TWICE

...

The kettle clicks again. It always clicks twice before it dies down, like a throat clearing before silence. I never noticed until lately. Small things insist on being seen these days - the pulse of the fridge, the breathing of the pipes, the static whisper in the walls. Sounds with intention. Sounds that wait until I’m listening.

The house feels too… alive sometimes.

I started this journal because the therapist on the radio said writing things down helps you see them clearly. I don’t remember her name, but she had the kind of voice you could trust - calm, syrupy, adult, as though she were smiling at someone just behind the microphone. She said clarity comes from pattern. From repetition. I imagine she’d tell me this house isn’t breathing, that I am. And yet, the air hums, low and constant, like a held note that never quite resolves.

We’ve moved again. I wrote that sentence three times before letting it stay. Each time it sounded temporary, like a mistake that could be erased. The children are exhausted, though they don’t complain out loud. They’ve learned not to. This is the fourth time in three years, and always for a reason: always something logical, something that makes sense when he explains it. A better school. A safer neighbourhood. Closer to work. I nodded each time, and each time the boxes grew lighter, emptier, as though we left more of ourselves behind with every move. It’s strange what you stop packing when you know you won’t stay.

This house is smaller than the last one. Narrower hallways. Lower ceilings. Sound carries differently here. When the kids laugh upstairs, it echoes like it’s coming from inside the walls instead of the rooms. When someone walks across the landing at night, the floorboards complain softly, a tired depressed sound, as though the house has already given up.

The neighbours here are friendlier, but cautious. The kind of smiles that last a little too long, like they’re memorising your face for later. The woman across the street brought over a pie on our second day - blueberry, slightly burnt at the edges. She asked how long we planned to stay. I said we were hoping for a while. She nodded, but her eyes flicked past me, into the house, as if watching for something behind my shoulder. I tell myself it’s my imagination.

It usually is.

The news doesn’t leave me alone. Even when the television is off, I can hear the cadence of the anchor’s voice in my head, the careful pauses between words. Four murders, each in a different neighbourhood. The anchor calls it The Changing Shadow. I despise that name. Too poetic for something so awful. As if dressing it up makes it easier to swallow. They said the killer switches methods each time. No pattern. No signature. The only link, according to the experts they keep bringing on, is geography.

Proximity.

Theory is that the victims all lived near each other.

Or maybe it’s that they lived near us.

I don’t say that part out loud. He doesn’t like it when I connect dots. He says I make stories where there are none, that I read too much into things, that fear is a talent I’ve always had. He says this kindly, almost apologetically, as though it’s a flaw he’s learned to work around. But even the kids have noticed. When the fourth one appeared on the screen - the woman from the bakery we used to visit every Sunday - my daughter asked if we’d have to move again. Her voice was small, careful. He laughed it off, said it was just bad luck. “Coincidences cluster,” he said, as though that were comforting.

After that, I noticed the boxes in the garage. Still folded, still clean. Waiting.

I keep dreaming about the last house. Not the murders, I’ve never seen those. But the walls. The wallpaper peeled like old skin, yellowed and soft. I would touch it sometimes, to smooth it down, and feel warmth behind it, like something living had been sealed away. In the dream, I peel it back further, expecting brick or plaster, and find only darkness, pulsing faintly, as if it’s living in time with me. It's organic. I wake up with my fingers curled, my nails aching, as though I’ve been gripping something too tightly.

This morning, I found dirt under my fingernails. A thin crescent of it, dark and damp. I stood at the sink for a long time, scrubbing, trying to remember when I’d last been in the garden. I don’t recall planting anything. The backyard is mostly grass and shadow, the fence leaning slightly, like it’s tired of standing. Still, the dirt clung stubbornly, working its way into the cracks of my skin. It smelled faintly metallic.

He came down while I was washing my hands. He kissed the top of my head and asked if I’d slept. I said yes. It wasn’t quite true. I don’t know when sleep starts anymore, only when it ends. He didn’t push. He never does. That’s part of what makes everything feel wrong. It's unsettling how carefully he avoids pressure, how gently he moves around my questions.

The children started school today. New uniforms. New faces. They stood at the door for a moment before leaving, both of them looking back at the house like they were trying to memorise it. I waved until they were out of sight. When I closed the door, the silence rushed in too quickly, like it had been waiting outside.

I tried to unpack. I really did. But each box felt heavier once it was open, full of objects that belonged to a life that didn’t quite exist anymore. Framed photos where the backgrounds change but our faces don’t. Mugs from places we no longer live. Keys I don’t remember using. I put most of it back. Some things are easier to leave contained.

Around noon, the kettle clicked twice again. I hadn’t turned it on.

I stood very still in the kitchen, listening. The fridge hummed. The clock ticked. Somewhere in the house, a pipe knocked once, sharply, like a reprimand. I laughed then. Too loud, too sudden. The sound startled me. It didn’t sound like it came from my mouth.

I keep telling myself this is just stress. Anyone would feel unsettled after so much moving, so much disruption. Anyone would start seeing patterns where there are none. The therapist on the radio would probably say I’m projecting, externalising anxiety, giving it walls and wires and names. She would say awareness is the first step.

But awareness doesn’t stop the kettle from clicking twice.

It doesn’t stop the house from feeling like it’s listening.

Tonight, when he comes home, I won’t mention any of this. I’ll ask about his day. I’ll help the children with homework. I’ll watch the news with the volume low and my eyes half-closed. I’ll tell myself that tomorrow will feel more solid. That once we’ve been here a little longer, the house will settle, and so will I.

Still, I’ve put this journal on the bedside table instead of in the drawer.

Just in case I need to remember what I noticed first.