With Father working at the forge and Mother running errands with Emma, William hauled his last load of firewood inside. Sweat rolled down his back and a steady ache filled his muscles, but though the work was taxing, physical labor eased the burden his mind carried. Father seldom praised his work, but perhaps completing the task that had been delegated to him with nary a complaint would sand the sharpness from his words.

Once he laid the last of the logs in the heap beside the fireplace, William wiped the sweat from his brow and hefted the fire poker into his hands. Built for pulling burning wood into a more suitable position, the end of the long piece of iron curled into a sharp point, perfect for piercing a rat's skull. Such precision was not required to kill a rodent either, not when the metal could crush tiny bones with a single strike. It wouldn't be the cleanest death, but if nothing else, it would be a quick one. William bore no sympathy for the ravenous creatures, but neither did he relish the thought of killing one himself.

Not even one that had invaded their home.

Emma's room hadn't changed much since she'd returned. All of her toys save Mr. Bear remained in her toy chest, and her sheets lacked the telltale wrinkles she'd leave whenever she tried to help Mother put them back on the bed. Not a single flower graced her nightstand, leaving the room dull and lifeless.

The air hung thick with silence. Such lifeless cleanliness was befitting of a cemetery, not a child's room.

William's footsteps did little to disturb the quiet as his feet shushed softly against the floor. When he was younger, his mother would call him her little ghost and gently chide him for startling her whenever he seemed to sneak up on her out of nowhere. His lips mirrored his feet, as silent as could be lest he incur Father's wrath.

That ever-cautious quietness served him well as he strained his ears searching for the smallest squeak. He waved the poker under the bed, but only a stray leaf fled from the metal. Nothing lurked under the sheets save a single sock.

With the bed thoroughly investigated, William turned his attention to the toy chest. A thick layer of dust coated the worn wood with not a single fingerprint breaking through the grime. Inside, a formerly beloved collection of stuffed animals stared up at him with cold button eyes. Where countless cuddles had once flatted their fur, now only the moths gave them company, gnawing through the fabric to reach their fluffy innards.

William blinked back tears as he nudged the toys with the tip of the poker. Emma may have come home, but the little girl who would beg him to put on concerts for an audience of stuffed animals was long gone.

Metal jingled inside the depths of the toy chest.

William froze, his grip on the poker tightening until the iron dug into his palm. His muscles tensed in anticipation of the Father's belt. The wet slap of leather on skin echoed in his ears as his breathing quickened, his chest so tight his lungs burned. Each heartbeat slammed his ribcage with all the force of Father's hammer striking his anvil.

Sharp pain followed by the metallic taste of blood seeping onto his tongue broke him from his trance. He was not kneeling before his father with his eyes squeezed shut. He was not waiting for the next blow. He was not crying for help that would never come.

He was alone. Safe.

William wiped the blood from his lips with his thumb. Only a few drops this time. Nothing Mother and Father would notice when they came home. Nothing that would invite unwelcome questions.

The rest of his investigation of the toy chest passed without incident. Robbed of the element of surprise, the tiny metal jacks scattered across the wood posed no threat as they clinked harmlessly against the fire poker. With nothing abnormal inside the toy chest save bits of stuffing sticking out of the moth-bitten stuffed animals, William moved on to the closet.

The door creaked open to reveal a collection of colorful garments. Pinks and pale blues filled the closet with all the brightness of spring. Hand-stitched butterflies and bees flew along the dresses' hems, brought to life by Mother's skillful embroidery.

Few of these would fit Emma now. Mother's nimble fingers could salvage a few skirts by enlarging the waistline, but not even she could save most of the too-small blouses. That was no trouble—other families would gladly give them hand-me-downs that would fit Emma better and Mother could easily repurpose any material—but so many hours of fine needlework would go to waste.

Mother would make many more clothes for Emma, William told himself as he blinked back tears. There was no reason for sorrow to slow his hands. He'd promised Mother he'd tidy Emma's closet for her, so that was what he'd do.

Just as William braced himself to begin extracting the garments that Emma had outgrown from the closet, the fabric rustled.

William thrust the poker into the shifting mass. Hangers clattered as the invading iron pummeled defenseless cloth. Chips of wood flew from the closet's walls, each blow knocking fragments free. If a rat lurked inside, he'd strike the creature with all his strength, orderliness be damned.

At last, William lowered the poker. He panted for breath amid the mess of rumpled clothing, his arm aching from his frenzied flailing. Not a single squeak or telltale thump of metal striking something solid had answered his blows, yet the fabric still shifted, almost as if...

William's gaze snapped to the window. Mother had kept it locked against the elements ever since Emma had disappeared, but now the wind slipped inside through a narrow gap. The gentle breeze carried the scent of flowers into the room alongside the distant chirping of birdsong.

"So that's all it was," William muttered to himself, chuckling under his breath. All that fuss over an open window. Father would have boxed his ears for such a foolish mistake.

He closed the window with a firm thud, locking it shut. At least now there would be one less avenue for a rat to slip inside, assuming he'd actually heard one to begin with. Perhaps that squeak had been nothing but a trick of the wind.

William tidied up Emma's closet as best he could, setting aside the garments he was sure she'd outgrown. Mother would have her hands full. Even the larger dresses no longer fit Emma anymore if not in body then certainly in spirit. Bright colors and hand-stitched animals no longer suited her, not when a cat was enough to awaken something in her that he'd never seen before. Something that frightened him.

Nearby, wood creaked.

William froze. Father wasn't supposed to be home for several more hours. Had he returned to ensure William was truly searching for the rat as he'd promised, or was he planning to punish him away from Mother's watchful eyes?

"I'm almost done!" William called out, silently cursing the tremor in his voice. "Just tidying up."

No one answered him.

William stayed perfectly still, his ears straining for the slightest sound. Father's footsteps boomed, his breathing often heavy from his work at the forge. His mother's steps were lighter and more graceful, almost a dance. Neither echoed through the house.

Another creak, closer this time.

William raised the poker with a trembling hand, still facing the closet despite his best efforts to will himself to look behind him. It was only the aging floorboards protesting the cooler weather. It had to be. No one else was home.

Someone cleared their throat behind him.

William whirled around, brandishing the poker like a sword. Whoever the intruder was, he wouldn't go down without a fight.

Yet, no one met his gaze. No one was there. It was only him and Mr. Bear, the old stuffed animal's eyes as lifeless as usual as he watched him from his perch atop Emma's bed. Who could have possibly...?

A faint scuffing sound drew his eyes downward.

A rat stared up at him with beady black eyes, its whiskers twitching. The sleek, dark fur covering its unusually large body bristled, and its long, naked tail lashed like a worm writhing in a bird's beak. Unlike most of its ilk, this rodent made no move to flee to the nearest crack in the wall, no attempt to escape from his line of sight.

It simply sat there. Watching him.

Waiting.

William hefted the poker above his head. One strike was all he'd need. He just had to hit the rat hard enough to—

"I wouldn't do that if I were you." The rat bared a mouthful of yellow fangs. "If anything happens to me, you will never find out what is wrong with your sister until it's too late."