Chapter 2 of Echoes In The Walls

The next morning, fresh out of the shower, Jett stood on the second-floor landing, staring down the long hallway like it was a memory he couldn’t quite place.

It was early still — just past seven — and the house was quiet in that thick, golden way only summer mornings in the hills could be. A soft marine layer blurred the edges of the view through the window at the far end of the hall. Below, the city was already stirring. But up here, above it all, things felt distant. Blurred. Like the house had detached itself from time.

Jett moved slowly toward the guest bedrooms, the ones nobody used. The ones Sierra always said gave her the creeps.

He tried the first door on the left — unlocked. The guest room was tidy, impersonal, the way Maria always kept it. White sheets pulled tight, nothing on the dresser but a coaster. No signs of life. No misplaced objects. No intruder.

Still, he could feel something had changed. As if it had changed. But, apparently, nothing had.

He walked naked to check the other rooms. Just out of curiosity. Empty. Quiet. Just stale air and that old smell of plaster and wood.

At the end of the hall, the linen closet door stood slightly ajar.

Jett stared at it.

It might’ve been open last night. Or yesterday. Or all week. He hadn’t noticed. But now it seemed to hold its breath, like something waited behind it.

He reached out, hand hovering for a moment, then opened it.

Towels. Sheets. Nothing more.

But the feeling lingered — the skin-tightening tension of being watched. Of a presence just out of sight.

He closed the door and turned back toward his room to put on some clothes. His knees ached worse today.

_____

Downstairs, Maria was already in the kitchen, her back to him as she scrambled eggs with a practiced hand. A Spanish radio station played softly in the background — something upbeat with a trumpet and a beat that would’ve once made Jett pick up a tambourine.

Now it just made his temples throb.

“You’re up early,” she said, without turning.

“I heard something again last night.”

She sighed. “I try to be quiet.”

“No. Upstairs. Right outside my door.”

Maria turned, spatula still in hand. “Señor Doyle, I sleep downstairs. I don’t go upstairs at night. You know.”

He didn’t respond. He felt bad. He didn’t mean . . .

She turned back to the stove, muttering something in Spanish he didn’t quite catch.

He went to the table and sat down. Then he remembered he forgot his cup and the coffee to go with it.

“You can ask Kenneth to, you know, check the cameras,” she added. “But if someone’s hiding in the house, they’re very good at it.”

“Maybe they are.”

She gave him a look over her shoulder — tired, skeptical, not unkind.

Jett sighed as he got up to get his coffee. “I’ll ask him.”

_____

Kenneth was outside, walking the perimeter with a mug of black coffee and his usual ex-Marine posture — rigid but alert. He wore a navy windbreaker, even in the heat, and mirrored sunglasses that made it hard to know whether he was paying attention or planning a route of escape.

“There’s no one in the house,” Kenneth said flatly after Jett explained.

“You check all the rooms?”

“I check all the rooms. Every night. Before I leave.”

“What about the cameras?”

“I review them every morning, as well as throughout the day.”

Jett squinted. “And?”

“No one’s entered or exited besides staff.” Kenneth paused. “And you.”

“What do you think?”

“I think big houses make big echoes. Especially when you’re alone.”

Jett turned to look at the mansion behind them. It loomed over the slope like a sleeping beast. Too big for him. Always had been.

“I’ll let you know if I hear it again,” he muttered.

“Yes. Do that.”

_____

Avery arrived just after nine, as she always did, laptop bag slung over her shoulder, a steaming cup of tea in her hand, as she always did. She greeted Maria in the kitchen, nodded politely at Kenneth on the patio, and found Jett in the study, flipping through a worn leather-bound notebook filled with lyric fragments and half-finished thoughts.

She set her things down gently to not disturb him. She opened the laptop and logged in, seeing the computer was demanding to update. Right now.

“Good morning,” Jett said. 

“Rough night?” she asked as she pressed the OK button. As if she had a choice.

He paused. “Did you ever sleepwalk when you were a kid?”

“No,” she said. “My sister did. Scared the hell out of us once. We found her standing in the front yard, staring at the streetlights.”

Jett finally looked at her. “I think I might’ve been sleepwalking.”

“You found yourself somewhere strange?”

He shook his head. “Not exactly. Just this feeling. Like I was somewhere I’d already been. Like I’d had a conversation that hadn’t happened yet.”

Avery sat as the computer rebooted. “That ever happen to you before?”

“Not ‘til lately.”

She paused. “Still hearing the sounds?”

He nodded once.

“I don’t mean to overstep,” she said carefully, “but maybe it’s not the house. Maybe it’s stress. Or memory. Or both.”

“I’m not stressed.”

“No?”

He looked over at her. “You ever have your whole life disappear in pieces while everyone tells you you’re fine?”

Avery blinked.

“Didn’t think so,” he muttered.

They didn’t talk much. She typed up some notes from the last session, asked a few gentle questions, tried to steer him toward a chapter about his solo work, but he waved her off. It’s a good thing she’s paid by the hour and not by the word.

“I’ll talk about it later,” was all he said.

She didn’t push.

_____

That evening, the house felt heavier. The light was dimmer. The shadows longer. 

Jett sat on the edge of his bed, guitar in his lap, strumming absently. His fingers fumbled through chords he used to play in his sleep.

He paused.

A creak.

Outside the door again.

He stood, guitar in hand, and stepped into the hallway.

Nothing.

But something . . . shifted.

A smell, maybe? Dust. Or old sweat. Something human.

He walked slowly down the hall, each step echoing in the quiet.

The linen closet was closed this time.

He opened it again. You know, just to check. Still just towels.

Heading back toward his room, he stopped.

The bedroom door was closed.

He hadn’t closed it.

He hadn’t.

Jett opened it with a trembling hand.

The room was empty. Still. Quiet.

On the bed, where he had been sitting, was his guitar.

And the strings were still vibrating.

_____

(c) Secret Agent Man
info@secretagentman.net