brought them here. More insistent than the needs that locked them together in their secret and private darkness.
It was a hungry moan.
And it came from the other side of the kitchen door.
