Imogen
I’m standing with my back to the dining room when I hear it: the soft tap of a shoe hitting the floor.
My head snaps up, looking into the reflection through tear-glossed eyes for an answer.
I blink fast, clearing my vision to see there, behind me, in the wide arched opening of the dining room, a dark, human-sized figure dashing through the doorway and down the hall, thinking they haven’t been seen.
Not Rory… I can practically still hear the vintage door knocker clanging from his dramatic exit nearly a minute ago. Which means whoever is behind me, whoever is in the house, was already here. Lurking in the shadows.
I hate that I squeak, but I’m so startled that it comes out, high-pitched and loud.
I whip around to find the intruder at the end of the hall, heading for Mom’s room… and I freeze. Every instinct screams at me to run, but I need to know. Questions whir in my brain as blood pumps hard in my head so suddenly, I fear I’ll fall over.
How did they get in? How long have they been hiding?
In the low light of the house, the room only lit by the living room lamp, I picture them in the hallway: a glowing face at the end, stopped, waiting for me…
Ready to act, do whatever it is they’ve been planning.
I wonder if they have a weapon, ready to dice me up on the floor while no one hears my screams.
My phone is on the floor by the kitchen, so I move down the hallway without it, eyes wide so I don’t miss a movement ahead, each step deliberate and careful to ensure I don’t make another sound.
My skin prickles with goosebumps, sweat building under my hairline.
My hand trembles against the wall for balance.
I imagine all the ways this could go wrong: someone hiding in the closet, behind the door, waiting to strike. My stomach continues to twist, bile rising in my throat as a tremor of nausea hits me like a rogue wave.
Mom’s bedroom door is open, cast in the deepening blue of twilight.
Shadows stretch in monstrous shapes, reminding me of all the ways someone could be hiding within.
I step inside anyway, hands shaking, heart hammering as I spy an open window ahead.
I flip on the light switch, whipping my head around the room to confirm it’s empty, personless.
My ears ring in the silence, telling me they’re either here, crouching somewhere, very still, or they’re gone.
Is the open window a ruse? Did they escape?
The police checked the windows and doors yesterday, confirming everything but the lakefront door was locked. Meaning… this person didn’t enter through that window.
I peer outside as a motion sensor triggers the house’s side light and the dark figure dashes underneath it, rounding the corner toward the front of the house.
They’re featureless, hooded. I slam the window shut and lock it, sprinting across the house to secure it in case they change their mind and want to come back in.
I fumble with the lock, hands slick with sweat.
My back presses against the door, ears straining for the slightest sound—a break, a shuffle, a car engine.
But my breathing is too loud, throat raw from exertion.
I press myself harder against the door, nails digging into the wood, muscles taut.
I’m in someone else’s game. And I’m already losing.
The drizzle started again, light but persistent, leaving the asphalt outside the house slick underfoot.
I stood under the umbrella one of the officers had lent me, the blue fabric shielding me from the wetness while the other officer swept the house, flashlight in hand.
Shadows from the porch and trees danced across the siding, giving the house an unfamiliar, ominous look.
I just finished explaining everything to the officer: the fleeting figure in the dining room, the open window. I even alerted them of what happened yesterday, positing it to be the same person who ransacked our house.
“Thanks again for getting here so fast,” I say, breath fogging in the chill air.
The officer—Harding—nods, adjusting his jacket. “I’ll check in with Wright in the morning, see what else we can do. For now, we’ll finish sweeping. See if we can find any sign of this guy.”
That’s when I see Rory sprinting up the driveway, shoes splashing in puddles, a crease of concern on his brow. I’m almost confused to see him after our argument—after he stormed out some thirty minutes ago.
“Hey, what are you—” is all I can get out as Rory slams into me, hugging me tight.
“What happened?” he asks, grabbing my face. “I saw the cops go by.”
“I’m so sorry about earlier,” I say, the officer stepping aside to call something in on his radio. “All of it. It was stupid and I was wrong. Everything feels so confusing right now.”
“I know, I get it,” he says, sincere. “But I would never hurt you. I’m not the bad guy here.” I think this time I believe him. “What happened? Why are the cops here again?”
If Rory and I didn’t have such history, and if our families weren’t as close as they are, I don’t know if he’d have forgiven me. Him running up here toward police lights alone tells me he has nothing to hide.
I scan around for movement, the scene illuminated, expecting to see a terrifying wretch hanging from a nearby tree spying on us. Even with the red and blue lights flashing, I can’t help but fear someone is hovering nearby.
“When you left, someone was in the house. They ran out after you. I know it sounds impossible, but I saw them. I didn’t imagine it. I—”
“Hold on, slow down,” Rory says, hands clasping my face. “They ran out after me?”
“Yes, right after you left. Did someone follow you down the driveway?”
“No.” He shakes his head, strands of wet hair clinging to his temple. “I didn’t see anyone.”
Where the hell did they go?
“God, they’re like a ghost,” I say, shivering.
Headlights cut through the drizzle, bouncing clearly off the ground as a car enters the driveway. It startles me at first, the headlights making silhouettes of the car’s passengers as they scramble out, barreling toward me.
Wes and Amelia come into view, painted in the cruiser’s glittering lights, and my sister runs to my side.
“What happened?” she asks, panicked, holding my arms.
Just then, the other officer comes out of the house. “No one’s inside,” he says. “Everything’s secure.”