The Knock in the Stud

The knock came while Bram was setting the dial indicator against the marked stud.

He stopped with one hand on the clamp. The tool’s needle trembled once, then steadied. The sound had come from inside the framing, a blunt tap at the height of his shoulder.

Bram looked at the screw. Its head sat where he had left it, slightly proud of the timber. He checked the indicator’s contact point, then the clamp. Nothing had slipped.

He wrote down the reading.

A second knock landed lower on the stud.

The sound carried through the room’s open framing and the floorboards. He could have blamed a settling joist, though the interval between the two taps was too deliberate. He waited for a third. When none came, he leaned close to the stud and rapped it with the handle of his screwdriver.

His tap rang dry and solid. The reply came from within the wall, a single knock exactly where the screw entered.

Bram drew back. He examined the exposed back of the stud and the narrow crack beside its brace. There was no space behind the timber for anyone to be standing. He checked the adjoining bay anyway, sweeping his flashlight over insulation scraps and old lath. No animal, no loose pipe, no concealed cavity large enough to account for a person.

The screw had not moved. The needle on the indicator had.

He noted the new reading and took a photograph. His camera gave a soft electronic chirp. From the hallway came a knock against the room’s outer door.

Bram turned toward it.

The door stood open. Beyond it, the hall was empty and dim. He crossed to the threshold, keeping his eyes on the stairs. No one was at the landing. No footsteps retreated below.

He did not call out. Hettie’s warning returned with irritating clarity: don’t answer any knocking.

It might have been the house expanding under a change in temperature. He had checked the day’s weather and the upstairs temperature; neither offered much. He took another photograph, then went back to the stud.

The next knock sounded behind him.

This one came from the far end of the room, beside the bare window frame. Bram turned. Dust sifted from a joint between two boards. The dial indicator’s needle jumped, held, and jumped again.

He stepped toward it. The knock answered from the stud, close beside his shoulder.

Bram kept his breath even and measured the distance between the screw and the brace. The number matched his earlier notes. He put the screwdriver down and gripped the stud with both hands, careful not to touch the screw. The timber was cool beneath his palms. It did not give.