Page 2 of Girl, Sought

Ten. Eleven. Twelve.

Silence fell.

Then another footstep on the stairs.

The December wind must be playing tricks, she reasoned. Eleanor had lived in this house long enough to know how it breathed and shifted, especially during the winter months. The old Victorian's bones creaked with every gust, and tonight's weather was fierce enough to rattle the windows.

The house was just settling. Had to be. She'd locked the door after she’d got back from the store this afternoon. No one could get in. No one would want to. Just an old widow and her dolls, riding out another December alone.

But then Eleanor remembered she'd put the trash out for collection. After that, she'd told herself she was going to do a sweep of the kitchen to make sure she hadn't missed any stray boxes. She'd left the front door unlocked while she did it.

Except the TV had distracted her during her cleanup – something about a scandal between two footballer’s wives. Not Eleanor’s usual genre of choice, but it had gripped her in that brainless, car-crash kind of way.

And another thud.

Maybe a tree branch had snapped in the wind. Maybe the house was shifting on its foundation. The possibilities rushed through her head, but each one felt flimsier than the last. She might have lived alone for five years, but she knew the sound of human footsteps when she heard them.

Eleanor scanned the restoration table. Her tools lay spread before her like surgical instruments: cotton swabs, brushes, the jeweler's loupe. Nothing useful. Nothing that could stop anyone.

Except maybe one thing.

The ceramic knife. Eleanor had paid a fortune for it, special-ordered from Japan for cleaning her dolls’ delicate joints. It felt strange in her hand. Too delicate. Three hundred dollars of precisely-crafted steel meant for cleaning doll joints, not whatever the hell this was.

Another creak from the stairs.

Eleanor rushed to her feet, stood beside the door, and listened to whatever might be on the other side. Wind howled, maybe through the gap in the bedroom window she always left open, even in glacial conditions like this. She placed a hand on the doorknob, and before she could second-guess herself, pulled it open.

She could see over the landing railing down below. Nothing there. No one in sight.

The framed photos of Thomas watched her creep past, his smile frozen in time. What would he think of his widow now, stalking her own house with trembling hands and a knife meant for doll repair?

The stairs stretched into darkness below. Rain pelted the windows at the landing as Eleanor pressed herself against the wall. She wondered if this was how her dolls felt - posed and motionless, just waiting for something to happen.

A creak from below. Not the house settling. Not the wind. The same steady rhythm she'd heard before, like someone trying to be quiet but not quite managing it. Eleanor's fingers were sweating against the knife's handle. Five years of widow-hood had taught her independence, but they’d never prepared her for this.

Eleanor eased down the stairs with her makeshift weapon clutched tight. She'd memorized which steps would betray her over the years - third from the top, second from the bottom, that weird spot in the middle.

The foyer stretched dark and empty below. Eleanor's heart thudded as she checked the front door. The deadbolt clicked into place under her fingers. She moved through the first floor - dining room, kitchen, living room. Nothing but shadows and the sound of rain.

The back door was unlocked. Eleanor's stomach lurched as she twisted the lock. She'd left it open while taking out the trash. Stupid, stupid mistake.

But no one was here. Just her imagination running wild, turning normal house sounds into footsteps.

Still, Eleanor did one final sweep. She wasn't taking chances. She went through the living room, dining room, Thomas’ old study, even that awkward space under the stairs where the previous owners had tried to make a closet.

Nothing but the usual ghosts. Empty rooms. Rain against the windows.

Eleanor's shoulders finally relaxed. The ceramic knife dangled loose in her grip now, more embarrassing than comforting. She'd been ready to stab someone with a restoration tool. The other librarians would love that story - the crazy doll lady, prowling her own house at midnight with a knife meant for cleaning porcelain joints.

She climbed back upstairs with new aches in every joint. Amazing how fear could drain you like that. Her neck hurt from tension, but at least the adrenaline had faded. Nothing in the house but herself and her collection. She'd feel stupid about this tomorrow.

The restoration room's light beckoned through the half-open door. Margaret waited on the table, that spider-web crack still spreading across her hip. No time like the present to document the damage before it got worse. Eleanor could email the Philadelphia conservator tonight, maybe even arrange transport by the end of the week.

Thunder rattled the old Victorian's bones. The storm outside wasn't letting up. Eleanor reached the door, ready to get back to real work. Ready to forget about jumping at shadows like some teenager home alone for the first time.

But then movement exploded behind her.

Something tight around her neck. Vision fading. Eleanor kicked and squirmed, but the fight for breath had her falling to the floor and crumbling to black within seconds. She caught glimpses of cheap footwear, blue suit trousers. And as she sunk down into the ground, Eleanor caught distorted images of herself and this faceless attacker in the reflections of her glass cabinets.

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