The Faded Quadrant
The bell rang. It rang at three. It rang at three again. I was in the kitchen. The pot boiled. Steam rose. It looked like a ghost. Or a hand. Reaching up. I stared at it. My name is Thomas. I am twelve. My mother is dead. No. She is not dead. She is sleeping. That is what Father says. She is sleeping. But the house breathes. The walls swell. The floorboards groan. We live in the old house. The...
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