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Jenna wondered what she could possibly say to the woman on the phone. Hilda Thornton sounded nearly hysterical at the idea of a ghost in her attic. And although Jenna didn’t believe in ghosts wandering about the world—at least not the kind that whispered and rattled things in order to frighten living people—who was she to question that possibility?

Still, she felt it was important to try to calm the elderly widow rather than to encourage her panic over something that surely didn’t exist. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Thornton,” Jenna began. “I don’t think there’s really a ghost …”

“Is that Hilda?” Frank’s gruff voice cut through Jenna’s attempt.

Jenna nodded, her eyes meeting Frank’s questioning gaze. She knew that look; Frank wanted in on the call. Without hesitation, she pressed the speaker button, and Hilda’s anxious voice spilled into the kitchen, now audible to all.

“Oh, it’s a ghost,” she wailed. “I know it. Nothing else would make noises like that.”

“Frank Doyle’s here, Mrs. Thornton,” Jenna announced, stepping back so Frank could take the lead.

“Mrs. Thornton, it’s Frank Doyle,” he said, his tone reassuring. “Tell me what’s happening over there.”

There was a pause, the kind heavy with hesitation before Hilda replied. “Oh, Frank, it’s awful. There are these... these strange sounds coming from my attic. They aren’t human, I tell you!”

As Jenna watched, Frank’s face remained impassive, betraying no hint of skepticism.

“Mrs. Thornton, you just sit tight,” his voice was a solid anchor in the turbulent sea of Hilda’s panic. “I’ll be there with Sheriff Graves and Deputy Hawkins shortly. We’ll take care of everything for you.”

A brief silence followed, then a relieved exhale from the other end of the line. “Thank you so much, Frank. I’ll be waiting for you right here, downstairs. I’m not going up there by myself,” Hilda said before the call ended.

Jenna pocketed her phone, her gaze flickering toward Jake, who looked relaxed despite the odd situation. She could see that he was getting used to the peculiarities of Trentville, so different from whatever he’d dealt with in Kansas City.

“Frank, do you really think it’s a good idea to tell Hilda we’re coming over to fix things for her?” Jenna’s voice held an edge of frustration, the weariness of her day pressing against her resolve. “This has to be another one of Hilda’s false alarms. Since Ike passed, she’s been seeing threats at every turn. Wouldn’t it have been better to calm her down, convince her she’s hearing things again?”

“Remember last month?” Jake added, “She was convinced someone was trying to break in when it was just Mrs. Patterson’s cat caught in the window well.”

“I know,” Frank said in agreement. “And back when I was still sheriff, she called about a prowler in her backyard, only to find out it was the paperboy taking a shortcut.” His gray eyes twinkled with a hint of mischief as he added with a playful grin. “But maybe it is a ghost this time. Why should Jenna Graves, of all people, dismiss that possibility?”

Jenna rolled her eyes, unable to suppress a reluctant smile at the echo of her own thoughts. “Very funny, Frank,” she replied.

Of course, she knew he was right. How many people would ever believe that she got information from her inexplicable encounters with the dead that she kept tucked away like old photographs in a drawer? The only two people who knew anything about that were right here in Frank’s kitchen with her.

“Let’s just make sure she’s alright,” Frank met her eyes, his own reflecting a lifetime of understanding the fragile nature of the human mind. “Jenna, sometimes you’ve got to show up, even when you suspect it’s just imagination playing tricks. People need to feel seen, especially someone like Hilda. It’s not always about what’s there, but about our being there, y’know?”

She nodded reluctantly, feeling the truth in his words. Despite the odds, they couldn’t ignore a call for help—not in a town where everyone knew each other’s name, and every cry in the night echoed down familiar streets. And, after all, wasn’t that part of why she joined law enforcement? To be there for people, to search for answers, even when they seemed as elusive as the specters in Hilda’s attic?

“Okay then, let’s get going,” she agreed.

As the three of them stepped out of Frank’s house into the fading light, the air held the warmth of an evening late in June. Jenna clicked the car fob, unlocking the doors with a soft chirp. The three of them slid into the seats, the interior still releasing the day’s heat in soft waves. Then the air conditioning kicked on, sending a rush of cool air through the vehicle.

Frank let out a chuckle as he buckled himself in beside her, a reminder of the bond they shared—a bond built on mutual respect, unspoken secrets, and the knowledge that, sometimes, the line between this world and the next could blur in the most unexpected ways.

Jake took his place in the back seat, his presence a quiet reassurance. Jenna pulled the car away from the curb, the engine purring softly as she guided it through the streets of Trentville, the tableau of small-town life unfolding quietly around them.

The car rolled to a stop outside Hilda Thornton’s quaint, weathered home that seemed to lean into its own stories of bygone days. Hilda, a thin silhouette against the fading light, was waiting on the porch, wringing her hands.

“Thank heavens you’re here,” Hilda burst out as the three approached, the anxious lines of her face deepening with each hurried word. “The noises, they’re unlike anything I’ve ever heard. Like moans and scratches, and sometimes this wild wailing.” The tremor in her voice betrayed her distress, echoing through the quiet street as she clutched at the collar of her cardigan. “Ever since Ike passed, I... I don’t know how to deal with these things alone.”

Jenna offered a reassuring nod, her gaze sweeping over Hilda’s face, reading the raw edge of vulnerability left in the wake of loss.

Frank was right—real or imagined, it was a cry for help that couldn’t be ignored.

“Let’s take a look inside, Hilda,” Jenna said. Frank and Jake each spoke warmly to the widow, and they all stepped over the threshold into the dimly lit dwelling.

Once inside, Jenna took the lead, her senses heightened to every detail that painted the old house in strokes of neglect and memory. Dust motes danced lazily in the shafts of light that fought their way through the drapes that seemed to sway with a life of their own. Her eyes adjusted to the sparse lighting, her mind cataloging each nuance—the way the faded wallpaper seemed like an ancient skin, the subtle shifts of air that whispered of hidden spaces.

She thought that benign neglect alone might have created the setting for Hilda Thornton’s belief in ghosts in the attic. It was an atmosphere ripe for conjuring tales of the supernatural, yet Jenna’s skepticism still held firm.

Her gaze shifted to Frank, whose expression was akin to amusement. His eyes held hers for a moment, gray and steady, as if to say he knew the script of small-town superstitions all too well. Jake was gazing around casually, as if nothing here seemed at all odd to him.

“So where’s this ghost you need to have evicted?” Frank asked the window.

“Up there,” Hilda whispered. Standing well away from it, she pointed to a simple wooden panel door, aged and painted over one time too many.

Jenna’s gaze shifted to Frank, whose expression was unreadable yet edged with something akin to amusement. Jenna opened that door, and the stairwell yawned open before them, narrow and steep, with steps worn down by generations of treading feet. Jenna took the lead, and Frank and Jake followed. Each step they took raised whispers from the old wood—a creaky chorus accompanying their climb.

Then they heard a sound, the faintest patter of movement, a sporadic rustling that might have been dismissed as the house settling—if not for the expectant tension that drew their eyes upward. The noise was too deliberate, too rhythmic for mere coincidence.

“Animals, maybe?” Jake suggested from behind her, his voice betraying curiosity.

“Could be,” Jenna responded, her tone even. Yet, her mind raced with possibilities, from the mundane to the inexplicable. As Sheriff in Genesis county, she’d encountered her fair share of oddities that defied easy explanation.

She reached the top of the staircase, stepping into semi-darkness that blanketed the attic, only a scant light filtering through a small vent. Jenna switched on the flashlight of her cellphone, the beam lending an otherworldly shimmer to the air. They were enveloped in quiet, broken only by the subtle disturbances that revealed something lurking nearby.

Jenna scanned the area methodically, her eyes darting from one detail to the next—here, scuffs in the dust that spoke of recent disturbance; there, a patch of insulation that seemed out of place, as if clawed at. She heard nothing at all, and wondered if her companions were both holding their breath.

The stillness was suddenly broken by a rustling noise to their right, pulling their focus towards a corner where decades of discarded memories gathered dust. Jenna held up a hand, signaling Frank and Jake to cease any movement. Her heart beat a steady rhythm, not from fear but from the thrill of the unknown that always accompanied such moments.

“Stay back,” she instructed softly, her voice barely above a whisper. Years of training had honed her ability to move silently, to blend into her surroundings until she became just another shade in the darkness. She crept forward, her every sense sharpening as she closed in on the source of the sound. As she approached the corner, the noise grew more distinct—a shuffling, scratching sound that suggested something alive and restless.

Jenna crouched low, minimizing her silhouette against the dim backdrop of the attic. Her eyes never left the spot where the sounds emanated, her body poised to react.

Then she saw a movement. An old quilt hunched up and down as somebody or something changed position beneath it.

There was a tension in the air, a charged expectancy that filled the space between each of Jenna’s shallow breaths. Whatever was lurking in Hilda Thornton’s attic was about to be unmasked.

Jenna extended her arm, muscles tensed for any sudden movement. The shadows seemed to cling to the hidden inhabitant of the attic, as if complicit in its concealment. Taking a deep breath, she readied herself, taking hold of the edge of the old quilt that was draped over an unseen form. With a practiced flick of her wrist, the fabric flew upward.

Two dark eyes stared angrily back at her.