Chapter 10: The Hank's really Dead
The words hit like cold spray. "Tag. You're it." They didn't come from any one direction. They seemed to seep through the walls, through the floorboards, through the very air they were breathing. Evette's sobs hitched in her throat, a sudden, sharp silence that was somehow worse than the noise. Her amber eyes, red-rimmed and glassy, snapped into focus for the first time since Hank's body had hit the floor. Not with clarity. With the wild, desperate alertness of prey that has finally understood the predator is in the room.
The candle on the windowsill in the guest bedroom guttered. The flame bent sideways, as if something had blown on it, then righted itself, weaker now. The reflection in the window glass was just a reflection again. Empty. Normal. But the cold remained.
"Hide," Tanya repeated, her voice low and urgent. She still held the diary, her knuckles white against its aged leather cover. "She's counting. We have to move. Now."
Chloe was already pulling Evette toward the door. "Come on, E. Come on. I've got you."
Evette's legs moved, but mechanically, like a puppet with tangled strings. "Hank," she whispered. "We can't leave him. He's still in there."
"Evette." Sheryl's voice was firm but gentle, a hand on her shoulder, grounding her. "There's nothing we can do for him right now. There's something we can do for us. We have to hide. We have to survive this. He would want that."
The mention of his name, of what he would want, cut through something in Evette's chest. She looked at Sheryl, really looked at her, and something hard and sharp settled behind her eyes. "Okay." The word was small, but it was a beginning. "Okay."
They spilled into the hallway.
The upstairs hallway was a tunnel of shadows, the flickering sconces casting long, distorted shapes that danced and writhed on the peeling wallpaper. The family photographs lining the walls seemed to lean in, their faded faces watching with flat, unreadable eyes. The air was cold, colder than it had been moments before, and it carried a faint, sweet smell—like old flowers, like decay.
"Where?" Maya's voice was a thread of fear drawn tight.
"Spread out," Sheryl said, her mind already working, already mapping the house. "She said hide and seek. She finds people one at a time. If we're all together—"
"We're all dead," Tanya finished, her voice flat. "She's right. Split up. Different rooms. Make her work for it."
"No!" Nancy's face was pale, frantic. "We can't split up! That's how people die in these things!"
"These things?" Chloe shot her a look, half-desperate, half-furious. "Nance, what exactly do you think 'these things' are? This isn't a movie. This is real. And that thing—" she jabbed a finger toward the master bedroom, where Hank's body still lay, "—is not playing around."
"Chloe's right," Tanya said, hating every word that came out of her mouth. "We have to hide. All of us. Separately. It's the only way we buy time until morning."
"One, two, three..."
The voice came from everywhere and nowhere. It was light, almost playful, the voice of a child who has just discovered a new game and is delighted by the possibilities. It drifted up the stairs, through the walls, wrapped around them like smoke.
Nancy's face crumpled. "Oh God. Oh God, oh God, oh God—"
"Nancy." Sheryl grabbed her arm, her grip firm, almost painful. "Listen to me. Pantry. The kitchen. It locks from the inside. Small, dark, quiet. You can get in, you can lock it, and you can stay there until sunrise. You understand me?"
Nancy stared at her, her freckles stark against her bloodless skin. "The pantry?"
"It's a good spot. She won't check it first. She'll check bedrooms, bathrooms, obvious places. You'll be safe."
The confidence in Sheryl's voice was manufactured, but it did the job. Nancy nodded, a jerky, puppet-like motion. "Okay. Okay, pantry. I can do that."
She turned and fled down the stairs, her footsteps a frantic drumbeat on the worn treads.
"Four, five, six..."
"Sheryl." Maya's voice was quiet, steady. "Where are you going?"
"The master bathroom." Sheryl's jaw tightened. "The clawfoot tub. It's the last place I saw her. She won't expect me to hide there. It's too obvious." She paused, looking at each of them in turn. "You all know the house. Find your spots. Hide well. Wait for dawn."
"Don't die," Chloe said, her voice cracking.
"Don't you die either." Sheryl turned and moved down the hall, her footsteps sure, her back straight. She didn't look back.
"Seven, eight, nine..."
Maya looked at Tanya, her dark eyes wide and liquid. "The sunroom. Behind the couch. There's a gap between the wall and the cushions. I'll fit."
Tanya nodded. "Dining room. Under the table. The long tablecloth reaches the floor." She looked at Chloe and Evette. "You two?"
"Her bedroom," Chloe said, her arm wrapped tight around Evette's trembling shoulders. "Under the bed."
Tanya's eyes flicked to the diary in her hands, then back to them. "The closet in the hallway. The one with the false back panel. There's a crawl space behind it. It's how she—" She stopped, swallowed. "It's how she moved around. Before. I found it earlier. It's big enough for two, if you squeeze."
Chloe's eyes widened. "Tanya, that's—"
"I know." Tanya's voice was barely a whisper. "But it's also the last place anyone would look. And it connects to other rooms. If she comes for you, you can move."
"Ten. Ready or not, here I come!"
The voice was bright, eager, filled with the simple, terrible joy of a game beginning. It echoed through the house, through floor and wall and ceiling, and then it was silent. Utterly, completely silent. Even the rain seemed to hold its breath.
"Go," Tanya breathed. "Now."
Maya was already gone, a shadow slipping down the stairs toward the sunroom. Tanya followed, her steps quick and silent, toward the dining room.
Chloe pulled Evette into motion, half-carrying her down the hall to her own bedroom. The door was ajar, the way they'd left it. The string lights along the wall flickered weakly, casting a dim, orange glow across the cluttered desk, the unmade bed, the framed photo of the six of them—smiling, carefree, alive—sitting crooked on the nightstand.
Chloe closed the door behind them, her movements careful, deliberate. She didn't lock it. Locking it was an invitation. Locking it said, Here we are.
She dropped to her knees beside the bed, lifting the dusty bedskirt. The space beneath was dark, cramped, filled with old boxes and forgotten shoes. She pushed one aside, making just enough room for two bodies pressed tight together.
"Come on, E. Get in."
Evette stared at the dark space, her amber eyes distant, unseeing. "He was going to apologize. He texted me. He said he was sorry."
Chloe's heart cracked, but she didn't let it show. "I know, babe. I know. Now get under the bed. We can mourn him later. We can't mourn him if we're dead."
Something in Evette's face shifted. A spark of anger, of survival, flickered to life. She dropped to her knees and crawled under the bed.
Chloe followed, pulling the bedskirt back into place, plunging them into darkness. The floor was cold beneath them, dusty, unforgiving. They lay side by side, shoulders pressed together, the only warmth in a house that was growing colder by the second.
Outside, the storm raged. Rain lashed the window, a relentless drumbeat that filled the silence. And somewhere in the house, a child's footsteps padded softly across the floorboards.
"Let's play," Clara whispered, her voice drifting through the walls like smoke.
Evette pressed her hand over her mouth, stifling a sob. Chloe wrapped her arm around her, pulling her close, her lips moving in a silent prayer she didn't believe in.
The footsteps stopped.
A door creaked open somewhere on the ground floor. A pause. Another creak. A closet door, maybe, or a pantry.
Evette squeezed her eyes shut, her breath ragged and shallow. She could feel Chloe's heart pounding against her back, a frantic, reassuring rhythm. They were alive. They were here. They were hidden.
The footsteps started again. Closer now. Up the stairs.
Another door creaked. The guest bedroom. A pause, longer this time. A soft, disappointed sigh.
Evette's blood ran cold.
The footsteps continued. Down the hall. Past the bathroom. Past Sheryl's hiding spot.
They stopped in front of Evette's door.
The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. The string lights flickered, casting the room in a weak, pulsing glow that filtered through the gap between bedskirt and floor. Evette could see the shadow of a small figure framed in the doorway. She couldn't make out details, not exactly, but she could see the shape. Small. Still. Patient.
She stopped breathing.
The shadow tilted its head, as if listening. Then, slowly, almost playfully, it stepped into the room.
Chloe went rigid beside her, her fingers digging into Evette's arm. Don't move, she thought, the words a desperate, silent scream. Don't fucking move.
The footsteps crossed the room. The vanity mirror reflected the faint, flickering light. The figure paused in front of it, looking at its own reflection. Evette could see it now, a pale blur in the glass. A yellow dress. Dark, tangled hair. And eyes that seemed to hold their own light, glowing faintly in the gloom.
The figure turned away from the mirror. It walked past the bed, so close Evette could see the hem of the yellow dress brush the floorboards. It stopped at the closet door, which hung slightly ajar.
The door creaked open. The figure stepped inside.
The closet door swung shut behind it.
Evette's lungs burned. She hadn't taken a breath. She couldn't take a breath. The darkness pressed in around her, heavy and suffocating. The only sound was the rain, the storm, and the frantic pounding of her own heart.
A soft giggle drifted from inside the closet.
Then the closet door creaked open again.
The figure stepped out. It was holding something in its small hands. Something white and glinting in the weak light. The framed photo from Evette's nightstand.
The yellow dress swayed as the figure walked to the bed and placed the photo gently on the pillow, right where Evette's head would have been.
It straightened, tilted its head, and spoke in a voice that was sweet, curious, and utterly wrong.
"Found you, Evette."
Clara kneels down, but doesn't see Evette or Chole.
"Hmm, Okay." Clara whispers, standing back up.
Clara leaves Evette's bedroom and down the hallway.