He stood in the center of the kitchen and sighed

He stood in the center of the kitchen and sighed,

looking at the ceiling while I told him about the thud,

the way the floorboards seemed to groan under the weight

of something that isn't a pipe or a settling beam.

'It’s an old house,' he said, checking his watch,

'the pressure changes when the furnace kicks on.'

He didn't hear the scratching or the rhythmic beat

that sounds like a heavy hand looking for a latch.

I put my palm against the drywall patch in the hall,

feeling the vibration deep in the bone of my hand.

It’s a lonely thing to be the only one who knows

that the silence in the basement is a lie,

while he walks back to his truck and clicks his pen.