A Strange Voice Next Door Knows Everything I Do.

Inside, the air was thicker than in the lane.

It smelled of river mud and wet timber, and under that was old jaw sash, the sweet burnt smell of a house that had kept an altar for decades and then stopped.

Heat had gathered at the top of the stairs and was coming down toward me.

My shirt was already stuck to my back.

The stairs were narrow and steep, the treads dished in the middle from a century of feet.

A bulb hung somewhere above, too weak to reach the landing.

I put my hand out to the wall and took it back.

The plaster was gray with mold, furred in patches, and it came off soft on my fingertips.

I wiped them on my slacks and counted steps because counting is something to do.

One, two, three.

On the fourth stair, I stopped.

There was a line across the wall and the riser dark and level at about the height of my shin.

Above it, the plaster was merely gray.

Below it, it was black and swollen, and the wood of the riser had gone soft and split.

Water had stood here.

Not a little.

Long enough to leave a line.

I looked at my watch.

I don't know why.

7-12.

The face was dry.

I tapped the crystal anyway.

The mark was old, I told myself.

The lane flooded every monsoon.

It had probably flooded to the fourth stair a dozen Januaries and drained away each time.