Reaching and Hearing

I heard the noises in the vent night after night, but I couldn't reach up there. I was only eight. I told Aidy but she didn't believe me because I had imaginary friends. Thing is, I knew they were imaginary, my friends, and why would I make up noises as awful as all that? Squeaks like when the dentist takes that skinny metal pen to your teeth, only I could feel the sounds in my belly somehow, bouncing, like marching band drums in July. I told Aidy, but she wouldn't listen. Her room was next to mine, but she couldn't hear a thing. She didn't hear when I dragged a chair inside one night, didn't hear it wobbling as I stood on the seat. She only heard me when I burst into her room squalling, and my face was wet, and so was my hand. Even with that chair I couldn't reach all the way, and whatever it was only got away with the tippy top of my middle finger. I guess that was enough. Aidy let me sleep in her room for a couple months, and I couldn't hear, and I turned nine, and when I moved back in I still couldn't hear. I knew I could probably reach, with the chair, but I couldn't hear, so I didn't try.