Chapter 1 - The Disappearance
The silence in the hallway was heavy, broken only by the rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock Emily had bought for Agnes ten years ago—a clock she hadn't been able to get to stop since the old woman left.
Emily stood in the center of the room, her eyes fixed on the empty spot on the hallway bench where Agnes’s suitcase had been an hour ago. It was gone. Just like that.
"Are you sure?" Emily asked, her voice trembling slightly. "She didn't leave a note? She didn't mention it to me at breakfast?"
Marcus stood by the window, his back to her, staring out at the overcast afternoon. He turned slowly, his face a mask of practiced sympathy. He reached out and squeezed Emily’s shoulder, his grip tight, grounding her. "She called me, Em. Just this morning. She was... excited. She said she needed to get out of the house. Chicago. She has an old friend there, Clara. They used to be neighbors before Clara moved."
Emily let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. It made sense. Agnes had been restless lately, her dementia making her clingy and paranoid, convinced that Emily was stealing her things. The idea that her mother had simply taken control of her own narrative felt like a miracle. It meant she wasn't trapped in the endless loop of confusion anymore.
"She packed her own bag?" Emily asked, feeling a wave of guilt wash over her. She had been so focused on Agnes's agitation that she hadn't noticed the departure.
"Every last item," Marcus assured her. "I watched her load it herself. She even took her favorite shawl. I’m just glad she’s doing something for herself. You’ve been so stressed, Em. I think this is exactly what she needed."
Emily nodded, the knot in her chest loosening. "You're right. You're right." She looked at the empty space again. "I just feel... relieved."
Relief was a dangerous thing, Marcus thought, watching the color return to his wife’s face. It made people blind.
He ushered her toward the front door, his movements efficient, almost clinical. "I’ll drive you to the station to file the report. We’ll get this sorted out quickly. Agnes is a stubborn woman, but she’ll come home when she realizes the city is too loud."
As they stepped out onto the porch, the air was thick with the smell of wet asphalt and decaying leaves. Marcus walked her to the edge of the driveway, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. The relief on Emily’s face was almost sickeningly sweet.
"You go get some rest, okay?" Marcus said. "I'll handle everything here. I'll call Clara in Chicago later to make sure she's expecting her."
"Thank you, Marcus," Emily said, genuinely grateful for his support. "I don't know what I'd do without you."
He smiled, a tight, strained expression. "That's what I'm here for."
Emily walked down the driveway, her shoulders dropping as she turned toward the street. She felt lighter. She was walking away from the crushing weight of caregiving and toward the simple truth of her mother’s impulsive freedom.
She stopped at the curb to check her phone, the pavement cool beneath her heels. Then, she heard it.
It was faint, muffled by the thick masonry of the house and the distant hum of traffic, but it was unmistakable. A cry. A high-pitched, desperate sound of someone struggling.
Emily froze. She looked back at the house. Marcus was still standing on the porch, his hands in his pockets, his face turned away from her.
*Did I imagine that?* she wondered.
She took a step forward, then stopped. The sound came again. It was clearer this time. A muffled whimper, followed by the sound of something heavy hitting the concrete. It sounded like a body.
Panic flared in her chest. She spun around to face the house, her eyes darting to the storm drain grate that sat three feet away from the front porch, embedded in the concrete walkway. It was a standard iron cover, rusted at the edges.
"Marcus?" she called out, her voice rising.
He didn't move. He was still staring out at the street, his posture rigid.
Emily ran back up the driveway, her heart hammering against her ribs. "Did you hear that? That noise? From the drain?"
Marcus turned slowly. His face was pale, a sheen of sweat glistening on his upper lip. "What noise, Em?"
"The cry. It came from the storm drain. It sounded like... someone was down there."
Marcus took a step toward her, his expression shifting from confusion to annoyance. "It's the wind, Emily. The grate is loose. It's probably just banging against the pipe. It's nothing. You're exhausted. Go inside."
"I heard it!" Emily insisted, pointing a shaking finger at the rusted metal. "It sounded human. Please, Marcus, let me open it. I can't leave her down there."
"I said it's the wind!" Marcus snapped, his voice suddenly sharp. He took another step forward, blocking her path. "Don't be ridiculous. You're letting your imagination run wild because you're stressed."
Emily stepped back, her eyes wide with fear. "Marcus, don't stop me."
"I am your husband! I am telling you it's nothing!"
Before Emily could argue, the sound echoed again from the grate—a sharp, piercing shriek that lasted for three seconds and then cut off abruptly into silence.
Emily stared at the metal cover, her breath hitching in her throat. Then, a shadow shifted on the porch behind her. She turned to see their neighbor, Mr. Henderson, stepping out of his own front door, a newspaper in his hand.
"Everything alright, Emily?" Mr. Henderson asked, his voice gravelly. "Heard a racket out here."
Emily looked from the drain to Marcus. Marcus’s face was drained of all color. He looked terrified, not of the police, but of her.
"Mr. Henderson," Emily said, her voice trembling but firm. "Can you help me lift this? I think my mother is trapped down there."
Marcus lunged forward, grabbing Emily’s arm. "She's not down there! Emily, stop this! It's a mistake!"
But Emily was already pulling away. "Open it!" she screamed, shoving Marcus's hands away.
With Mr. Henderson’s help, they pried the heavy iron cover loose. The smell hit them immediately—a stagnant, foul odor of rot and wet earth. Emily peered into the darkness of the pipe. It was just a dark void, filled with murky, brown water.
"It's empty," Emily breathed, relief flooding her system so instantly it nearly knocked her over. "She's not there. Marcus was right. It's just water."
She slumped against the lip of the drain, letting out a shaky laugh. "Oh god. I thought..."
Then, a small, glinting object caught the corner of her eye. It bobbed gently in the brown water, moving toward the opening.
Emily leaned in closer, squinting through the gloom. Her blood turned to ice.
It was a brooch. A small, pearl-handled brooch with a ruby center. It was Agnes’s favorite. Agnes had worn it every single Sunday for the last twenty years.
May you like
Emily stared at it, the blood draining from her own face. She looked up at Marcus.
Marcus was still standing by the porch, his hands trembling at his sides. His eyes were wide, fixed on the brooch, but his face had gone completely slack. The sweat on his upper lip had turned cold.
