I did not tell Mrs. Higgins about the messages.
I didn't know why. Perhaps I was afraid that saying them aloud would make them more real. Perhaps I didn't want to see the fear return to her face.
Instead, I called the detective who had handled the earlier visit.
He arrived within twenty minutes.
His name was Harris, and unlike the first officers, he did not treat the situation as an unexplained noise complaint.
He photographed the footprint.
Then the message.
Then the hallway.
“Don't touch anything else,” he said.
“I haven't.”
He looked toward my bedroom.
“Is that where the footprint ends?”
“Yes.”
He walked inside.
I followed until he raised a hand.
“Stay here.”
A few minutes later he came back carrying a small evidence bag.
Inside was a thread of dark fabric.
“Found it caught beneath the bed frame.”
I stared at it.
“Someone was hiding under my bed?”
“Possibly.”
My mouth went dry.
Harris studied me.
“Did you notice anything unusual yesterday?”
“No.”
“Think carefully.”
I tried.
Nothing came.
Then I remembered something.
“The bedroom door.”
“What about it?”
“When I left yesterday, I closed it.”
“And?”
“When I came home, it was open.”
Harris wrote that down.
“Have you changed your locks since your husband's death?”
“No.”
“Who has keys?”
“I have one. Mrs. Higgins has a spare. My sister used to have one.”
“Used to?”
“She returned it.”
“When?”
I hesitated.
“About three months ago.”
“What is your sister's name?”
“Natalie.”
Harris looked at me.
“Do you have a good relationship?”
I almost laughed.
“We're sisters.”
“That wasn't my question.”
I looked toward the window.
Natalie and I had been close when we were younger. After our father died, however, something between us had changed. She moved to Phoenix. We spoke occasionally. Birthdays. Holidays. Short conversations when one of us remembered to call.
The last time I'd seen her had been months earlier.
“She doesn't have a reason to come here.”
Harris didn't answer.
Instead, he asked whether he could search the property more thoroughly.
I agreed.
They found nothing in the attic.
Nothing in the basement.
Nothing in the garage.
But behind a loose panel near the hallway electrical box, Harris discovered a small device.
It wasn't a camera.
It was a speaker.
He held it carefully between two fingers.
My skin prickled.
“What is that?”
“Hard to say without examining it.”
“You think someone installed it?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He looked at me.
“That is what we're trying to determine.”
That afternoon, I changed the locks.
I also stayed with Mrs. Higgins until evening because I couldn't bear being alone in my own house.
At 2:14 the next day, nothing happened.
Neither did the day after.
For almost a week, the house was quiet.
I began to convince myself that the entire thing had been some elaborate misunderstanding.
Then, on the seventh night, I heard footsteps upstairs.
I was sitting downstairs reading when I heard the floorboards creak.
One step.
Then another.
I stopped breathing.
The house was silent again.
I reached for my phone.
The screen showed 2:14.
My hands began to shake.
I called the police.
No answer.
I tried again.
Nothing.
Then I heard a woman's voice upstairs.
“Please.”
My heart slammed against my ribs.
The voice came again.
“Help me.”
I stood.
I should have left.
Instead, I picked up the kitchen knife and walked toward the stairs.
The lights upstairs were off.
I moved slowly.
Halfway up, the crying stopped.
I reached the bedroom.
The door was open.
The room was dark.
I switched on the light.
Nothing.
I checked the closet.
Empty.
Bathroom.
Empty.
Then I heard a sound behind me.
The bedroom door moved.
Not much.
Just enough to make the hinges whisper.
I turned.
The door closed.
I ran toward it.
The handle wouldn't move.
Someone was holding it from the other side.
I stepped backward.
The crying began again.
This time it came from underneath the bed.
I stared at the floor.
“Who's there?”
No answer.
Then a man's voice came from somewhere near the wall.
“Claire.”
The knife nearly slipped from my hand.
I knew that voice.
There was no mistaking it.
It was Derek.
My dead husband.
I backed away from the wall.
“No.”
His voice came again, calm and familiar.
“You need to listen to me.”
I could not breathe.
“Derek?”
Silence.
Then a faint click.
The bedroom door opened.
I ran.
I don't remember reaching the bed.
I remember dropping to the floor.
I remember pulling myself underneath it.
I remember pressing my hand over my mouth.
The room went quiet.
A few seconds later, footsteps entered.
Someone had come inside.
I could see only shoes.
Black.
Clean.
Standing inches from my face.
The person moved around the room.
A phone rang.
Then the voice came again.
Derek.
“Is she there?”
I squeezed my eyes shut.
A woman answered.
“I don't know.”
“You were supposed to check.”
“I did.”
“Check again.”
The footsteps moved closer.
I held the knife against my chest.
The woman knelt.
Her face appeared above the edge of the bed.
I recognized her.
Natalie.
My sister.
She was staring directly into the darkness where I was hiding.
Then she whispered into the phone.
“She's not here.”
I knew she was lying.
And I knew she had just lied to the man I had spent two years believing was dead.
Click here to continue reading: PART 3: My Sister Found the Place Where I Was Hiding, and the Voice on Her Phone Confirmed the Man I Buried Was Alive
At 2:14 in the Afternoon, My Neighbor Heard a Woman Screaming From a House I Had Left Empty That Morning
Part 2 of 20
