Chapter 2 — Echoes in the Walls

Clara Bennett

The house seemed to breathe around Clara as she stepped into the foyer, the air thick with the smell of cedar and time. It wasn’t just musty wallpaper or the faint trace of lilacs—though those were there—it was something deeper, a weight that pressed against her chest as if the house itself remembered her. She let her fingers trail along the banister, its wood worn smooth by generations of hands. The faint creak beneath her boots was like a whisper of acknowledgment, an intimate greeting between old acquaintances.

Her gaze lifted to the staircase, its once-grand curve marred by peeling paint and a thin layer of dust. Eleanor’s letter from the night before echoed in her mind: *“Find the truth.”* What truth? And why now? Why had her grandmother, so private in life, left behind such a cryptic instruction? Clara sighed, her chest tightening as the unanswered questions settled over her like the house’s shadow—too big, too empty, and far too full of ghosts.

She set her bag down by the foot of the staircase and turned toward the living room, where the furniture sat beneath white sheets, their forms indistinct, like restless spirits. Pulling one off, she revealed the familiar contours of her grandmother’s armchair. The faded fabric was unexpectedly soft against her fingertips, and a memory surfaced unbidden: perching on the arm as a child, chattering about school while Eleanor listened, her knitting needles clicking softly. The memory brought a sudden sting to her eyes, and she blinked it away, brushing the feeling aside.

“This place could collapse tomorrow, and I wouldn’t be surprised,” Martha’s voice cut through the silence, sharp and practical. Clara turned to see her mother standing in the doorway, arms crossed over her flannel shirt. Her sturdy frame filled the space, her expression unreadable, save for the tightness at the corners of her mouth.

“It’s still standing,” Clara replied, her tone carefully neutral. “That’s more than I can say for some places.”

Martha’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Barely. The roof leaks, the foundation’s cracked, and the wiring hasn’t been updated since your grandmother was a girl. It’s a money pit.”

Clara shrugged, though her mother’s words hit harder than she wanted to admit. “If it’s that bad, maybe we should just sell it off to the highest bidder and let them handle it.”

Martha’s expression flickered—so brief, Clara almost missed it. A tightening of her jaw, a glance at the armchair. Regret, or something close to it. “Don’t joke about things like that. This house is—was—your grandmother’s life.” Her gaze swept the room, lingering on the armchair as though Eleanor might still be sitting there. “It’s part of the family.”

“Family,” Clara repeated, the word catching in her throat, its edges sharp. “Right.”

The silence stretched, taut and uncomfortable. Clara turned back to the armchair, smoothing the sheet as though it mattered. She could feel her mother’s eyes on her, heavy with judgment—or maybe something else. It had always been like this: words left unsaid, emotions buried beneath layers of practicality and pride.

“I’ll make dinner,” Martha said finally, her voice clipped. “Your old room’s still upstairs.”

“Thanks,” Clara muttered, but her mother was already gone, her footsteps fading down the hall toward the kitchen.

Clara exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of her neck. She wasn’t sure which was worse—the house or her mother. Both felt like they were conspiring to suffocate her, dragging her back into a past she’d spent a decade trying to escape. She glanced at the armchair one last time, guilt tugging at her. She hadn’t been there for Eleanor’s final years, too consumed by deadlines and city life to make the trip back. And yet, here she was, trying to piece together the fragments of a life she barely remembered.

She climbed the staircase, each step creaking under her weight. Her old bedroom was at the end of the hall, its door slightly ajar. Pushing it open, she was struck by how small the room felt, as though it had shrunk in her absence. The twin bed was still shoved against the wall beneath the slanted ceiling, its faded quilt neatly folded. The pale blue wallpaper, now peeling at the edges, clung stubbornly to the past. The bookshelf held a few forgotten paperbacks and dusty knickknacks—remnants of a girl she no longer recognized.

Clara dropped her bag onto the bed and sat heavily. From the window, she could see the overgrown garden below, its wildflowers swaying in the breeze. Beyond that, the oak tree loomed, its branches outstretched like skeletal fingers. She remembered scraping her knee on that tree once, crying until Eleanor brought her a slice of pie. It had worked, of course. Eleanor’s pies could fix anything.

The ache in her chest was sudden and sharp. She shook her head, pulling herself back to the present. She wasn’t here to wallow in nostalgia. She was here to finish what her grandmother had started—whatever that meant—and then leave. The sooner, the better.

Rising, she decided to explore the house. It was a way to keep busy, to distract herself from the unease clinging to her like a second skin. She started with the hallway, running her fingers along the frayed edges of the wallpaper, moving from room to room. Each space told its own story: the guest room with its cracked vanity mirror, the study filled with dusty books and a silent typewriter, the bathroom with its clawfoot tub and faint mildew scent. The house seemed to press in around her, every creak of the floorboards a reminder of its age, its secrets.

In the study, her eyes fell on an ornate brass key sitting on the desk. Its bow was intricate, catching the light in a way that made it seem almost alive. She picked it up, turning it over in her hand. It felt heavy, important. The memory of Eleanor’s letter surfaced again: *“Find the truth.”* Could this be part of it? Slipping the key into her pocket, she felt the faintest spark of curiosity beneath her unease.

Finally, she reached the attic. The door resisted her push, its handle cold beneath her palm. When it gave way, the narrow staircase groaned in protest. The air was cooler here, tinged with the smell of dust and something faintly metallic. Cobwebs brushed against her legs as she climbed, and when she reached the top, she hesitated. The attic was dimly lit by a single grimy window, its contents shrouded in shadow and years of neglect.

Clara scanned the space, her breath shallow. Old trunks, boxes, and furniture crowded the room, their shapes softened by layers of dust. She crossed the floor carefully, the wood groaning beneath her boots, and stopped in front of a small chest tucked beneath the eaves. Her fingers brushed the brass key in her pocket, and she pulled it out, fitting it into the lock. The click echoed in the stillness.

Lifting the lid, she found a bundle of letters tied with a faded ribbon. Beneath them lay a tarnished silver locket, its delicate floral engraving catching the dim light. Clara picked it up, her fingers trembling. She opened it carefully, revealing a tiny photograph of a young Eleanor, her smile radiant and full of life. Behind the photo was a pressed forget-me-not flower, its fragile petals miraculously intact.

Her chest tightened. The locket felt impossibly heavy, as though it carried the weight of everything Eleanor had kept hidden. Clara turned it over in her hands, her mind racing. Why had her grandmother locked this away? What was she trying to protect—or hide?

She placed the locket back into the chest and untied the ribbon around the letters. The handwriting was elegant, precise, unmistakably Eleanor’s. The first letter began simply: *“My Dearest.”* Clara’s breath caught. She skimmed the opening lines, her eyes widening. These were love letters. And not to her grandfather.

The name at the bottom of the page was unfamiliar, a man Eleanor had never mentioned. Clara clutched the letter, the words blurring as her mind reeled. The house seemed to shift around her, the shadows deepening as though the walls themselves were holding their breath. *“Find the truth,”* Eleanor had written. Clara wasn’t sure she was ready for it.

“Dinner’s ready!” Martha’s voice rang out, startling Clara from her thoughts. She tucked the letters and locket back into the chest, locking it with trembling hands. Rising slowly, she brushed the dust from her jeans and made her way downstairs.

Dinner would be tense, she knew. But the questions swirling in her mind were louder than anything her mother could say.

The house had secrets. And Clara was beginning to think it was her job to uncover them.