Chapter 6 - The Voice on the Line
The phone felt like a live wire in my hand, the harsh, raspy echo of the stranger’s voice vibrating against my ear long after he finished speaking.
“Who is this?” I managed to force out, my voice trembling so violently that the words barely registered. “Who is this?!”
“You know who I am, Claire,” the voice replied, dripping with a cold, weathered familiarity that made my skin crawl. “Or at least, you know the ghost your mother spent twenty-five years pretending didn't exist. Now put the phone down, get out of that rotting house, and look across the street.”
I scrambled to my feet, Daniel instantly rising beside me, his hand catching my arm. “Who was that?” he demanded, his eyes wide with alarm. “Claire, who’s on the phone?”
“It’s him,” I whispered, staring into the dark rain outside the parlor window. “He said... he said he’s standing right across the street.”
Without waiting for Daniel to answer, I bolted toward the front door, stepping carefully over the splintered wood and leaping down the porch steps into the pouring rain. Daniel was right behind me, his boots splashing heavily through the overgrown puddles of the front lawn.
We reached the sidewalk, the cold droplets stinging our faces as our eyes scanned the deserted, rain-slicked street.
The utility truck that had been parked three houses down was gone. In its place, parked directly beneath the flickering halo of an old streetlamp, sat a battered, dark-blue sedan with its hazard lights blinking in a slow, rhythmic pulse.
As we watched, the driver’s side door of the sedan creaked open.
A tall man stepped out into the rain. He wore a faded canvas hunting jacket zipped up to his chin, his graying hair matted against his forehead, and deep lines carved into a face that looked like it had been weathered by decades of hiding and bitter exile.
He didn't run. He didn't hide. He just stood there by the open door of his car, resting one hand on the roof, staring directly across the street at us with eyes that looked shockingly, impossibly familiar.
They were my grandfather’s eyes. They were my eyes.
It was Uncle Robert.
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“Claire,” Robert called out across the quiet street, his voice cutting clearly through the hiss of the rain. “If you want to know why your mother lost her mind over this house, get in the car. We don't have much time before Diane’s security detail realizes Richard failed.”
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