Chapter 3 - The Panic of Claire Carter
Claire Carter, thirty-four years old, was a striking white American woman with fair skin, slender features, and long brown hair that fell neatly over her shoulders. She wore an elegant beige silk blouse tucked into dark, high-waisted trousers, a simple gold wedding ring on her left hand, and dark leather flats. Normally, Claire possessed an effortless, tranquil composure—the kind of quiet grace that maintained the immaculate standard of their home and lifestyle.
But as she entered the kitchen and saw Ryan standing over Ethan near the floor vent, her composure shattered instantly.
Her rosy complexion drained of all color, leaving her face ashen and drawn. Her lips parted, her breathing spiking into rapid, shallow gasped intakes of air. She stopped dead in her tracks, her hand instinctively clutching the fabric over her collarbone where her gold necklace rested.
"Ryan," she said, her voice strained, pitched a register too high. "What... what are you doing down there? Ethan, get up off the floor right now. Go to your room."
Ethan didn't move. He remained crouched near his father's polished shoes, his hands clasped together, looking back and forth between his parents with overwhelming fear.
Ryan didn't answer his wife immediately. He stared at her, his dark eyes narrowing as he analyzed her visceral, disproportionate reaction. He saw the tremble in her lower jaw, the way her eyes darted frantically toward the aluminum vent and then back to his face.
"Claire," Ryan said, his tone dropping into a grave, commanding register. "What is Ethan talking about?"
"He’s just playing, Ryan!" Claire blurted out, taking two fast, unbalanced steps forward, her flats clicking loudly against the hardwood. She waved a hand dismissively, but her hand was shaking so badly she had to tuck it into her pocket. "You know how his imagination gets! He’s been talking about noises in the walls for weeks because of the squirrels in the attic. Ethan, tell your father you were just making up a story!"
"I'm not making it up!" Ethan cried out, his young voice breaking as tears finally spilled over his fair cheeks. "She’s real! She’s right behind the board!"
Ryan felt a surge of adrenaline hit his bloodstream like cold ice water. Ignored completely was his professional demeanor, replaced by a visceral, protective fury. He turned away from Claire and stepped directly toward the vent, dropping down onto one knee, his heavy gold watch gleaming under the bright overhead lights.
"Ryan, stop!" Claire screamed.
She rushed across the marble-tiled kitchen island line, her hands reaching out in sheer desperation. She grabbed the shoulder of his tailored black suit, her manicured nails digging into the high-end fabric as she attempted to physically pull her husband back from the baseboard.
Panic was stark, ugly, and absolute on her face. Her eyes were wide, bloodshot with sudden pressure, her mouth open in a desperate plea.
"Don't open it!" Claire begged, her American accent laced with hysterical terror as she pulled at his arm. "Ryan, please! Don't look! There’s nothing in there! It’s just old pipes! Please, just leave it alone!"
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"Get off me, Claire!" Ryan roared, throwing his arm back to break her grip.
He didn't hurt her, but the sheer force of his movement forced her back two steps. She stumbled against the white edge of the marble counter, her chest heaving, her hands trembling as she held them up in a gesture of surrender and dread.
