An old house has a voice. A language of creaking floors and groaning pipes. At least, that’s the story I told myself. That first night, a sound pierced the deep silence… thin, distant. A baby's cry. I dismissed it as a trick of the mind, a symptom of a new place far from the city. It was an easy lie to believe.
The cry returned the following night, and the one after. No longer a distant echo, ...
