“Mom,” she said at breakfast, “did you notice the crack in my ceiling?”

And then it split.

A crack in the plaster of her bedroom ceiling, directly above her pillow. It was shaped like a crooked question mark, and for three nights she stared at it, wondering if it had always been there. On the fourth night, she was certain it had grown longer.

Tonight. 11:47 PM. She will finally see.

Not with a crash or a bang, but with a soft, wet sound—like lips parting. The crack widened into a seam, and the seam into an opening. Beyond it was not the attic insulation or the roof shingles or the cold outside air. Beyond it was a room. Her room. But wrong.

She began staying up late, listening. Not for monsters under the bed—those were childish things. She listened for the between sounds. The pause between the furnace kicking off and the refrigerator humming on. In that silence, she swore she could hear something. A low, slow pulse. Like a heart buried in the walls.

She reached out and touched the crack.