“Your uncle lies.” A pause. “Open the door, Lisey. Just a crack. I only want to see if you’ve kept your promise.”
“What promise?”
Upstairs, the porcelain figurines wept tiny, silent tears.
But one August night, with rain hammering the roof and the house groaning like an old animal, she heard the sound. A soft, rhythmic tap-tap-tapping coming from behind the basement door.
“Uncle said—”
“Someone who remembers when you used to leave milk and cookies by the furnace for the ‘house mouse.’ You were six. You wore a nightgown with ducks on it.”