The tapping beneath the lullaby didn't stop. Tap… tap… tap… It was soft, patient, a metronome in the dark. Evelyn lay frozen, every nerve screaming. This wasn't Agatha's desperate fury or Derek's poisonous rage. This was different. Colder. Older. Like stone grinding against stone deep underground. Agatha's warning screamed in her mind: "Be watchful. Evil leaves stains. Echoes."
Sleep was impossible. Dawn crept through the filthy windows, grey and reluctant, doing little to lift the gloom. The music box had wound down hours ago, but the tapping… the tapping continued, a maddening counterpoint to her racing heart. It wasn't in the library anymore. It seemed to move. Sometimes near the stairs. Sometimes faintly behind the study wall. Always that slow, rhythmic tap… tap… tap…
Fueled by fear and a desperate need to understand, Evelyn forced herself up. She avoided the library. Instead, she went straight to the kitchen, made strong coffee with shaking hands, and stared at her grandmother's pearls, now resting on the rough wooden table. They glowed softly in the weak light, beautiful, pure. A stark contrast to the decay and the unseen thing tapping in her walls. Infected, Agatha had called Derek. Had he left the infection behind? Was this tapping the echo of that ancient hunger?
She needed answers Martha Gable might have. Pulling on her coat against the lingering chill inside the house (was it colder near the tapping sounds?), Evelyn trudged down the muddy, overgrown driveway towards the blue house with the lobster pots. The sharp salt air off the ocean was a relief, scouring the smell of dust and dread from her lungs.
Martha answered the door wearing bright yellow rubber gloves, smelling of soap and fish. Her sharp eyes took in Evelyn's pale face, the shadows under her eyes. "Trouble?" she asked bluntly, stepping aside to let her in. Her small, cozy kitchen was a world away from Blackwood's decay.
"The tapping," Evelyn blurted out, sinking into a chair at the scrubbed pine table. "It started last night. After… after everything. It's everywhere. And the music box… it played by itself."
Martha didn't look surprised. She filled the kettle and put it on the stove. "Aye," she said quietly. "Figured somethin' might stir." She sat opposite Evelyn, her gaze steady. "Agatha… she weren't just scared of Derek. She was scared of what came with him. What clung to him. She called it 'the Cold Thing.' Old talk around here whispers of things that live in the deep places, in the cold stone and the older woods. Things that hunger. Not for flesh, usually… but for feeling. Strong feeling. Anger. Hate. Fear. Despair. Like moths to a flame."
Evelyn felt cold despite the warmth of the kitchen. "Derek brought it here? That night he threatened her?"
Martha nodded. "That's the thinkin'. Derek, he was rotten to the core, full of greedy hate. A beacon for somethin' like that. It latched on. Amplified him, maybe. When he came back to Blackwood, full of malice for you… he brought it home. And the House… well, the House remembers everything. Especially pain. It soaked up Derek's poison and that… thing… he carried."
"But the House used it against him!" Evelyn protested. "The cold… Agatha… it destroyed him!"
"Aye," Martha said, pouring hot water into two mugs. "Like pourin' kerosene on a fire to put it out. Risky business. The fire might go out… or it might explode bigger." She pushed a mug of tea towards Evelyn. "The House fought back with the only weapon it had – the cold echo of Agatha's terror and rage, mixed with the cold thing Derek brought. It turned his own weapon against him. But weapons leave residue, girl. Especially weapons made of hate and hunger."
"The tapping…" Evelyn whispered, dread coiling in her stomach. "Is that… the residue? The 'Cold Thing'?"
Martha stirred her tea slowly. "Maybe. Or maybe it's the House itself, changed. Scarred. Tryin' to understand what it absorbed. Like a bell ringin' long after it's been struck. Or…" she met Evelyn's eyes, "…maybe it's the hunger, wakin' up. Now that its loud, nasty host is gone, it's lookin' for a quieter meal. Lookin' for you."
Evelyn's blood ran cold. "What do I do?"
"You fight," Martha said simply. "Not with cold fury like the House did. That path leads to becomin' like Derek, feedin' the thing. You fight by livin'. By carin'. By fillin' that old tomb with light and warmth and stubborn life. You fight by rememberin' the good, like those pearls." She nodded towards the small velvet pouch Evelyn clutched. "Show it the beauty. Show it the strength that ain't born of hate. Starve it."
"Starve it?" Evelyn echoed, doubt warring with a fragile hope.
"These things… they feed on the dark stuff. The heavy, hurtin' feelings. Don't give it a feast. Give it dust." Martha's voice was fierce. "Clean the house. Open the windows. Light fires. Play your music. Plant somethin' green. Be stubborn. Be here. And be watchful."
Armed with Martha's grim wisdom and a bag of groceries (including strong soap, fresh bread, and packets of hardy flower seeds), Evelyn walked back to Blackwood House. The tapping was still there, a faint pulse in the walls. Tap… tap… tap… It felt… expectant. Watching her return.
Instead of fear, a fierce determination settled over her. Starve it. She marched inside, ignoring the chill, and went straight to the grimy parlor windows. With a grunt of effort, she wrestled one open. Cold, salt-tinged air rushed in, battling the stale gloom. She opened another. And another. Sunlight, weak but real, streamed in, illuminating swirling dust motes. The tapping paused for a moment, then resumed, slightly faster.
Evelyn attacked the dust. She swept, she scrubbed, she hauled out armfuls of rotten fabric and mildewed paper. She dragged Derek's abandoned, sleek black car keys from her pocket and hurled them into the overgrown bushes at the edge of the cliff. Good riddance. She found an old, slightly-tuned radio in a cupboard, plugged it in, and turned it to a crackling station playing cheerful, mindless pop music. It clashed horribly with the house's atmosphere, and she loved it.
The tapping followed her. When she cleaned the hallway, it tapped near the stairs. When she scrubbed the kitchen sink, it tapped behind the pantry wall. It never threatened, never grew louder. Just that insistent, rhythmic tap… tap… tap…, like a cold finger testing the barrier between its world and hers. Sometimes, late at night, the music box would play its lullaby, the tapping always beneath it.
Weeks turned into months. Evelyn worked tirelessly. Slowly, painfully, the house began to change. Rooms were cleared, cleaned, aired. Fresh paint covered some walls, bright white battling the gloom. Martha became a regular visitor, bringing gossip, practical help, and sturdy seedlings for the barren patch of earth Evelyn cleared near the kitchen door. She planted hardy lavender and rosemary – Martha said they smelled clean, drove away bad humors.
One crisp autumn afternoon, Evelyn tackled the sealed third-floor nursery again. It was cleaner now, the air less suffocating. The old toys were sorted; some kept, some donated. She picked up the tarnished silver music box. The tapping, which had been quiet for a while, started up again – faint, but definitely coming from inside the box itself now. Tap… tap… tap… against the silver casing.
Instead of recoiling, Evelyn sat on the dusty floor, the music box in her lap. She remembered Agatha's final words: "Be strong." She remembered Martha: "Starve it. Show it beauty." She looked at the pearls she now wore constantly, cool against her skin, a talisman of resilience.
"Alright," she whispered, not to the room, but to the box, to the presence within the walls. "You want attention? Fine. Listen to this."
She carefully wound the music box's tiny key. Not all the way. Just a few turns. Then she lifted the lid.
The familiar, hauntingly beautiful lullaby began to play, fragile and sweet in the quiet nursery. And beneath it, as always, the tapping started. Tap… tap… tap…
Evelyn closed her eyes. She didn't listen to the tapping. She listened to the lullaby. She focused on the melody, fragile but enduring. She thought of her grandmother, who must have held these pearls. She thought of Agatha, fierce and frightened, trying to protect her from beyond. She thought of the lavender starting to bloom outside, the smell of fresh bread in her kitchen, Martha's loud laugh echoing in the hallway downstairs. She thought of the sheer, stubborn life she was forcing back into this wounded place.
She poured those feelings into her focus on the music – the beauty, the sadness, the hope, the defiant life.
Something shifted. The tapping… faltered. It missed a beat. Then another. It grew softer. Less insistent. It didn't vanish. But it seemed… confused. Distracted. Like static interference fading slightly when a clear signal grows stronger.
Evelyn kept winding the music box, kept playing the lullaby, kept focusing on the light, the life, the good memories she was starting to build. She played it until the mechanism wound down completely. The final notes faded.
Silence. But not the heavy, listening silence of before. A softer quiet. The tapping was gone. For now.
A profound exhaustion washed over her, but also a deep, quiet sense of power. She hadn't fought it with cold or hate. She had drowned it in life.
That night, Evelyn sat in the library, now clean and smelling faintly of lavender and old paper. A fire crackled warmly in the hearth. She held her grandmother's pearls, running her fingers over their cool, smooth surfaces. The house was quiet. No music box. No tapping. Just the normal groans and sighs of old timber.
She felt, rather than heard, it. Not a whisper. Not a word. A feeling. A wave of profound, icy sadness mixed with… relief? Gratitude? It washed over her, emanating from the walls themselves, cold but not hostile. It centered near the fireplace, where the portrait of the stern ancestor now hung, his eyes seeming less judgmental, more weary.
Agatha? Evelyn thought, her heart clenching.
The feeling intensified – a final, deep pulse of that protective, fierce love Evelyn had sensed the moment Derek shattered. It lingered for a long moment, a silent farewell carried on a phantom breath colder than the autumn night outside. Then, slowly, gently, it faded, dissolving like frost melting under a weak sun. The oppressive cold that had always clung to the house, even after Derek, seemed to lessen significantly. It was just an old house now, drafty and creaky.
Agatha was truly gone. Her purpose fulfilled. Her vengeance spent. Her protection no longer needed.
Evelyn let out a breath she didn't know she was holding, tears pricking her eyes. Not tears of fear, but of loss and profound respect. "Thank you," she whispered into the quiet room. The fire crackled in response.
Years Later
Blackwood House still stands on the cliff, facing the endless ocean. It's no longer a decaying monument to dread. Ivy climbs the repaired clapboard walls. Windows shine, reflecting the sky. Laughter sometimes echoes from the kitchen, where Martha Gable is likely holding court, older, louder, and still fiercely practical. Flowers bloom defiantly in the once-barren garden.
Evelyn Thorne sits on the wide porch swing, a cup of tea warming her hands. The lines on her face speak of hard work and salt air, not fear. She wears her grandmother's pearls. They feel warm against her skin now, infused with sunlight and resilience.
Inside, the house breathes. It groans and settles. It remembers the pain, the betrayal, the icy fury, and the ancient hunger Derek brought. The scars are deep in its bones. But Evelyn has filled its rooms with life – with books, music, the smell of baking bread, the sound of friends, the quiet hum of her own hard-won peace. She has starved the shadows by flooding them with light.
She is the guardian. She is the heir. She is home.
Sometimes, on the very stillest nights, when the wind dies and the ocean holds its breath, if you listen very, very closely… you might hear it. Not in the walls. Not beneath a lullaby.
But perhaps, faintly, coming from the polished wood of the shelf in the clean, bright library where the old silver music box sits. A tiny, almost imperceptible sound.
Tap.
Just once.
A reminder. An echo. A question answered only by the warm light in the windows and the woman on the porch who smiles softly into her tea, unafraid. The House remembers. She remembers. And together, in the quiet rhythm of healing, they keep the deepest cold at bay. The horror wasn't truly vanquished; it was transformed, outlived, its hunger silenced by the relentless, beautiful noise of a life fully lived. The perfect ending isn't silence; it's the sound of peace, echoing in a place that once knew only fear.