Knock three times and call up the devil. Knock four times and chase him back.

The thumpin stopped. Below us we could hear loud talkin and yellin, and the drawn-out yodel of a hound. Then we heard the sounds of tappin on the wall.

Loud talk again, and then heavy stompin. Tappin again, right close, from the wall at the foot of my bed.

Tap, tap, tap. Then the sound and feel of someone walkin on the floorboards just the other side of the bricks.

I reached over to the table and knocked soundlessly four times to chase the evil away. As I pulled back my hand, my knuckle hit the side of the cup; it tipped and rolled toward the edge of the table, and water spilt onto the floor. I caught the cup just afore it fell, but the water pooled, then disappeared into the crack between the floor and the trapdoor.

It turned quiet. So quiet that all I heard was the roarin inside my head. I held on to the cup with one hand, Brightwell with the other, and looked over at Zenobia. She had her eyes all squinched together, and sweat run down her forehead and along her nose. Brightwell stared straight ahead, never blinked, never moved; it were like he had fallen deep asleep with his eyes wide open.

“Where’d this water come from?” my pa yelled.

I felt like I always did when Pa come for me at home. I wanted to run, find a tall tree and climb up and out of his sight, but I were stuck in a small room just a few feet above him.

We could hear a voice answer softly.

Pa growled, “Bad roof, bad house.”

Another answer, but so soft we couldn’t hear the words.

I started to shakin and set the cup back onto the table afore I dropped it. Pa’s voice, that voice that scairt me more than a kick or a hittin, it near sent me to the floor.

I could hear more yellin and howlin. Were Pa goin to find his way up here—find me, find Zenobia and Brightwell? I wrapped my arms around myself like I were freezin cold. But I weren’t cold, I were scairt, just scairt to my bones and knowin what would happen if he tried to see where that water come from.

Below us a door slammed hard, and the sounds of men and dogs faded.

I still held on to myself, as if I could keep all the scairt inside and all the bad outside.

A few minutes passed afore Brightwell blinked and said, “I think they gone now.”

Zenobia let out a long sigh, stood up, and paced two steps down the little room and two steps back, wipin her forehead with the back of her hand, then dryin it on her skirt.

“That time they too close,” she whispered. “They come all the way to the attic. Why they keep comin here? Is somebody lettin on that Auntie’s is a safe house?”

I could feel myself shakin, but I didn’t want Zenobia and Brightwell to see me scairt.

I pushed myself up, set back down, and explained that the shakin were because I’d been so sick.

Zenobia and Brightwell didn’t disagree, but they passed a look between them that told me they knew how scairt I were.

I’m right used to takin care of myself. I’m used to knowin where to find a safe place to hide, and to knowin where I can wild gather enough victuals to last for a few days. But here I set—somewhere, and not knowin nothin about where I were or how I’d get away if Pa got close again.

“Zenobia, I need you to catch me up on what is happenin—and where am I?”

Zenobia paced another couple steps and set down beside me.

“We was waitin for you to find your way here. Auntie knowed you were comin.”

“After you faint, Auntie let us out of our hidin spot and ask me to carry you up to her room,” Brightwell said. “Auntie clean you and dress you in a nightshirt.”

“Me and Brightwell snuck outside and burn your clothes under the big soap pot—they was tore up some bad and had your smell all over them.”

Zenobia stopped talkin, reached into her pocket, and pulled somethin out.

“Here, Lark,” she said. “You needs your good luck. I pulled it out of your pocket afore we burnt them clothes.”

My heart jumped. I don’t know why, but just curlin my fingers around that buckeye’s smooth made me feel right settled inside.

Brightwell leant forward and the rocker creaked. “Then we had to get you up to this room because we knowed that you couldn’t be hid downstairs.”

“Who’s been feedin me?”

“Auntie make the food and either Zenobia or me bring it up. You never even woke most of the time, but once you had a bad dream, and Zenobia had to quick up here and sing to quieten you.”

I remembered thinkin that someone were singin to me. It had been Zenobia.

Thump, thump, thump from below.

Brightwell raised his finger to his mouth again. “The signal,” he whispered.

We stopped talkin and did the hardest thing—we waited.