Cemetery of Angels by Noel Hynd

still intrigued with the “turret” room on the second floor. There was one wall in the room, which was nothing more than a plasterboard partition that had formed a storage area. If the plasterboard were taken out, the room would be four feet wider. So why not rip it out?
    Bill went into the turret room and set down his tools in the middle of the floor.
    He walked from one wall to another, picturing how the area could become a playroom. He examined the wall that separated this from the open section on the other side. There was nothing supportive about the wall. It was nothing more than a weak room divider, installed perhaps about seventy years ago, he guessed, judging by the building materials. He took his sledgehammer to it, took a swing, and punched through it. A huge section gave way. A second swing knocked out even a larger piece.
    He was starting to enjoy this now. Blasting away with the hammer, he followed with blow after blow, taking the wall down quickly.
    Then he suddenly stopped.
    Midway into his work, he was sure that he had heard a voice. A low murmuring again, much like he had heard in this room once before. And there was something androgynous about the voice. It was high-pitched and shrill. Almost musical.
    Had he really heard it, he wondered. He froze and listened.
    Nothing now. Not even a sound outside. Nothing at all.
    Some places had strange acoustics, he knew, and some places trapped distant sounds in ways science could never explain. Bill figured that this was just such a quirky place. In any case, several seconds after being certain that he heard something, he convinced himself that he couldn’t possibly have.
    He took down the rest of the wall and stepped back, savoring a sense of accomplishment. He gathered his tools and went downstairs, then outside to his waiting car. He heard nothing more. And within another few minutes, for the time being at least, he had forgotten all about it.

Chapter 6
    The Moores’ household possessions came to California via a pair of moving vans.
    The first van arrived on the day of the legal closing for the property, the twenty-fifth of August. The second moving van arrived the day before school started on the last Tuesday in August. It was only then that the living room furniture from the East came into the house in addition to a new print sofa they had purchased locally, and so the Moores finally had a dining table and chairs. On the same day, the Moores purchased a new Toyota Camry to go with the Chevrolet that they had driven coast to coast. The Dodge Caravan, and the memories that went with it, they had sold.
    Five-year old Karen found two friends her own age on the same block, three doors away to one side and five doors away to the other. Karen was the quieter, more shy and less assured of Rebecca’s two children, and Rebecca was elated that her daughter had made friends so easily. Patrick, older and more gregarious, would never have had problems. So he easily found a friend, too, a boy one month older than he, who lived next door, and the owner of the bike that his parents had seen in the neighboring yard.
    A certain geometry of personal relationships began to formulate, assert itself as the Moore family eased into their new neighborhood. The angles and lines began to make sense for Bill Moore, too. He spent much of the first week away from his new home. He was constantly over in Brentwood with Jack McLaughlin at McLaughlin’s architectural depot. Some nights when he came home, he seemed tired and distant. Moody. Almost surly. On other evenings, he was enthusiastic and full of vigor. Some nights, as a husband, he was the same way, tired and distant. He treated his children similarly. Some nights there were bedtime stories that were playful and energetic and ran much too late. Other nights it seemed like Bill could not have cared less.
    In the midst of a second marriage, Rebecca was used to such inconsistencies from men in general and her husband’s in