She bit her tongue until she tasted blood; the pain snapped her legs back under her control. Sarah lunged for the basement door instead, slammed it behind her, and dragged the old workbench in front of it. The children’s singing followed, muffled but cheerful, counting down from five. Something heavy started pushing from the other side. She flicked on the single bulb. The concrete walls were covered in tally marks; thousands of sets of five scratched deep, some fresh, some so old the grooves had filled with rust-colored stains. In the far corner sat a child-sized coffin made of pressed-wood paneling, exactly the same cheap stuff they’d torn off the dining room. The lid was cracked open six inches. A party balloon (red, shiny, “HAPPY BIRTHDAY” in faded letters) floated out, string first, like it was being reeled in by an invisible hand.
