boards lying atop a pile of rags at the bottom. I swing the beam over them.
“Enigma? Where are—?”
A mew answers but from underneath me. An orange tail flicks, no more than a couple feet below. Putting the flashlight aside, I stretch out on my stomach. Then, I ease my head and shoulders over the hole. And there she is, sitting on a thin plank of framework just under the hole. She must have caught herself while falling and scrambled up there. Now, she looks at me, completely unperturbed by her predicament. Trusting that I’ll rescue her.
I take a deep breath and try not to panic. I also try not to calculate how far she’ll fall, though my treacherous brain still throws back, At least fifteen feet. Another deep breath, and I remind myself of the pile of rags below, which would cushion her fall.
Pile of rags? Why would there be . . . ? I shine the light down and freeze, staring at what looks like—
Enigma mews. I lean as far as I dare so she can see me.
“I’m going to get you out of there,” I say. “Let me grab a ladder and—”
She jumps. Before I can freak out, she’s clinging to my shirt. And then I do freak out, her weight jolting me so hard I start to fall. I frantically grab for the side of the hole while my other hand grabs the kitten hanging by her claws from my shirt. Enigma settles in against me, as unconcerned as ever.
I get a handhold and then cradle her as I shimmy backward over the rough passage floor, ignoring the jab of splinters. Finally, I’m as secure as I can get, and I pull up from the hole, lifting Enigma with me. It’s a dangerous and tricky move, and when I’m finally sitting there, holding her in my lap, I shake from both nerves and exertion. The ungrateful feline chirps and attempts to inflict a second heart attack by scrambling up my shirt, out of my grip. Before I can grab her, she hops off my shoulder and trots back down the passage.
As I twist, she disappears through a gap in the boards that I wouldn’t have thought big enough for a mouse. Then she turns and pokes one paw through, as if waving for me to join her. I grab the remaining plank covering the hole. The wood is soft in my hands, rotting. As I shove the board in to jam the mouse hole shut, Enigma yowls her disapproval.
I return to the linen closet and make the rounds of every room adjoining the passage, turning on all the lights. Then, I return to the passage and walk through in the dark, looking for stray light to indicate holes. I don’t find any.
When I turn the final corner, I stay at the end, not daring to get near the hole in the dark. That’s when I remember what I saw down that hole.
I turn on my flashlight, return to the hole, kneel and shine the light down. The heap still looks like rags. Rags that weren’t there when William and I were children, exploring in his time.
Back then, William and I made up endless stories about this hole. One day, we’d pulled back the boards and lowered a candle . . . to see nothing except the candle that we’d dropped when we first discovered the hole. It was empty then. It’s not empty now.
I’m shining my light when a small silver circle reflects back. I twist the light and squint until I can make out a silver button on a dark shape that takes form as a boot.
As I hold the light at arm’s length, something materializes under the pile of not-rags. White against the dark floor. Two white, jointed sticks, digging into the dirt.
The bones of two small fingers.
I pull back, breath seizing. I sit on my haunches, arms wrapped around my knees, so close to the edge that when I inhale a deep, ragged breath, I rock and then nearly fall as I scramble back. I crouch there, inhaling and exhaling. I want to tell myself I saw wrong, dash out and padlock the door, never to return.
How long has that door been locked?
Not long enough to blame whoever put a body in the hole. The clothing is too rotted, and that door wasn’t locked when I was little.
I look back in the hole, and there’s no mistake. Fingers protrude from under cloth. A booted