Chapter 2: The Whispering Walls

The morning light filtering through Ben's bedroom window did nothing to chase away the memory of those phantom footsteps. He'd managed maybe two hours of fitful sleep before his alarm dragged him back to consciousness, and even then, he could swear he still heard the faint echo of dress shoes clicking somewhere in the distance.

Downstairs, the Carter family kitchen buzzed with its usual morning chaos. Allen sat at the small dining table, methodically working his way through a bowl of cereal while reading a comic book propped against the milk carton. Their father, Daniel Carter, stood at the counter with his back to them, nursing a cup of coffee that had probably gone cold an hour ago.

"Dad," Ben started, settling into the chair across from Allen. "I need to ask you something."

Daniel's shoulders tensed almost imperceptibly. "If it's about borrowing the car tonight, the answer is no. You know I need it for—"

"It's not about the car." Ben took a steadying breath. "I've been hearing things. At night. Footsteps in the hallway."

The coffee mug froze halfway to Daniel's lips. For a long moment, the only sounds in the kitchen were Allen's spoon clinking against his bowl and the steady tick of the wall clock.

"You're imagining things," Daniel said finally, not turning around. "Stress from school, probably. Your final exams are coming up."

"It's not stress." Ben's voice carried more edge than he'd intended. "I know what I heard. Dress shoes on hardwood, just like—"

"Don't." The word cracked like a whip. Daniel spun around, and Ben was shocked by the haggard look on his father's face. The man seemed to have aged years overnight, deep lines etched around his eyes and a grayness to his skin that spoke of sleepless nights. "Don't start with that nonsense again."

Allen looked up from his comic book, dark eyes flicking between his father and brother with the sharp attention of a kid who'd learned to read adult moods for survival.

"It's the same sound," Ben pressed on, his frustration boiling over. "Exactly the same as the night Mikey—"

"Michael Brennan ran away." Daniel's voice was flat, emotionless. "That's what happened. A troubled boy made a bad decision, and you've been obsessing over it for five years. It's not healthy, Ben. These fantasies you've constructed—"

"They're not fantasies!" Ben slammed his palm against the table, making Allen's cereal bowl jump. "I was there, Dad. I saw what happened. The Man in the Suit, the way the door just opened, the way Mikey's eyes went blank—"

"Enough." Daniel set his mug down with shaking hands. "I won't listen to this anymore. You're seventeen years old, Ben. It's time to let go of childhood monsters and face reality."

"What if the reality is that the monsters are real?"

The question hung in the air between them like a challenge. For just a moment, Ben thought he saw something flicker across his father's face—recognition, maybe, or fear. But then Daniel's expression hardened into the familiar mask of distant disappointment.

"If you keep talking like this, I'm calling Dr. Morrison," Daniel said. "Maybe you need to go back to therapy."

Allen piped up from across the table, his voice small and uncertain. "Dad? What's the Man in the Suit?"

Both men turned to look at the ten-year-old, and Ben felt his stomach drop at the pale, frightened expression on his little brother's face.

"Nothing," Daniel said quickly. "Just stories. Urban legends that kids tell to scare each other."

"But Ben said—"

"Ben was mistaken." Daniel's tone brooked no argument. "Weren't you, Ben?"

The threat was clear. Keep pushing this, and there would be consequences. Ben bit back the words burning on his tongue and forced himself to nod.

"Yeah," he said, hating himself for the lie. "Just stories."

But Allen didn't look convinced, and as Daniel grabbed his briefcase and headed for the door—probably fleeing to the sanctuary of his office at the university—Ben caught his brother's worried gaze.

"It's okay," Ben whispered. "Everything's okay."

The lie tasted bitter in his mouth.

---

School passed in a blur of meaningless classes and whispered conversations Ben couldn't quite make out. He found himself jumping at every unexpected sound—lockers slamming, chairs scraping against linoleum, the sharp click of high heels in the hallway. By lunch, his nerves were stretched so thin he could barely hold his sandwich without his hands shaking.

It was in Mrs. Henderson's history class that he heard it again.

Click. Click. Click.

The sound drifted through the classroom like an echo from another world, barely audible beneath Mrs. Henderson's droning lecture about the Industrial Revolution. Ben's head snapped up, his eyes scanning the room, but no one else seemed to notice. His classmates continued taking notes, their expressions bored and distant.

Click. Click. Click.

There it was again, coming from somewhere beyond the classroom walls. Ben shot his hand into the air.

"Mrs. Henderson? Can I use the bathroom?"

She waved him away with barely a glance, too absorbed in her PowerPoint presentation to care. Ben grabbed the hall pass and slipped out of the classroom, his heart hammering against his ribs.

The hallway stretched empty in both directions, fluorescent lights humming overhead. But the sound continued, echoing off the painted concrete walls like a ghost's footsteps.

Click. Click. Click.

Ben followed the sound down the corridor, past rows of lockers and bulletin boards advertising upcoming school events. The footsteps seemed to stay just ahead of him, always around the next corner, always just out of sight.

He turned left toward the main office and froze.

The hallway was empty, but there on the polished linoleum floor was a single wet footprint. Perfectly formed, shaped like the sole of a dress shoe, gleaming with moisture that seemed to evaporate even as Ben watched.

"What are you doing out here, Mr. Carter?"

Ben spun around to find Principal Davidson standing behind him, arms crossed and eyebrows raised. The older man's gaze flicked to the floor where the footprint had been, but there was nothing there now—just clean, dry linoleum reflecting the harsh overhead lights.

"I... I heard something," Ben stammered. "Footsteps. Someone walking in the hall."

Principal Davidson's expression softened slightly, the kind of look adults got when they thought they were dealing with a troubled kid. "The building makes all kinds of sounds, Ben. Old pipes, settling foundations. It's nothing to worry about."

"But I saw—"

"Why don't you head back to class?" The principal's tone was gentle but firm. "And if you're having trouble concentrating, maybe we should call your father. See about getting you some help."

The threat was subtle but clear. Ben nodded and trudged back toward Mrs. Henderson's classroom, but his mind was racing. The footprint had been real. He'd seen it, touched the moisture with his own finger before Principal Davidson arrived.

They can't all be lying, he thought. They can't all be in on it.

But the alternative—that he really was losing his mind—seemed almost worse.

---

That evening, Ben waited until he heard his father's bedroom door close before creeping up to the attic. The Carter family had lived in the old Victorian rental house for three years, but Ben had never spent much time in the cramped space under the eaves. It was dusty and filled with cobwebs, packed with boxes of Christmas decorations and old furniture that had seen better days.

But tonight, he had a purpose.

If his father wouldn't tell him the truth, maybe he could find it himself. Daniel Carter was Tourmaline Falls' unofficial town historian, a professor at the local community college who specialized in regional folklore and local history. If anyone had information about the town's missing children, it would be him.

Ben worked his way through box after box of old papers, using his phone's flashlight to illuminate yellowed documents and faded photographs. Most of it was academic stuff—research notes, published articles, correspondence with other historians. But then, wedged behind a broken rocking chair, he found something interesting.

A small wooden box, maybe eight inches square, with a simple brass latch. It looked old, the wood darkened with age and wear. When Ben opened it, the hinges creaked like they hadn't been used in years.

Inside were photographs. Dozens of them, all black and white or faded color prints that looked like they'd been taken over several decades. School photos, mostly—the kind with forced smiles and carefully combed hair. But there was something wrong with these pictures, something that made Ben's skin crawl.

Each photograph had been marked with a red X across the child's face.

Ben's hands trembled as he rifled through the images. Some of the kids looked familiar—faces he'd seen in old yearbooks or heard mentioned in whispered conversations. Others were complete strangers, but they all shared one thing in common: they looked like they were between ten and seventeen years old.

At the bottom of the box, underneath the photographs, was a piece of paper. A list, written in his father's careful handwriting:

Sarah Mitchell - July 1, 1987 Tommy Rodriguez - July 1, 1991
Jessica Chen - July 1, 1995 Michael Brennan - July 1, 2019

The list went on, names and dates stretching back decades. All July first. All children who had supposedly "run away" from Tourmaline Falls.

Ben's breath caught in his throat as he reached the bottom of the list. There, in fresh ink that looked like it had been added recently, was a new entry:

Benjamin Carter - July 1, 2024

His own name. Written in his father's handwriting.

No, Ben thought, his mind reeling. No, no, no. This can't be real.

But even as he tried to deny it, pieces began clicking into place. His father's strange behavior, the way adults in town seemed to avoid meeting his eyes, the spiral-shaped mark on his wrist that had always seemed different from a normal birthmark.

Ben rolled up his sleeve and examined the mark more closely in the phone's LED light. Now that he was really looking at it, he could see that it wasn't just a discolored patch of skin. The spiral was too perfect, too deliberate. It looked almost like...

Like a brand.

The realization hit him like a physical blow. The mark on his wrist wasn't a birthmark at all. It was a sign, a symbol that marked him as chosen. Just like Mikey had been chosen. Just like all the others on his father's list.

Ben sank back against the dusty attic wall, the box of photographs scattered around him. His father knew. Had always known. That's why Daniel had been so angry this morning, so desperate to dismiss Ben's claims about the footsteps. He'd been trying to protect him—or maybe just trying to live with the guilt of knowing what was coming.

Eleven days, Ben thought, the countdown that had been running in the back of his mind since the phantom footsteps started. Eleven days until July first.

Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the old windows and making the house creak and settle around him. But underneath those familiar sounds, barely audible, Ben could swear he heard something else.

Click. Click. Click.

The Man in the Suit was coming for him, just like he'd come for Mikey. Just like he'd been coming for children in Tourmaline Falls for decades.

And Ben was running out of time to figure out how to stop him.