The Chalk Mark Six
“Okay,” she whispered, and took one step backward. Then a second.
The seam in the wall quivered, barely there. For an instant, Harper thought she saw light behind it—not bright, not warm, more like a different shade of the same darkness. A shape moved on the other side. Maybe. Or maybe her brain made one because that’s what brains do when they’re busy saving you and failing spectacularly.
“Mom?” she said, because the word had climbed up her throat and needed somewhere to go.
Something tapped on the wall from the other side. Not here. Not there. Exactly where her hand had hovered.
Harper flinched so hard she hit her head on the ductwork. The clang ricocheted, loud enough to make her wince and then laugh. Because if she didn’t laugh she was going to cry, and crying in a basement was a bad life choice.
“Okay!” she announced to pipes, chalk, seam, and any entities ranking her performance. “I hear you. Cool. Great. I am adding ‘knocking void’ to the list of things that happened before school.”
She wriggled back out from behind the furnace. Not running. Definitely not running. Absolutely speed-walking like a champion. The open space of the basement felt wider and narrower at the same time, like the corners were closer than they’d been a minute ago.
On the workbench, something new caught her eye. A tiny object she hadn’t noticed when she came down. It sat near the vise, half in dust, half in the circle of light like it had crept into the beam to be found.
A plastic ring—cheap, bright, the kind you get out of a fifty-cent machine after begging your parents with your best wounded-baby-duck eyes. Purple, with a little star. Harper’s stomach did a slow, miserable flip.
She hadn’t seen this ring in ten years.
They’d looked for it until the evening mosquitoes bullied them inside. She remembered sitting cross-legged on the grass, cheeks sticky with popsicle, while her dad said, “The grass wanted it more,” and spun her around until the world forgave both of them.
She picked up the ring. It was warm from the beam, or from her hand, or from being a piece of her life that had tunneled through time like a determined mole.
“Okay,” she said, quieter. “Okay.”
She slid the ring onto her pinky. It barely fit. It felt… right. Ridiculous and right.
Her brain, apparently delighted to contribute unhelpful content, offered a flash-reel of basements past: tornado warnings with everyone crammed on the bottom steps under quilts; her mom telling stories where thunder was a giant rolling bowling ball; her dad swearing the furnace hummed in E-flat and making her press her ear to the metal to “hear the music of the underworld.”
Once, Morgan had dared her to poke the gap behind the water heater with a broom to see if it was a portal to Narnia. It wasn’t. It was a portal to dust and a very offended cricket.
Also—because brains love to be thematic—Lila in homeroom last month. Head tilted like she was listening to something no one else could hear. Saying, almost to herself, “Old places keep the shape of the people who loved them.”
Harper had made a joke about stale bread keeping the shape of the bag. But now, in the basement that smelled like old cardboard and static, she felt the truth of Lila’s words prickle along her skin.
The washing machine clicked off, the drum slowing. The house exhaled and inhaled again.
“Reinforcements,” she told the empty air. “Morgan first, then… maybe Lila.” The name snagged gently, the way ideas sometimes did that you weren’t ready to admit were good.
She swept the beam once more across the back wall, because apparently she craved nightmares, and caught the shimmer again—thin as breath, there and gone when she blinked. The seam didn’t open. It just… waited. Or watched. Or whatever seams did when they had hobbies.
“Great,” she muttered. “My basement has opinions.”
On her way to the stairs, she cut the light across the shelves—board games (SORRY! with the exclamation point looking accusatory), a box of ornaments cushioned in newspaper (actual newspaper, with headlines about bands breaking up and products that definitely didn’t still exist), a plastic crate of her old craft stuff.
The crate’s lid had a crack in it she remembered making with an overenthusiastic elbow. Inside: glitter glue fossilized into gemstones, pipe cleaners in a tangle, a friendship-bracelet loom.
Harper hesitated, then tugged the loom free. She’d taught Morgan to make chevrons on that thing the summer between sixth and seventh grade. They’d sat on the porch in mosquito hour, smacking at their ankles and swearing their bracelets would be “cursed” if they messed up the pattern.
Lila hadn’t been around yet. The path in Harper’s memory flickered—if this house could tug lost rings across years, what else could it ferry?
“Focus,” she told herself, and set the loom back like returning an animal to its nest.
At the foot of the stairs, she paused. The risers looked taller than they had on the way down, which was rude because she was pretty sure they hadn’t grown. She tipped the flashlight up, sending the beam like a rope toward the square of the kitchen at the top.
“Donuts fix most hauntings,” she said, for courage. “Secondary fix: Morgan’s emergency binder. Tertiary fix: pretending this didn’t happen and moving to Guam.”
She put her foot on the first step.
The light faded again. Not died—shrank, like it had put on a tight sweater.
Harper stared at the beam, then at the seam of the basement door where the light from upstairs outlined it in a perfect rectangle. The boundary felt tangible. Like the difference between holding her breath and breathing. Between shut and open.
From the dark behind her, soft as wind across paper: knock… knock… knock. Not on wood this time. On air. The rhythm they’d used upstairs. A pattern, Erika wrote on a card in purple ink. Six is a magic number.
Harper swallowed, tucked the flashlight under her arm, and climbed. One, two, three. At “seven,” the cold slid off her shoulders like a shawl. Eight, nine. The kitchen warmth caught her like a relieved friend. She stepped through the doorway and pulled the basement door shut.
It thudded softly, as if the wood didn’t want to be loud.
The house listened.
“Right,” Harper told the counter, the clock, the bowl of keys, the life that was fine and would continue being fine if the universe would stop being dramatic for five minutes. “I’m going to Morgan’s.”
She grabbed her backpack, stuffed the flashlight into the outer pocket, and jammed her feet back into her shoes. The purple ring pinched the soft skin of her pinky just enough to feel like a promise.