18. Kristin
KRISTIN
I didn’t remember picking up the gas can, and I barely remembered moving through the house at all.
There was only the pull—that low hum beneath my thoughts guiding me toward the basement door, telling me to start there.
My fingers were stiff around the metal handle, my pulse thudding in a steady, unnatural rhythm.
This wasn’t panic. Panic had been messy and loud. This felt quiet and directed.
The whispers curled through my thoughts, thin and smoky, threading themselves where they didn’t belong. I couldn’t tell if they were inside my head or all around me. I only knew one thing with absolute certainty. If the house stayed standing, we wouldn’t.
I pushed the basement door open. The light flicked on by itself, flooding the staircase with a sickly yellow glow. Another bulb lit halfway down, then another at the bottom, creating a shimmering path into the dark.
My feet moved like they weren’t entirely mine.
As soon as I stepped onto the concrete, the cold seeped through my socks.
The musty basement was old enough to have memories of its own, and I knew none of them were good.
My skin tingled, as if sensing someone standing right behind me.
In Chicago, I would’ve turned. I would’ve checked, heart racing, desperate to be sure.
Not now. Don’t look. Don’t give it shape.
I twisted the cap off the gas can. The strong, chemical fumes burned my eyes, but I moved deliberately, splashing gas across the concrete. A dark sheen spread, seeping into the cracks I hadn’t noticed before. My mind stayed quiet, while my body worked, methodical and sure.
I doused the workbench, the furnace, the low support beams, and the corner where I’d found the splitting maul. This wasn’t losing control. This was taking it back.
A whisper brushed the back of my neck. I froze, breath shuddering. Whatever it was stood close enough that the air felt different around me. Don’t turn around. Just finish.
I climbed the stairs, splashing gasoline on each step.
The smell was sour and dizzying. On the main floor, my hand trembled as I sprayed trails along the hallway walls.
Gasoline dripped down the baseboards, pooling in the corners and soaking into rugs.
The house creaked around me—not settling, but reacting.
I couldn’t tell if it was resisting or urging me on.
I reached the living room just as the front door opened.
Cold air rushed in, snow swirling across the threshold.
Patrick stood there, Henry tucked protectively against his chest. Hailey hovered beside him, pale and wide eyed.
They stared at me like I wasn’t their wife or mother, and honestly, I couldn’t blame them.
With the gas can in my hand and the house reeking of fuel, I understood.
“What the hell are you doing?” Patrick’s voice cracked.
Hailey whispered, “I told you we shouldn’t have left her alone.”
“I’m saving us,” I said. The words came fast, but they were clear. “We have to burn the house down. It’s the only way to stop them.”
“Stop who?” Patrick tightened his hold on Henry.
“The neighbors. They can’t kill us if there’s no home to trap us in.”
Patrick took a cautious step toward me, the way you approach something injured and unpredictable. “Honey, that doesn’t make any sense.”
“It does,” I insisted. “It makes perfect sense. This house is cursed. This town is cursed. Even kids at your school know it. The Thorns. The Prestons. The Bishops. The Carpenters. Every family that’s lived here ends the same way. I won’t let it happen to us.”
“Kristin,” he said in a gentle, yet firm tone, “you need help.”
I nodded. “You’re right. Go grab another gas can from the garage. I need more.”
His face fell in horror. Hailey stepped back, clutching the diaper bag like a shield. “Dad . . .”
“Hailey,” Patrick said sharply, “go wait in the car with Henry.”
“What? No,” she snapped. “You can’t just—”
“Just do it,” he shouted.
She flinched. Then, shaking with frustration, she took Henry from him and stormed out, slamming the door behind her.
“Kristin,” Patrick said, stepping closer, “you and me—let’s just—”
Hailey’s scream cut him off. Patrick went white. The gas can slipped from my hand and hit the floor.