From behind the stove.
William stopped moving.
I stared toward the wall.
The knocks came again.
Three.
Slow.
Deliberate.
I grabbed his arm.
"William."
He lowered the ladle.
Then turned toward the narrow wooden space between the chimney enclosure and the pantry wall.
"Stay behind me."
I whispered, "What is that?"
He didn't answer.
He reached toward the iron poker beside the fireplace.
The sound came again.
A soft scrape.
Like something dragging across old floorboards.
My heart began pounding.
William stepped closer.
The stove stood against a heavy timber wall.
Behind it was a narrow maintenance space connecting the chimney enclosure to an old storage recess.
Or so I believed.
I had never seen anyone enter it.
William told me the space was too cramped to use.
He kept a loose wooden panel beside the stove so he could inspect the chimney masonry.
Now he approached that panel.
I followed a few steps behind.
"William, don't."
He glanced toward me.
"It's all right."
But his voice sounded different.
Tighter.
More cautious.
He reached toward the panel.
Then a voice whispered from the darkness.
"Please."
William froze.
The voice was tiny.
A child.
"Please don't open it."
I felt every hair on my arms rise.
William slowly lowered his hand.
The child whispered again.
"He's still here."
For several seconds, nobody moved.
Then William spoke.
His voice was barely audible.
"Who's there?"
Silence.
I gripped his arm.
The child began crying softly.
William looked toward the panel.
Then said something that made my blood turn cold.
"Sweetheart?"
I looked at him.
He sounded as though he knew the voice.
He swallowed.
Then whispered a name.
"Annie?"
The crying stopped.
A terrible silence settled over the cabin.
Then the child answered.
"Papa?"
I staggered backward.
Papa.
My husband stood motionless.
The iron poker slipped from his hand.
It struck the wooden floor with a sharp clang.
He didn't notice.
His eyes filled with disbelief.
"Annie?"
The child's voice trembled.
"Papa, please don't let him take me."
I stared at William.
His face had turned pale.
The same man who could face a charging bear, climb frozen cliffs, and work through storms without complaint looked as though the world had just disappeared beneath his feet.
I grabbed his hand.
"William."
He didn't answer.
I looked toward the wooden panel.
Then back at him.
"Who is Annie?"
His lips moved.
No sound came.
Finally he whispered, "My daughter."
The words struck harder than anything I could have imagined.
My husband had a daughter.
A living daughter.
A child he had never told me about.