"What are you doing, Rocky?" he asks as he approaches where I'm kneeling.
"I found something under this floorboard. Can you help me pull it up?"
He steps forward and grips the corner of the board. With a few determined tugs, it suddenly gives way, sending him stumbling backward and landing hard on his backside. My laughter bursts out uncontrollably, echoing through the room. Zeke looks up, surprised, then cracks a grin and joins in. We pause for a moment, catching our breath, and then I reach into the dark hole beneath the floor. Carefully, I pull out the bag. Sitting beside Zeke, I open it, revealing its mysterious contents.
There are three plain folders. One is labeled Dawson, another Ted, and one is unlabeled. Inside Ted's folder, I find a detailed arrest record with photos and dates of different incidents, mostly drug charges. He has had run-ins with the law since he was a teenager. The most shocking evidence is a picture of Ted and the sheriff sitting at a table with bags of drugs and stacks of money, both smiling widely. The unlabeled folder contains information on known drug dealers — their addresses, phone numbers, and illegal activities. Sheriff Dawson's folder provides proof of corruption and unlawful acts. I'm stunned by the contents, my suspicions confirmed. The main question is: why are these files hidden in the attic, and who put them there?
Processing the information leaves me speechless. Instead of explaining, I hand Zeke the folder and let him look through everything. When he comes across the picture of Ted and Sheriff Dawson, he wears the same expression of shock and confusion.
"I knew something wasn't right about both those men," I finally say. "Whenever they're around, I feel uneasy. Do you think they're connected to the family's disappearance?"
"I'm not sure, Rocky. Let's just keep looking through the files and see what else is in here," he replies. "But one thing's for sure — neither one of them is trustworthy." I nod in agreement and hand him the folder with the list of drug dealers.
As we go through the folders again, the attic door suddenly slams shut with a loud BANG. I scream and grab Zeke's arm; he pulls me into him, protecting me- from what I'm not sure yet. I'm beginning to think the doors in this house enjoy scaring us. Soon after, soft knocking starts on the attic door — growing louder, harder, making it shake as if the door might come off its hinges. We both jump in shock, nearly scattering the folders and the papers onto the attic floor. As soon as we stand, the noise stops. As we try to make sense of what we just experienced, we're both visibly shaken.
"What the hell just happened?" Zeke asks, concern edging his voice.
"I think the attic door shut by itself. Did you hear the knocking too?" I ask, my voice shaking. Zeke nods, his eyes flickering around as he searches for a sensible explanation.
"Zeke, let's go downstairs," I urge softly. I've had enough of the attic for today and just want to get out of it.
"Do you want to take the papers with us or put them back under the floorboard for now?" he asks. His calm tone surprises me, considering how disturbed we both are.
"Take them with us and gather all the information," I say.
We quickly collect the papers and stuff them into the bag. When we approach the exit, the doorknob starts rattling and jerking as if someone is trying to open it but can't. Again, we jump, caught off guard. Then we freeze, unsure of what to do. This is all the proof I need — there's no other explanation but that the house is haunted. What else could explain these events? We have one too many unexplainable events happen in this house.
Zeke cautiously reaches for the handle and pulls it open. I think he expects someone to be on the other side, but the stairwell is empty. A sigh of relief escapes me, one I didn't realize I was holding. We stand for a minute, listening for any more strange sounds, but the house is eerily quiet. As we step out of the attic, I tap Zeke on the shoulder.
"Still don't believe in ghosts?" I ask as we hurry down the stairs to the safety of the living room.
We collapse onto the couch, drained both emotionally and physically. As we sit there, the image of the metal box returns to my mind. I feel the need to look at its contents again. I pick up the family photo I saw earlier and flip it over. On the back, the names of each family member are written — but only one name catches my attention. The girl who resembles my mother shares the same name: Amber Rayne. I quickly hand the photo to Zeke.
"Look at this picture again. It has to be my mom. They not only look alike, but their names are the same — just different last names."
He studies the photo more carefully. "You know, she does look a lot like your mom. And you. The same eyes, hair color… even the scar above your mom's left eyebrow is the same," he says, pointing at the picture.
Excitement replaces my earlier fear. I might finally be getting closer to learning about my mom's family, but at the same time, the news fills me with dread because of the mystery surrounding their disappearance. Zeke yawns beside me — both of us exhausted.
"How about we put this up for the night and look at everything more closely tomorrow?" I suggest, smiling at him.
"Sounds good to me. It's been a long day, and I'm ready to crash." He says, agreeing with me.
"I'm going to put everything in the plastic bag we found the files in and hide them under my mattress. That way I can keep a better eye on them."
Gathering the files and placing them in the bag, I stand and offer Zeke my hand. He grabs it and pulls himself up. Leaning down, he kisses me on the head.
"Come on, Rocky. I'll walk you to your room," he says gently.
With his hand on my lower back, he guides me toward the stairs.
As we climb, I hold the files close to my chest, feeling more secure with them in my arms. It's as if letting them out of my sight might invite trouble; the feeling that someone is lurking, waiting to snatch them, is strong. I know it's probably paranoia. The information is sensitive and could put us in danger. Still, I'm committed to keeping it safe until we can verify everything and find the right people to help us uncover this mystery and seek justice for the family — whatever that might entail.
It takes a while to fall asleep that night. Every sound has me looking for the cause. Eventually, I drift into a peaceful sleep — only to be jolted awake by a terrifying nightmare. The woman in blue is back. She stands before me with fear in her eyes. She grips my shoulders, squeezing tightly as if she's trying to crush them.
She screams, "Run! He's in the house!"
I try to jerk away, but her grip is too tight. Then she suddenly shoves me backward, and I wake up in a cold sweat, my heart pounding like it might burst out of my chest. I take deep breaths, trying to calm my frazzled nerves. Then a loud BANG comes from downstairs, followed by shuffling, and deep voices catch my attention. Is this why she told me to run? Is someone in my house again?
My mind tries to rationalize — It's just the rainstorm… the house settling… anything but an intruder. But the banging and shuffling persist, sounding like someone rummaging through cabinets downstairs. A chill runs down my spine. With trembling hands, I slip out of bed quietly and into my slippers. Suddenly, my door swings open, making me jump — only to reveal Zeke. My hand flies over my mouth to keep me from screaming.
"Did you hear that?" he whispers, concern lacing his voice.
I nod, terrified of what we might find downstairs. We stand still, listening. The sounds drift upstairs again — this time, drawers slamming.
"Who do you think is in the house?" I lower my hand from my mouth and whisper, my voice trembling. He places a reassuring hand on my shoulder, then quickly puts a finger to his lips, signaling me to stay quiet.
"Call for help," he whispers. I grab my phone and dial the sheriff's office.
"Sheriff's office, Deputy Andrews speaking. What can I help you with?"
"I think someone is in my house," I whisper.
"I'm sorry, ma'am — what did you say?"
"Someone is in my house. Please send help," I say louder.
"Okay, what's your address?" He asks.
I rattle it off quickly, trying to keep my voice steady. Suddenly, my phone screen flickers and goes dark — the battery is almost dead. I forgot to charge it because I was so exhausted. Desperate, I reach frantically into my nightstand drawer, fumbling for the charger. Before I can plug it in, the phone dies. I pray he heard me. I leave my phone on my nightstand plugged into its charger. It's of no use to me right now.
"Oh my Lanta," I mutter quietly, frustration rising. "What do we do now, Z?"
"I'm going to go down and check it out. You stay here," Zeke instructs.
"Oh no. There's no way I'm waiting up here for you — not after last time. I'm going with you, buddy," I argue.
"Fine, but you do what I say," he demands.
He motions for me to follow, and we quietly creep out of the room and down the stairs. We watch carefully where we step — we don't want to make a sound and alert whoever is down there. At the bottom, he points toward the dining room, indicating he'll check it. I nod and motion that I'll check the living room. He shakes his head, signaling me not to, but I ignore him. Quietly stepping toward the living room, I freeze. A man dressed in black, wearing a ski mask, is rifling through my drawers.
The shock makes me scream and stumble backward, tripping over my own feet. Of all the times for my clumsiness to show, it has to be now. My scream startles the intruder; he spins around and stares at me as I scramble to my feet. It looks like he's deciding the best way to escape.
Then, to my horror, he charges at me, knocking me back to the floor. I scream again as I land on the floor and pain shoots through my back from the impact. The intruder doesn't stop — he bolts out the front door.
When I look up, Zeke is hurrying toward me from the kitchen, concern etched across his face.
"Are you okay? What happened?" he asks urgently. I can see anger simmering beneath the surface at the thought of someone almost harming me. Unfortunately, he arrives too late — the masked man has fled. I recount the terrifying incident.
"Th‑th‑there was a man in a ski mask," I stammer. "H‑h‑he was in the living room rummaging through the drawers. I t‑t‑tripped, which startled him. He charged at me, and I fell flat on my butt." My words tumble out rapidly. "It was so frightening. What was he looking for?"
Zeke's response makes everything click into place. "He's probably looking for the files you found in the attic last night." He's probably right — but I can't comprehend how anyone could have known they existed.
We turn on the living room light to assess the damage. Drawers are emptied, contents spilled across the floor, and cushions overturned. I sigh, exhausted not only from a terrifying and stressful week, but now from the cleanup ahead.