The insistent demon creaking had begun as soon as Riley opened the front door. He could feel the vibrations in the floorboards beneath his feet, as if some invisible force, great and terrible, was toeing the line between this world and the next, trying to burst through the polished wood and establish itself as corporeal despite a negligible physicality. This seemed especially appropriate, as that was where the body had found its final resting place.

“Detective Harper,” a fat, balding middle-aged man in a canvas trench coat said on the doorstep. “This is Detective Collins. Think we could come in, have a look around?”

“Absolutely,” Riley said, forcing a smile that showed too many teeth. “You guys want some coffee or something?”

“Nah, I’m fine,” Harper said, moving into the house and casting a quick, pervasive glance around. Collins nodded for the coffee.

The creaking had started off low and quiet, but with the induction of more people into the room, rapidly escalated to almost cacophonic proportions. Teeth clenched behind his lips, Riley went into the kitchen and filled a mug

“Cream or sugar?” he called back.

He couldn’t hear the answer over the creaking, long and mournful and drawn out, ending in an audible thump. His breath caught in his chest.

“Sorry, what?”

“Black is fine.”

He reentered the room and the detectives fell on him like wolves.

“So, could you tell me, Mister O’Connor,” Harper said, “When the last time you saw Mary was?”

“A few days ago. She said she had some family thing to take care of out in Nevada,” he said. “Said she’d be back in a week.”

The creaking cut into the detective’s next question, and Riley cringed. He then knew they saw the cringe, and cringed more pronouncedly.

“You okay?” Collins asked with a suspicious nod.

“Fine! Fine, just had a chill. What was the question?”

“I said, do you know specifically where she was going?”

“Bluemoon,” he answered too quickly. “Bluemoon, Nevada.”

Creaaaaaaaaaak.

“We got a call from her mother and father,” Collins said. “You talk to them?”

“Not really. What happened? Is she okay?”

“Well, that’s what we’re finding out right now,” Harper said. “They have no idea where she could have gone, and they told us she spent a lot of time here.”

“She used to be over a lot,” he said slowly, rehearsedly. “She’d been going out a lot more at night, though, always with her friends-”

The beast beneath the floor slammed up against it hard, the wooden boards moaning in agony as the pressure intensified. Again, it ended with a fierce thump. Riley caught himself gritting his teeth and tried to relax his jaw. It proved nearly impossible.

“… Before she left, I hadn’t been seeing as much of her.”

The creaking relaxed slightly. It was gentler, now, almost apologetic, but straining to be heard.

“Really?” they stared, and Riley’s heart leapt into his throat. They knew already. They heard it, too. Jesus Christ, he thought. They’re toying with me.

“Yes, really. Of course really!”

“That’s strange, Mr. O’Connor. Her mother and father claimed that she had been over here almost every day. He says he drives by on the way to work, and her car is always in the driveway.”

Riley had dropped the car in the river two nights before.

The creaking apparition slammed both hands hard against the floorboard, striking with force that rattled the window blinds.

“Uhh…. Nope.”

The detectives exchanged glances.

“Nope?”

“Not for a while, now. At least four days. I mean, weeks.” Fuck, he thought. FUCK! She’s going to blow this on me. I’m going to go to prison. I wish she were alive so I could fucking kill her again.

“Days or weeks, Mr. O’Riley?”

“Weeks.”

“All right.”

The three men wheeled around aimlessly, all eyes working feverishly in different directions.

“We found the car,” Collins said suddenly. “It washed up on the west bank in New Haven, three miles outside of Grouseview.”

The creak cheered, thumping repeatedly. Riley was certain he heard something crack this time. It wouldn’t be long now before that bitch made it through the floor. God damnit, he thought, why couldn’t she have waited until cops weren’t around? He could deal with vengeful spirits on his own, he was sure, but not like this.

“That’s impossible,” he said, tripping over syllables.

“Impossible?”

“Why?”

“Because she rolled out to Nevada three days ago!”

“There’s no need to get excited, Mr. O’Connor.”

“Well there’s no need to grill me in my own home, either!”

The detectives exchanged another glance and the creaking screamed through the house like an escaped maniac.

“God DAMNIT!” he bellowed suddenly, “What is that FUCKING creaking?!”

“Are you feeling all right?” Collins asked suddenly, eyes narrowing, taking on a slithery, apprehensive air, not unlike a cobra. “You seem… preoccupied.”

“No. No, I’m fine,” he said, and the creak was too loud, too long, too much for him this time. He couldn’t let her get away with this.

“For Christ’s sake, SHUT THE FUCK UP!” he roared toward the spot under the floor where her body parts lay in garbage bags.

“Mister-”

“I KNOW YOU FUCKING PIGS HEAR HER DOWN THERE,” he continued, spittle flying from his lower lip, subconsciously jerking his head toward the spot in the floor where she presently fought for corporeality. “Death won’t even shut the bitch up.”

“You killed her?”

“OF COURSE I KILLED HER!” he shrieked, stumbling backward, tears blotting his vision. “YOU WOULD HAVE TOO!” He got right above the body and stomped hard, willing her to stop with every fiber of his being. The stomp carried right through, revealing a pile of black garbage bags and the sweet, cloying stench of early decay. He tripped backward into an old, yard-sale rocking chair she had picked up for him days before.

Instantly, the creaking stopped. He glanced to the left, noticing the open window. Synapses fired in his addled brain. The wind. The wind was blowing the rocking chair.

When he turned back to the detectives, two guns were trained on him. He made it halfway out the window before catching two bullets in the back, one in the skull.

Underscoring the gunshots, he heard a final, defiant creak.