Chapter 5 — Loomis Street
The day was too warm for winter.
That was the first thing Cid noticed when they turned onto Loomis Street.
Snow still clung to the sidewalks in gray piles already collapsing into slush. Meltwater ran along the curb in narrow black streams. Two houses down, a man stood on his porch in shirtsleeves, smoking as if January had decided—for one strange afternoon—to stop caring. Farther along the block, children kicked a half-flat ball against a garage door, the hollow thud echoing between brick walls.
Nothing about the street looked prepared for fear.
Which made the house worse.
It was narrow, brick-faced, and painfully ordinary. No broken windows. No dead vines clinging to the siding. No theatrical decay. Just a porch light already on, curtains drawn too early, and the subtle impression that the house had withdrawn from the rest of the block.
They parked without hurry.
Mike checked batteries while unloading equipment. Dave walked the alley first, scanning fences and back doors. Ruben and Tomas had notebooks open before they even reached the gate.
Pastor Elias remained on the sidewalk a moment longer.
He studied the house the way a doctor studies a patient—carefully, without assuming the worst.
Cid stood beside him.
“Say the ordinary things first,” Elias said quietly.
Cid nodded and examined the structure.
“Shared wall with neighbors.”
“Yes.”
“Old brick. Sound carries.”
“Yes.”
“Possible heating issues. Pipes knocking. Wood settling.”
Elias nodded.
Truth first.
Always truth first.
Then they walked to the door.
The mother opened it before Pastor Elias finished knocking.
She had clearly been waiting.
Frightened families stayed close to doors.
She looked exhausted in the quiet way real exhaustion shows itself—hair tied back too quickly, eyes red from nights that ended too late and began too early.
Behind her stood an older woman clutching a rosary.
Farther down the hallway, a boy of maybe ten hovered near the wall, trying not to hide.
Pastor Elias introduced the team simply.
No unnecessary titles.
When he reached Cid he said only, “Audio.”
The mother nodded as if that explained everything.
Then she stepped aside.
The cold came out immediately.
Not a draft.
Not outside air slipping through a crack.
This cold belonged to the house.
Cid felt it against his face before he fully crossed the threshold.
Then he saw his breath.
Mike noticed too. He paused halfway through setting down a camera case and stared at the air.
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Dave entered last and shut the door.
The cold stayed.
That was the first real fact.
The front room had been turned into a camp.
Three mattresses were pushed together on the floor. Blankets lay in uneven piles. Pillows leaned against the wall. A saucepan sat beside one mattress with a spoon still inside it. Medicine bottles rested near schoolbooks and a flashlight. A phone charger stretched across the carpet toward the couch.
No one in the house was sleeping alone.
Pastor Elias noticed but said nothing.
Mike placed one camera low in the front room and another aimed toward the stairs. Ruben checked vents and windows. Tomas began writing environmental notes.
Dave touched the radiator.
“Heat running?”
The father appeared in the kitchen doorway.
“It should be.”
Dave glanced at him.
“Should?”
“It cuts out sometimes. Mostly at night.”
Tomas wrote it down.
Pastor Elias gestured toward the chairs.
No one sat immediately.
People only sat when they believed a room could hold them.
“We start with ordinary causes,” Elias said.
The father nodded quickly.
Good.
He still wanted the house to make sense.
The grandmother did not nod. Her rosary beads moved steadily through her fingers.
Pastor Elias began the interview.
“Who noticed something first?”
“I did.”
The voice came from the staircase.
Everyone turned.
The daughter stood halfway down the steps, one hand on the railing as if deciding whether she trusted the room. Sixteen, perhaps. Pale with exhaustion. Her hair was uneven near one shoulder, as if she had cut it herself during a bad night.
She descended slowly and sat on the edge of a chair.
“What did you hear?” Elias asked.
“Walking.”
“Where?”
“Upstairs.”
“What time?”
“After three. Not every night.”
“What did you think it was?”
“My dad. Or pipes.”
The father nodded.
“Old houses carry sound.”
The grandmother’s rosary clicked once.
Pastor Elias turned to the mother.
“What did you think at first?”
“Pipes,” she said. “Or the neighbors.”
“And when did that change?”
She hesitated.
“When it started stopping.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’d hear it walking. Then if someone opened a door it stopped immediately. Not fading. Just… stopped.”
Cid wrote that down.
“What happened next?” Elias asked.
The daughter answered.
“Things moved.”
“What kind of things?”
“Kitchen chairs first.”
The father shook his head.
“That could’ve been anyone.”
“Not at four in the morning,” the mother said quietly.
Silence settled in the room.
Pastor Elias let it sit.
“Start from the beginning,” he said. “Slowly.”
The mother took a breath.
“At first it was only her hearing footsteps. Then my husband heard them too. After that, nothing for about a week. Then chairs started moving in the kitchen. Cabinet doors were open in the morning.”
“Anything missing?” Ruben asked.
“No.”
“Anything broken?”
“No.”
“That’s when I checked the locks,” the father said.
“Doors?” Dave asked.
“Yes.”
“Windows?”
“Yes.”
“Basement?”
The father hesitated.
Dave noticed.
“What changed down there?”
“Storage boxes moved. Stacked differently.”
“Anyone else go down there?”
“No,” the mother said quickly.
The boy stared at his shoes.
Pastor Elias noticed.
“Who stopped sleeping first?” he asked.
The mother glanced toward the daughter.
That answered the question.
“What happened?” Elias asked.
The girl rubbed her thumb against her palm.
“I stopped wanting to go upstairs.”
“Because of the footsteps?”
“At first.”
“And later?”
“The cold.”
“Where?”
“Hallway. Bathroom. My room sometimes.”
“Always the same place?”
“No.”
That mattered.
“How did the family end up sleeping here?” Elias asked.
“The bathroom door,” the mother said.
The boy pressed closer to her.
“He woke up one night and went upstairs. The bathroom light was on under the door. Then it went out. But the door never opened.”
The boy whispered, “The handle moved.”
The father cleared his throat.
“He was scared already.”
The grandmother finally spoke.
“He was scared because the house had already taught him to be.”
No one argued.
Pastor Elias continued gently.
“What happened when you began praying?”
“Nothing the first night,” the grandmother said.
“And the second?”
“One knock.”
“Where?”
“The wall.”
“And the third night?”
“Two.”
She met his eyes.
“Then three.”
A reply.
Pastor Elias gathered the team quietly in the kitchen.
“What do we have?”
Dave spoke first.
“Furnace doesn’t explain the temperature.”
Mike nodded.
“If it were the heating system the cold wouldn’t stay localized like that.”
“Witnesses disagree about meaning,” Ruben said, “but the pattern matches.”
“That helps,” Tomas added.
Pastor Elias looked at Cid.
“Audio?”
“Street noise through the wall. Pipes upstairs. Nothing yet explaining footsteps.”
The priest nodded.
“Continue.”
They worked for another twenty minutes.
The house remained stubbornly ordinary.
Then Cid heard it.
Three soft impacts upstairs.
Not loud enough for the room.
But clear through the recorder.
He raised his hand.
Pastor Elias looked up.
“Where?”
Cid pointed toward the stairs.
“No rush,” Elias said.
They went upstairs together.
The hallway was colder.
Cold enough for breath to show again.
They searched.
Nothing.
Then the grandmother called from below.
“It’s starting.”
They returned downstairs.
The family had gathered close together.
The grandmother began to pray softly.
The first line passed without answer.
So did the second.
Then the knocking came.
Three strikes.
Inside the wall beside the stairs.
The boy began crying. The mother pulled him close. The father stood abruptly. The daughter went pale.
Mike’s camera was already aimed at the wall.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
Then footsteps upstairs.
Slow.
Measured.
One end of the hallway to the other.
The daughter lowered her head in recognition.
A moment later a door closed upstairs.
Softly.
Like someone careful not to wake a sleeping person.
The room froze.
Pastor Elias closed the Bible.
“We’re ending here tonight.”
They began packing.
Then the lights flickered.
Once.
Twice.
Darkness swallowed the room.
No one moved.
The lights returned.
For a moment no one understood what they were hearing.
Then the kitchen radio came alive.
A thin guitar line dragged through static.
“In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida.”
The mother covered her mouth.
The daughter shut her eyes.
The boy cried harder.
The investigators exchanged quick looks.
Then, almost unconsciously, their attention shifted toward Cid.
He felt it.
Pastor Elias spoke calmly.
“We’re done for tonight.”
They stepped outside.
The warm air felt wrong after the cold inside the house.
Equipment went into the trunk.
“Not mechanical,” Dave said.
“Not all of it,” Mike replied.
“We escalate?” Tomas asked.
“Yes,” Pastor Elias said.
They began walking toward the street.
Cid lingered beside the car.
Then he heard it.
Soft.
A young girl’s voice.
“Can I keep you?”
His hand froze on the trunk.
Recognition came before the fear.
He knew that voice.
He knew those words.
The others kept walking.
No one else reacted.
Cid stood very still beside the car.
The street was quiet.
The air warm.
The house behind him.
Waiting.
Slowly, he began to turn.
