"Hold the corners down," I repeated, the words tasting like ash.
"The corners of the house," my mother explained from the end of the hall. She hadn't moved an inch. She stood like a sentinel, her amber bottle held against her chest. "If the girl stops humming, the foundation drops. If the foundation drops, the ground opens up and takes the whole ridge. Every house from here to the highway. We didn't have a choice, Rachel. We gave up one to save the rest of us."
"You gave up my daughter!" I screamed, the maternal instinct—the raw, animal fury that ignores monsters and logic—reigniting in my chest. I scrambled to my feet and bit my father’s hand, my teeth sinking into the fleshy meat between his thumb and forefinger.
He roared in pain, dropping the key. It clattered against the limestone inside the wall, sliding down into the dark, right toward the pale, sightless thing that wore my daughter’s hair.
"No!" my father shouted, reaching blindly into the gap. "Rachel, you fool! It’s loose!"