Every night at 3:33 a.m., Sofia hears whispering from the bedroom vent. Her
husband’s away. The house is new. The voice knows what she did—and tonight,
it wants more than words.
There it was again. Sofia stilled and held her breath. Keeping her eyes closed, as if that would sharpen her hearing, she sat up in bed and reached out with her ears for a repeat of the sound. After a sustained silence, except for her thundering heart, she turned on the bedside lamp.
The warm light calmed her as she swung her legs over the side of the bed. The green display on the clock read 3:33 a.m.—same as the last three nights. She looked up at the vent above the bed. She was sure the sound was coming from up there.
Sofia still wasn’t familiar with all the sounds of their new home. Creaking? Sure. Whispering? No, thank you. Pulling on a robe, she headed to the kitchen for something to drink. She wasn’t thirsty. She just needed to get the fuck out of the bedroom.
In the bright, sharp world of the kitchen, she felt silly for her nerves. Now that she was more awake, she knew what was making the sound. Not whispering—just a loose item in the ductwork. Maybe a leaf or a misaligned joint. That had to be it. No one was talking to her from the vent in her room.
Her stomach clenched at the thought of going back in the bedroom. She was torn between fear and anger at herself for imagining things. Should she take a look? If she investigated and found nothing, like she was sure she would, the fingers of fear on her spine would dissolve. She wished Don was home from his work trip. He would have taken care of this without question.
“No,” she said aloud, answering her own thoughts. She pulled the stepladder out from next to the fridge. She would feel better—be able to sleep—once she solved this.
Back in her room, overhead light blaring, bed pushed away from the wall, Sofia set up the stepladder. Its four feet added to her five-foot-six-inch frame; she would be able to see into the vent without a problem.
After testing her flashlight and making another trip to the garage for a screwdriver, she carefully dislodged the vent, dropped it to the floor, and pointed the flashlight into the opening.
A few cobwebs swayed in the ductwork. Nothing else. The opening stretched about a foot, then made a sharp left. Without special equipment, she had no way of knowing if something was around the bend.
“Damn it,” Sofia said, stepping down to grab the discarded vent cover.
Her head whipped toward the vent. It was soft—she almost missed it—but the words “…you killed him…” came through the vent with a slight echo. A wave of chills ran through her starting at her knees and climbing to her gut. No, no one saw her. She buried him deep. This was a dream. It had to be.
“Who’s there?” she demanded, voice trembling under borrowed steel.
When there was no answer, she squared her shoulders and climbed back up on the stepladder. She has faced much worse than a noisy vent. On the top step once more, she shone the flashlight into the vent.
“Hello? I can hear you.” She stared into the vent, expecting a response.
After a minute, she shook her head and spoke aloud. “This is ridiculous. There has got to be something stuck in the vent.”
Sofia stood on her tiptoes and reached her right arm into the vent, stretching around the bend.
***
Don stepped inside, tired but relieved to be home. The suitcase thudded against the tile as he kicked off his shoes. Loosening his tie, he called to Sofia, “Hey, I made it back on time!”
No response. Strange. Sofia was so excited for him to be home he assumed she would be waiting at the door. Maybe she was in the shower.
Don continued through the kitchen, stopping to thumb through the mail basket on the counter. As he flipped through the six or so envelopes there, he listened for any noise other than his.
Nothing.
She might be taking a nap. He knew she wasn’t sleeping well while he was gone. Every time they spoke, he could hear the stifled yawns.
As he approached the bedroom door, it was about half open. He knew something was wrong by the small peek he got through the opening. He saw the bed had been pushed away from the wall.
Pushing the door open all the way, the scene before him caused a deep chill and the rise of panic.
The kitchen stepladder lay on its side. The flashlight still burned where it had fallen. Sofia’s blood-covered bathrobe lay on the floor directly below the open vent high up on the wall.
The vent cover had been removed and the wall around the opening was pushed in and cracked around the edges, like something that didn’t quite fit had been forced through.
Blood, half-dried, dripped down the wall in thick streaks, tangled with something soft.
Don blinked. Was that hair?
Don heard a high-pitched scream and wondered if that was him, then blacked out. His arm smacked the floor cracking the face of his watch. 3:33 a.m.
