---

The trouble with secrets, Nathaniel Price was beginning to discover, was that they seldom remained satisfied with being kept. They developed appetites, acquired habits, and occasionally made themselves comfortable in places where decent people had no business looking. Some hid behind polite conversation. Others occupied the empty spaces between what people said and what they meant. At Bellwether House, secrets had apparently developed the additional inconvenience of speaking through the walls.

By the second week of January 1975, Nathaniel had filled twenty-three pages of his black composition notebook with conversations nobody else seemed particularly interested in hearing. He had recorded arguments, laughter, prayers, and the occasional profanity that would have earned him a thorough education in repentance had his mother discovered it. He’d also begun organizing the voices according to location, time, and what he privately called their disposition. Some were friendly, others frightened, and a few possessed the unmistakable temperament of people who had spent entirely too much time being disappointed by life.

The old man in his bedroom wall remained the most troubling.

Nathaniel hadn’t heard him since New Year’s Eve, although he’d spent several evenings waiting beside the plaster, sometimes whispering questions and occasionally feeling foolish enough to wonder whether he’d imagined the entire encounter. The memory of that voice knowing his name refused to cooperate with any reasonable explanation. More disturbing was the man’s sadness. Nathaniel had heard grown men cry before, though most went to considerable trouble pretending otherwise. This had been different. The old man sounded as though he’d stumbled upon something he’d spent a lifetime trying to forget.

Nathaniel understood very little about lifetimes.

Eleven years seemed a considerable investment already.

On the morning of January tenth, while returning from the communal kitchen with a slice of toast and a cup of milk, he encountered a young woman sitting on the third-floor staircase.

She was perhaps twenty-two or twenty-three, with long braids falling over the shoulders of a dark sweater. Her knees were drawn toward her chest, and her arms rested loosely across them. She wore silver hoop earrings and an expression suggesting she’d been listening to something that had left her considerably less impressed with the world.

Nathaniel stopped three steps below her.

“You’re blocking the stairs.”

The woman looked down at him.

“Good morning to you, too.”

“Morning.”

“That all you got?”

He considered the question.

“Excuse me?”

She laughed softly.

“Better.”

Nathaniel attempted to maneuver around her, balancing his breakfast with the concentration of a man transporting unstable chemicals.

“You’re Mrs. Price’s boy,” she said.

He stopped.

“How do you know?”

“People talk.”

“About me?”

“Sometimes.”

“What do they say?”

“Mostly that you ask too many questions.”

Nathaniel frowned.

“That’s not a bad thing.”

“Depends on who’s answering.”

She shifted aside, giving him room to pass.

“Name’s Simone.”

“Nathaniel.”

“I know.”

He looked at her suspiciously.

She smiled.

“See? Another question.”

Nathaniel was about to respond when a faint sound emerged from the wall beside the staircase.

Three knocks.

A pause.

Two more.

He turned toward it.

Simone’s smile disappeared.

For several seconds, neither spoke.

Then she asked a question so quietly Nathaniel almost missed it.

“You heard that?”

He nodded.

Simone stood.

“Come with me.”

---

Her room was at the far end of the third-floor corridor, beyond the storage closets and the section of wall Mrs. Whitcomb had specifically forbidden Nathaniel to approach. A small brass plate hung crookedly beside the door.

3B.

Nathaniel stopped.

He recognized the hallway.

More importantly, he recognized the wall.

“Mrs. Whitcomb said I’m not supposed to come up here.”

Simone inserted her key into the lock.

“Mrs. Whitcomb says a lot of things.”

“She gets mad.”

“That’s because she practices.”

The door opened with a reluctant groan.

Simone stepped inside, then noticed Nathaniel remaining in the hallway.

“What’s wrong?”

He looked toward the narrow seam beneath the peeling wallpaper.

“There’s a little girl in that wall.”

Simone didn’t move.

The silence stretched long enough for Nathaniel to wonder whether he’d made a terrible mistake.

Finally, she asked, “What little girl?”

“She cries sometimes. Says she wants somebody to let her out.”

Simone looked toward the wall.

Something passed across her face.

Not surprise.

Recognition.

“Come inside, Nathaniel.”

Her voice had changed.

He followed.

Room 3B was considerably different from the room he shared with his mother. A narrow bed stood against one wall, covered with a faded quilt. Books occupied nearly every available surface, stacked beside the dresser, beneath the window, and along the floorboards. A small record player sat on a wooden crate, surrounded by albums Nathaniel didn’t recognize. The room smelled of incense, coffee, and something sweet that reminded him of the perfume his mother wore on Sundays.

But what caught his attention was the wall opposite the bed.

It was covered with drawings.

Not ordinary pictures.

Faces.

Dozens of them.

Some were sketched in charcoal. Others had been painted directly onto sheets of brown wrapping paper. There were elderly men, young women, children, and faces so indistinct they seemed to be emerging from fog.

One enormous portrait dominated the center.

A woman’s face.

Her eyes were open, but something about their expression suggested she was looking at a place beyond the room.

Nathaniel stared.

“Who’s that?”

Simone closed the door.

“I don’t know.”

“You drew her?”

“Yes.”

“But you don’t know who she is?”

“That’s what I said.”

Nathaniel moved closer.

The woman’s face seemed familiar, though he couldn’t explain why.

“Why’d you draw somebody you don’t know?”

Simone folded her arms.

“Because she wouldn’t leave me alone.”

Nathaniel looked over his shoulder.

“She lives here?”

“Maybe.”

“Where?”

Simone sat on the edge of her bed.

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

Nathaniel studied the drawings again.

Some faces appeared several times, each rendered from a slightly different angle. Others had been crossed out. Dates were written beneath several portraits, although the numbers didn’t seem to follow any particular order.

He noticed one dated 1948.

Another read 1987.

A third, drawn in heavy charcoal, bore the date 2003.

Nathaniel frowned.

“How come you got pictures from the future?”

Simone watched him carefully.

“What makes you think they’re from the future?”

“Because it’s 1975.”

“Very observant.”

“So how’d you draw somebody from 2003?”

Simone looked toward the enormous portrait.

“Because I saw her.”

Nathaniel waited for an explanation.

None came.

He was beginning to suspect that adults enjoyed being mysterious because it saved them the trouble of admitting they didn’t understand something.

---

Simone Carter had moved into Bellwether House six months earlier, following what she described as a disagreement with her family about the direction of her life. Nathaniel suspected the disagreement had been considerable, given the way she spoke about her parents and the fact that she had apparently arrived with little more than two suitcases and a collection of records.

She worked afternoons at a printing shop and spent her evenings drawing.

At least, that was what she told people.

The truth was considerably stranger.

“I don’t always see them when I’m awake,” she explained, pouring coffee into a chipped ceramic mug. “Sometimes they come when I’m sleeping. Sometimes when I’m looking out the window. Sometimes I just turn around, and there they are.”

“Ghosts?”

“I don’t know what they are.”

“Do they talk?”

“Not usually.”

Nathaniel considered this.

“Mine do.”

Simone stopped pouring.

“Yours?”

“The people in the walls.”

She set down the coffeepot.

“What do they say?”

“All sorts of things.”

“Like what?”

Nathaniel told her about the argument over the horse race, the frightened woman in his bedroom, and the little girl crying behind the third-floor hallway. He described the old man who knew his name, though he omitted the part about the man sounding as though he were crying. Something about that detail felt private.

Simone listened without interrupting.

When he finished, she remained silent for so long that Nathaniel began to regret telling her.

Finally, she asked, “You write these things down?”

He nodded.

“In a notebook.”

“Can I see it?”

“It’s downstairs.”

“Bring it tomorrow.”

Nathaniel hesitated.

“Why?”

Simone looked toward the wall covered with portraits.

“Because I think we’re hearing different parts of the same conversation.”

Nathaniel followed her gaze.

The enormous woman’s face seemed almost alive in the afternoon light.

“Who is she?” he asked again.

Simone rubbed her hands together.

“I wish I knew.”

“She looks sad.”

“She is.”

“How do you know?”

Simone looked at him.

“Because sometimes I wake up crying, and I don’t know why.”

---

Nathaniel returned to room twelve shortly before supper.

Lorraine was sitting at the dresser, repairing a loose button on her work uniform. A small radio played quietly beside her, filling the room with the warm, tired voice of a late-afternoon announcer.

“Where you been, Professor?”

“Upstairs.”

“Doing what?”

“Talking.”

Lorraine looked over her shoulder.

“To who?”

“A lady.”

“What lady?”

“Simone.”

His mother’s needle stopped moving.

“Simone Carter?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Lorraine studied him.

“What were you talking about?”

Nathaniel considered telling her everything.

Instead, he shrugged.

“Pictures.”

Lorraine returned to her sewing.

“Well, don’t go bothering that girl. She’s got enough on her mind.”

Nathaniel sat on his bed.

“How do you know?”

“Know what?”

“That she’s got enough on her mind.”

Lorraine pulled the thread through the fabric.

“Because everybody does, baby. Some folks just carry it better than others.”

He thought about the faces on Simone’s wall.

“Can somebody remember something that hasn’t happened yet?”

His mother looked up.

“What kind of question is that?”

“A regular one.”

“No, Nathaniel. That is not a regular question.”

He waited.

Lorraine set down the uniform.

“Where’s this coming from?”

“Just wondering.”

She watched him with an expression he couldn’t interpret.

Then she sighed.

“Sometimes people get so worried about tomorrow they forget to live today. That’s about as close as anybody gets to remembering the future.”

Nathaniel considered her answer.

It was sensible.

Unfortunately, it didn’t explain Simone’s drawings.

Or the voices.

Or the man who knew his name.

He reached beneath his pillow and retrieved the notebook.

Lorraine noticed.

“What’s that?”

“School stuff.”

“School stuff?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She extended her hand.

“Let me see.”

Nathaniel froze.

For a moment, he considered refusing.

Then he opened the notebook to a page containing multiplication problems he’d copied from an old textbook.

Lorraine examined it.

“Well, look at you.”

She handed it back.

“Just don’t stay up all night doing arithmetic.”

Nathaniel nodded.

He felt a small, unpleasant twist in his stomach.

He’d lied to his mother before.

But this was the first time he’d done it to protect something he wasn’t certain he understood.

---

The following afternoon, Nathaniel returned to Room 3B carrying his notebook beneath his coat.

Simone was sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by charcoal pencils and sheets of paper. A record played softly in the corner, its melody drifting through the room like smoke.

She looked up when he entered.

“Professor.”

Nathaniel stopped.

“How come everybody keeps calling me that?”

Simone smiled.

“Because you look like you’re trying to solve the world.”

He considered this.

“Somebody ought to.”

She laughed.

“Fair enough.”

Nathaniel handed her the notebook.

Simone opened it carefully.

He watched her expression change as she read.

At first, she seemed amused by his observations. Then her smile faded. She turned another page, then another, occasionally stopping to study a date or phrase.

When she reached the entry about the little girl, she became very still.

“December twenty-seventh,” she whispered.

Nathaniel nodded.

“That’s when I heard her.”

Simone looked toward the door.

“What exactly did she say?”

“She wanted somebody to let her out.”

“Anything else?”

“She asked if I was the new boy.”

Simone closed her eyes.

Nathaniel waited.

When she opened them, she looked frightened.

“There’s something I need to show you.”

She stood and crossed the room to a narrow wardrobe.

From beneath a stack of folded clothes, she retrieved a large sheet of paper wrapped in brown cloth.

She carried it to the bed.

“Before I show you this, I need you to promise me something.”

Nathaniel frowned.

“What?”

“Don’t tell Mrs. Whitcomb.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t think she’d like it.”

“She doesn’t like much.”

Simone almost smiled.

“Promise.”

Nathaniel nodded.

She unfolded the cloth.

Inside was a charcoal drawing.

A little girl stood in a narrow hallway, wearing an old-fashioned dress with a white collar. Her hair was braided into two short pigtails. One hand rested against a wooden door.

The girl’s face was turned toward the viewer.

Her mouth was open.

Nathaniel leaned closer.

“That’s her?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then why are you showing me?”

Simone pointed toward the bottom of the drawing.

A date had been written in the corner.

DECEMBER 27, 1974.

Nathaniel stared.

“That’s when I heard her.”

“I know.”

“When’d you draw this?”

Simone swallowed.

“Last summer.”

Nathaniel looked up.

“Before I came here?”

She nodded.

He studied the drawing again.

Something about the hallway bothered him.

The wallpaper.

The narrow doorway.

The angle of the floorboards.

He’d seen it before.

“That’s upstairs,” he whispered.

Simone didn’t answer.

“That’s the wall Mrs. Whitcomb told me to stay away from.”

She folded the cloth around the drawing.

“Yes.”

Nathaniel looked toward the door.

“What’s behind it?”

Simone sat beside him.

“I don’t know.”

“Why don’t you ask Mrs. Whitcomb?”

“I did.”

“What’d she say?”

Simone looked toward the enormous portrait on the wall.

“She told me some doors are closed because people don’t know what to do with what’s on the other side.”

Nathaniel considered this.

“That’s stupid.”

Simone laughed despite herself.

“Why?”

“Because if you don’t know what’s on the other side, you open the door and look.”

She studied him for a moment.

“You’re either very brave or very foolish, Nathaniel Price.”

“Can I be both?”

“Usually how it works.”

---

They waited until shortly after nine that evening.

Mrs. Whitcomb had retired to her rooms behind the reception desk, and most of the tenants had settled into their nightly routines. Mr. Hollis was playing his trumpet upstairs, repeatedly attempting a passage that seemed determined to escape him.

Simone carried a flashlight.

Nathaniel brought his notebook.

The third-floor hallway was dimly lit by a single bulb enclosed in a dusty glass fixture. Shadows gathered in the corners, and the wallpaper hung loose along the baseboards.

They approached the sealed doorway.

Nathaniel could hear his own breathing.

Simone knelt beside the wall.

“Here.”

She pointed toward the narrow vertical seam.

Nathaniel ran his fingers along it.

The plaster felt colder than the surrounding wall.

“Somebody covered up a door,” he whispered.

“Looks that way.”

“Why?”

Simone shook her head.

Nathaniel pressed his ear against the wall.

Nothing.

He waited.

A pipe knocked somewhere below them.

Then came a faint sound.

Not a voice.

Footsteps.

Small, hurried footsteps moving across a wooden floor.

Nathaniel stiffened.

“She’s there.”

Simone leaned closer.

“What do you hear?”

“Somebody walking.”

The footsteps stopped.

A little girl began crying.

Nathaniel closed his eyes.

“Hello?”

The crying continued.

“It’s me,” he whispered. “Nathaniel.”

The crying stopped.

For several seconds, the hallway was silent.

Then a small voice spoke from the other side.

“You came back.”

Nathaniel felt Simone grip his shoulder.

“Ask her name,” she whispered.

Nathaniel swallowed.

“What’s your name?”

A pause.

Then:

“Clara.”

Simone inhaled sharply.

Nathaniel looked at her.

“What’s wrong?”

She shook her head.

“Ask her why she’s in there.”

Nathaniel turned back toward the wall.

“Clara? Why are you behind the door?”

The answer came so softly he almost missed it.

“Because Mama said I had to hide.”

Nathaniel felt something cold move through his chest.

“Hide from who?”

No answer.

He waited.

“Clara?”

The little girl began crying again.

Then, from somewhere deeper inside the wall, another voice emerged.

A woman’s voice.

Low.

Urgent.

“Clara, sweetheart, don’t talk to him.”

Nathaniel pulled away.

Simone stared at the plaster.

The woman’s voice continued.

“He isn’t supposed to be here yet.”

Nathaniel turned toward Simone.

“What does that mean?”

She didn’t answer.

Instead, she reached into her coat and withdrew the charcoal drawing.

Her hands trembled as she unfolded it.

Nathaniel looked down.

The little girl stood beside the door.

Her hand rested against the wood.

But something was different.

Something Simone hadn’t noticed before.

In the background of the drawing, barely visible beneath the charcoal shadows, stood another figure.

A boy.

Small.

Dark-haired.

Wearing a winter coat.

Nathaniel recognized the coat.

His mother had bought it two weeks earlier.

He looked up at Simone.

“That’s me.”

She stared at the drawing.

Then at him.

Neither spoke.

Behind the sealed doorway, Clara began to scream.

Not loudly.

Not with the theatrical terror Nathaniel had heard in horror movies.

It was the desperate, exhausted scream of a child who had been frightened for so long that fear had become the only language she remembered.

Simone grabbed Nathaniel’s hand.

“We have to go.”

“But Clara—”

“Now.”

They hurried down the hallway.

Behind them, something struck the sealed door.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Then came a voice Nathaniel recognized.

Not Clara’s.

Not the woman’s.

The old man from his bedroom wall.

His voice was faint, strained, and terribly sad.

“Don’t open it, Nathaniel.”

The boy stopped.

Simone pulled at his arm.

“Come on!”

Nathaniel looked back.

The hallway was empty.

The wall stood silent.

And somewhere beyond the plaster, a man who had not yet become himself whispered one final warning.

“Not this time.”

---

Years later, Nathaniel Price would remember that night with extraordinary clarity.

He would remember the smell of damp wallpaper, the trembling beam of Simone’s flashlight, and the sound of Clara crying behind a door that had been sealed long before he was born.

He would remember Simone’s hand gripping his.

He would remember the drawing.

But there was one detail he would spend the better part of fifty years trying to explain.

When Simone unfolded the paper beneath the hallway light, Nathaniel had seen something written along its lower edge.

Something neither of them mentioned.

Three words, scratched into the charcoal so faintly they might have been mistaken for an artist’s signature.

HE OPENS IT.

And beneath those words was a date.

NOVEMBER 2026.