Chapter 2: The Man in the Walls
The man emerged slowly, as if he had all the time in the world.
First came his hands, pale and scarred, with dirt packed beneath his fingernails. Then his shoulders, wrapped in a dark gray coat that smelled of mildew. Finally, his face appeared in the beam of my phone.
I recognized him.
Not because I had met him recently.
Because I had seen his face in hundreds of family photographs.
“Dad?””
The word escaped my mouth before I could stop it.
The man standing inside my bedroom wall looked exactly like my father, Daniel Mitchell.
Except my father had been dead for eleven years.
I had attended his funeral when I was twenty-five. I had watched them lower his coffin into the ground. I had stood beside my mother while she placed a white rose on the polished wood.
I had cried until my throat hurt.
And now he was standing in a hidden cavity behind my closet.
Older than the photographs, thinner than the man I remembered, but unmistakably him.
His eyes moved from me to the little girl gripping my hand.
Then he smiled sadly.
“Hello, son.””
I couldn't move.
Lauren made a strangled sound behind me.
The little girl pressed her face into my shirt.
“No,” I whispered.
“This isn't possible.””
My father stepped over the wooden frame.
“Unfortunately, Ryan, there's a great deal in this house you don't know.””
I stared at his face, searching for something that would prove this was a trick. A resemblance. A nightmare.
“Your funeral,” I said.
“I saw your body.””
He looked away.
“You saw a coffin.””
“I saw you die!””
“Did you?””
The question struck me harder than a shout.
I remembered the closed casket. My mother insisting that the accident had left my father too badly injured for anyone to see him. The funeral home director speaking in a low voice.
At the time, grief had made every detail blur together.
Now those memories sharpened like broken glass.
I turned toward Lauren.
“Tell me who this is.””
She was still kneeling on the floor, one hand pressed against her mouth.
“Lauren!””
She flinched.
“I can explain.””
“Then start explaining!””
My father raised one hand.
“Don't frighten her, Ryan.””
I rounded on him.
“You don't get to tell me how to speak to my wife after appearing out of a wall eleven years after your funeral!””
For the first time, his expression changed.
The sadness vanished.
“You sound just like your mother.””
The little girl began shaking.
I immediately crouched beside her.
“Hey. What's your name?””
She stared at me.
“Emma.””
My father closed his eyes.
I looked up sharply.
“You know her?””
He didn't answer.
I asked Emma again, more gently.
“Emma, how long have you been in there?””
She held up her fingers, then hesitated.
“Lots of sleeps.””
“Months?””
She looked confused.
“Mommy says I can't count them.””
My stomach twisted.
“Have you been living in that wall?””
Emma nodded.
“Daddy gave me bread before. But not every day.””
I felt sick.
I turned toward Lauren.
“Did you know about this?””
She began crying harder.
My father answered for her.
“Of course she knew.””
Lauren shook her head.
“Not all of it.””
“Not all of what?”” I demanded.
My father stepped toward Emma.
She screamed and scrambled behind my legs.
“Don't let him touch me!””
I put myself between them.
“Stay away from her.””
His jaw tightened.
“You have no idea what you're interfering with.””
“She's a little girl hiding in a wall! Whatever you're doing ends now!””
He looked at me for a long moment.
Then he reached inside his coat and pulled out a faded photograph.
He held it toward me.
It showed my family standing in front of our old house: my father, my mother, a younger version of me, and a woman I didn't recognize.
The woman was holding a newborn baby.
On the back, in my father's handwriting, were five words.
Two sons. One daughter. One lie.
I stared at the photograph.
“I don't understand.””
“You will,” he said.
“Who is that woman?””
My father glanced at Lauren.
“Ask your wife.””
Lauren began shaking her head.
“Please don't do this.””
I looked at her.
“Who is she?””
Lauren swallowed.
“Her name was Rebecca.””
“Was?””
“She died.””
“When?””
Lauren's eyes flicked toward the opening in the wall.
“Six years ago.””
I stared at the baby in the photograph.
A terrible thought began to form.
“How old is Emma?””
My father answered before anyone else could.
“Five.””
The room seemed to tilt.
Five years old.
Emma looked about four or five. Her face, her eyes, the birthmark on her neck.
I looked at the photograph again.
The baby in Rebecca's arms had the same crescent-shaped mark.
My hands began to tremble.
“Who was Rebecca?””
My father took a slow breath.
“Your sister.””
I stared at him.
“I don't have a sister.””
“You did.””
“My mother had one child. Me.””
“That's what she told you.””
I turned toward Lauren.
She was staring at the floor.
“Tell him,” my father said.
Lauren pressed both hands against her face.
“Stop.””
“Tell him what you promised to tell him when the time came.””
“Stop it!””
Her scream startled Emma, who began crying again.
I knelt beside the child and wrapped my arms around her.
“It's okay. Nobody's going to hurt you.””
My father watched us.
“You see, Ryan? That's why I came back. You have the same weakness I did.””
“What's that supposed to mean?””
“Believing that love can fix what people do to each other.””
I stood slowly.
“If you hurt this child, I swear—”
“You'll do what? Call the police?””
“Yes!””
He gave a dry laugh.
“Go ahead. Tell them a dead man crawled out of your wall. Tell them you found a child hidden inside a structure that has no building plans showing a crawlspace. Tell them your wife has been feeding her in secret.””
I pulled my phone from my pocket.
My father didn't move.
“Call them,” he said.
I dialed 911.
The operator answered, and I began explaining that I had found a child confined inside a wall.
My father watched me without blinking.
Then Lauren grabbed my wrist.
“Ryan, please. You can't call them.””
I pulled away.
“Why?””
“Because if they come here, they'll take Sophie.””
The words stopped me.
“What?””
Lauren looked at Emma, then at our bedroom door.
“Your father isn't the only person who knows about this house.””
A faint electronic chime sounded from somewhere inside the wall.
My father turned toward it.
His expression tightened.
“Damn it.””
He moved toward the opening.
I stepped in front of him.
“Where are you going?””
“Somewhere you can't follow.””
“You're not leaving until you explain everything.””
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small black device.
A red light blinked on its surface.
Emma whimpered.
“He's calling them,” she whispered.
I looked down at her.
“Who?””
She clutched my shirt.
“The bad people.””
My father pressed the device.
“It's me,” he said quietly.
“We have a problem.””
He listened.
Then his face changed.
“What do you mean she's already there?””
He stared at Lauren.
“You told me she was at the clinic.””
Lauren went white.
“I didn't—”
A heavy crash came from downstairs.
Someone had just kicked in our front door.
My father swore under his breath.
He grabbed my shoulder.
“Take Emma and Sophie. Get out through the back.””
I shoved his hand away.
“Who is coming into my house?””
He looked at me, and for the first time, I saw genuine fear in his eyes.
“The people who paid for this house.””
Footsteps thundered across the hallway.
A man's voice called out from downstairs.
“Daniel! We know you're in there!””
Emma screamed.
Lauren collapsed against the closet.
And my father leaned close enough for me to smell the dampness on his coat.
“If they find that child, Ryan, they'll kill everyone in this house.””
A second voice rose from the staircase.
This one was a woman's.
“Ryan? Honey? It's Mom.””
My blood ran cold.
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My mother had died three years ago.
And the woman coming up my stairs sounded exactly like her.
