Chapter Four: Beneath
264 Words
Then he heard it.
A thump.
Soft. Hollow.
From beneath the floor.
Jesse froze.
The sound came again—rhythmic, like something knocking from underneath. Not loud. Not urgent. Just present. He stood slowly, the note still clutched in his hand, and stepped into the living room.
The rocking chair creaked once. Then stopped.
His mother sat motionless, eyes open, lips parted. Her fingers twitched against the armrest, tracing the same symbol she’d carved for days—three concentric circles, each one darker than the last.
Jesse knelt beside the floorboards.
The sound was louder here. Not random. Patterned. Like a heartbeat. Or a ritual.
He pried up the first board with a screwdriver. Dust exploded into the air. The second board came loose easier. Beneath them, wrapped in a rotting bedsheet, was a bundle.
He pulled it out slowly.
Inside were jars. Seven of them. Each filled with something different—teeth, fingernails, scraps of skin. One jar held a single eyeball, cloudy and shriveled. Another contained a lock of hair braided with thread.
Each jar had a date.
Each date was in October.
Each one was before the fire.
Jesse stared at them, breath shallow. His hands trembled. He reached for the last jar, smaller than the rest. Inside was a baby tooth—his. He recognized the chip in the enamel.
He dropped it.
Behind him, the rocking chair creaked again.
He turned.
His mother was still staring at the ceiling. But her mouth was moving.
No sound. Just motion.
Jesse stepped closer.
Her lips formed a word.
“Next.”
- Writer
