Evelyn slept little.
She rolled and tossed until sheets were all tangled around her legs, the house groaning like it kept secrets it was not ready to yield. Every time she was almost asleep, she would hear it again—
Chop....Chop.....Chop...
sifting softly through floorboards like a heartbeat that did not belong to her.
When morning finally came, her eyes were red. Light filtered thin and pale through her curtains, but it only seemed to add to the pound in her head. She lay still for a while, writhing on her side, observing the cracks spreading across the ceiling.
Her whole body was thrashed with exhaustion. Nevertheless, she struggled to her feet.
The kitchen felt colder than the house. She wrapped her sweater more closely across her shoulders, the stretched-out cuffs from years of wear, and boiled water. The kettle took too long. Her hands shook as she measured instant coffee into a cracked-up mug she'd brought from the hostel, the faded flower pattern worn out from years of washing.
Her first swallow scorched her tongue, but she held on. Anything to clear the fog from inside her head. She tore off a chunk of bread and slapped butter on it, the knife grating softly on the plate.
She slowly chewed, staring at the wall. For an instant, she almost succeeded in telling herself that she was merely a tired girl in a new town. Nothing more. Nothing less.
Her eyes did not.
It still wandered back towards the basement door.
Flat white paint. Plain metal handle. Barely wood and hinges. And still, every time she glanced, her stomach churned more.
She tried to ground herself. She clicked her fingernail against the mug, counted out the ticks, allowed her eyes to follow the steam rising from her coffee. Normal things. Ordinary things.
Her father's voice intruded despite it. Hearing things again, "Evelyn? You always want to be special."
The sneer of her stepmother followed, faster than the knife that sliced the butter:"Stop playing that game. No one believes you."
Her throat ached. She pressed her palms against her temples. "Don't even think," she warned herself. "Not now."
She needed air.
Zipping her coat, she stepped out. The air was crisp, with the sweet smell of wet leaves and moist earth. Across the street, he was waiting once more.
Silas.
He leaned against his fence, pockets in his hands, chin down. Morning sun caught in his hair, bronzifying the tips. When he did look up at last, they locked eyes.
Her breath caught.
He didn't turn away. Not yet. His hazel eyes stayed, held fast, near guarded, before he nodded ever so slightly. A movement so small it might have been missed, but to Evelyn it was enormous.
Her hand came up involuntarily. A shy half-wave.
Silas's mouth curled—between acknowledgment and restraint—and he raised his own hand, not even a wave, but an echo of hers.
For a moment, there was quiet over the empty street. And then he said it, his voice low but clear. "Settling in?"
"Trying," Evelyn replied, her voice reed-thin. "Still… unpacking."
His eyes flashed to the house standing behind her and then again to her.
"It's not an easy place."
The way he was speaking—the words somehow more weighted than they should have been made her skin crawl.
She swallowed. "What do you mean?"
Silas didn't answer right away. His jaw hardened, as if he were suppressing something. Finally, he said, "You'll figure it out."
Her heart skipped. He knew. He must know.
Before she could find her courage, she blurted, "I'm Evelyn."
He gave a short nod. "Silas."
The name rooted itself in her chest, solid and real.
She almost asked about the noises, about the whispers that followed the silence. Almost. But the words shriveled before they reached her tongue.
Silas studied her a second longer, then shifted back toward his house. "Keep your doors locked."
And with that, he turned and left.
Evelyn lingered on the porch well after his door shut, arms folded across her chest, the morning cold seeping into her bones.
The short exchange should have counted for nothing. But it did because he hadn't laughed. He hadn't pushed her away. He hadn't looked at her as if she were invisible.
Back in the house, she clung to that narrow strip of warmth. She moved through the house in a daze, storing the remainder of the groceries, folding laundry, cleaning the counters.
By mid-afternoon, she sat at the kitchen table with her computer open. She browsed university websites again—art programs, literature classes, creative writing degrees. She navigated slick photos of campuses with green lawns and brick buildings, students smiling with a coffee cup in each hand.
Her chest hurt. She craved that so desperately—belonging, purpose, a place where her name wasn't met with pity or distrust.
For the first time, rather than closing the window, she opened a form for an application.
Her fingers hovered above the keys. Her throat constricted with panic. What if they rejected her? What if she got in, but something happened to her there? What if the voices grew too loud and she couldn't keep them contained?
But a thought cut through: What if this is my only escape from the knives?
Her hands shook as she filled in her address, previous education. Memories surfaced—days in the classrooms by herself, nights at the café wiping down counters until her back ached. She pushed them away, filling in questionnaire after questionnaire.
When she got to the "submit" button, she hesitated so long her tea went cold on the side table next to her.
And then she closed her eyes and clicked.
There was a confirmation screen. Just text on the screen, but to Evelyn, it was a beat of hope.
She sat back in her chair, trembling with a mix of fear and relief.
The rest of the day went by in fits. She tried reading but couldn't focus. She wandered the rooms, dusting corners that didn't need it. She returned to the window repeatedly, wanting to glimpse Silas, but his curtains stayed closed.
At night, the sky was a dark bruised purple. She stood by her window again, gazing across at the house opposite. The silence between them was more deafening than ever.
Then it came.
Chop.... Chop..... Chop...
Louder. Heavier.
She was still, heart racing. The sound no longer wafted indistinctly from the cellar. It was near, as if ascending the stairs one slow step at a time.
She stepped back into her bed, hugging the blanket about her shoulders.
Chop.... Chop..... Chop.....
And in between each blow, she could hear it whispers wrapping around the silence.
Her name.
Evelyn.
Her legs gave way. She knelt down and pressed her hands to her ears, but the sound only sank deeper, weaving itself into her skeleton.
And in some window across the street, in the blackened glass, she could have sworn she saw a shadow shift.