Stolen Souls

41

GALYA FLINCHED AS the sound reached her. She made herself small in the darkness and listened. His footsteps hard and slow on the uncarpeted stairs, then scuffling on the hall floor above her head.

The cellar’s damp cold crept beneath her skin, bleeding into her muscles, reminding them of their fatigue.

“I know you’re still in the house,” he called, his voice dulled by the closed door at the top of the cellar stairs. “I can smell you. I know you can hear me.”

She retreated further into the corner, behind an old freezer that hummed low and steady.

“There’s no need to be afraid,” he said. His footsteps creaked along the hallway. “I only want to help you. That’s all.”

Galya felt around the linoleum flooring for anything heavy, anything sharp, anything that could be used as a weapon. She found only ridges and dips in the surface, as if the concrete beneath had cracked and been filled in.

“I know you found some … things.” The footsteps stopped at the door above. “I know it seems strange. To keep those things. But I don’t want you to worry. Everything’s going to be all right.”

Galya inched along the wall, moving away from the freezer. She felt something hard, wooden, blocking her way. A cabinet. Doors, unlocked. They swung open.

“Those people I told you about,” he said, his voice at the top of the stairway, only a door between him and her. “I spoke to them when I was out. I went to see them, that’s why I was away. They’re coming for you.”

She explored the cabinet’s innards, reaching into the corners, up into its roof, her fingers clasping at nothing but dust and paint flecks.

“But not today. It’s Christmas Eve. They don’t have any staff. It’ll be the day after tomorrow. But they’re coming. Then you can go home. I promise.”

A thin slash of light cut across the floor as the door above opened.

“I promise,” he said.