Chapter 2: The Whispers in the Rafters

I ripped my headphones off, the sound of my own blood pumping suddenly loud in my ears. The spectral analysis software on my screen glowed, a chilling confirmation staring back at me. The ambient acoustic reflections, the distinct timber off exposed oak rafters, the faint 60Hz hum—it was all there. The recording wasn’t just made in an attic; it was made in *this* attic. My attic. Right beneath my feet, through the floorboards, less than twenty-four hours ago.

Then, the sound. A soft, deliberate creak from the hallway. Not the house settling, but a floorboard giving way under weight. My breath hitched.

The brass doorknob to my attic bedroom began to turn. Slowly. Quietly.

My eyes darted between the turning knob and the glowing screen. The killer was inside the house. Maybe right outside my door.

A cold sweat broke across my skin. I had to move.