19. Kristin
KRISTIN
One second Patrick and I were inside, fumes burning my throat. The next, we were sprinting toward Hailey and throwing open the front door.
She stood frozen on the porch, her back to us, Henry bundled in her arms. Her shoulders were hunched tight, the porch light haloing her hair like a warning flare.
I grabbed the doorframe to stop myself from crashing into her. “Hailey, what is it?”
She didn’t answer. She didn’t need to.
They were spread out across the front lawn in a loose, uneven semicircle. Dozens of people. Maybe more. It was hard to tell where the line ended in the dark. Some faces I half recognized from town, from the gas station, and from the road when we’d first arrived. Most, I had never seen before.
Standing in front of them all, like some deranged ma?tre d’ welcoming guests to hell, was Judi Vee. She wore a calf-length coat and a knitted hat. Her smile was too wide and her teeth too small.
Patrick stepped past Hailey, placing himself between us and the crowd. “Umm—hello, everyone. What brings you all out to our house this evening?” He tried to sound calm, but it landed somewhere closer to strained.
“You didn’t come to the welcome party,” Judi said, her voice bright and buoyant as if she were commenting on the weather.
“Yeah, sorry,” Patrick said. “Now’s just not a good time, but we appreciate the invite.”
She tilted her head. “We were waiting for you, Patrick.”
The rest of them spoke in unison. “We were all waiting for you.”
The words sent a chill up my spine. Henry whimpered. I gripped Hailey’s shoulder, pulling her and my baby behind me.
“Get off our property,” I said, surprised at how steady my voice was. This wasn’t the shaking insistence of Chicago. This was something colder, clearer. “Now. Or I’m calling the police.”
“No need for that,” a man drawled. “I’m already here.”
I scanned the crowd and found him—Sheriff Kohler, standing just off-center, thumbs hooked into his duty belt, a shit-eating grin stretching across his face. Of course he was here.
“You’re all trespassing,” I said, my voice climbing despite myself.
“I’ll be the one to make that determination.” Kohler nodded.
Patrick raised his hands in that placating, high-school-teacher way of his. He moved down one porch step, closer to them, closer to her.
“All right,” he said. “Why don’t you all just go home? No harm, no foul. We’re tired. The baby’s tired. We’ll catch up another time.”
Judi smiled. “We’re not going anywhere.”
“Excuse me,” Patrick said, firmer now. “This isn’t up for debate. Get off my land.”
Every alarm in my body blared at once. The crowd shifted—not individually, but together, like a single organism responding to a cue. When they looked at us, it wasn’t curiosity. It wasn’t neighborliness. It was hunger.
“Patrick,” I said under my breath. “Get inside. Now.”
He glanced back at me, irritation flashing. “I will not be intimidated on my own property,” he said, like this was about pride and not survival. He turned back to them. “You guys need to—”
It happened too fast for my brain to catch up.
Judi Vee stepped forward. Something glinted in her hand. Then she drove a fork into Patrick’s cheek.
“You talk too much,” she said, almost bored.
He screamed, blood bubbling around the silver.
Hailey and I screamed, and Henry wailed like the world had cracked open.
Patrick stumbled backward into me, the metallic stink of blood colliding with gasoline in my nose.
We scrambled inside, and I slammed the door, fumbling with the dead bolt.
My fingers slipped—once, twice—before it finally clicked.
Patrick ripped the fork free with a ragged yell. Blood oozed from the four small punctures, streaming down his neck and staining his shirt.
“Oh my God,” Hailey sobbed.
“Go,” I barked at Patrick, my voice edged with panic. “Lock the back door and check every window. Now.”
He stared at me, stunned, then nodded and ran.
Outside, feet shifted in the snow. A low growl rolled through the crowd, too many voices blending together to create something inhuman.
I bolted into the kitchen, locking the patio door and jamming the wooden dowel into the track. The glass rattled when someone tested it from the outside.
“Kristin . . .” a voice crooned. “We just want to talk.”
“Go to hell,” I shouted, yanking the curtains closed.
I ran through the house, turning locks and drawing drapes. Each metallic click tightened the space around us. My breathing came fast and shallow, but my thoughts stayed brutally clear.
At the hall closet, I reached behind the coats and found cold metal, the splitting maul. I had tucked it back in there, just in case. I dragged it free, then sprinted to the kitchen and grabbed the biggest knife we owned.
“Hailey!”
She appeared, clutching Henry so tightly he squirmed.
“Take him to your room. Lock the door and don’t open it for anyone unless you hear my voice. No one. Do you understand?”
Her chin wobbled, but she nodded.
“I love you,” I said. “Now go.”
She turned and ran down the hall, Henry’s cries echoing after them. Her bedroom door slammed and the lock clicked.
From outside came a sharp crack of wood, followed by casual, delighted laughter. Patrick reappeared, half his face bloody, phone glowing in his hand.
“Nine-one-one won’t connect. It just drops. I can’t even get a ring.”
“You’re surprised?” I snapped. Adrenaline had burned away my filter. “The sheriff is out there with them.”
He flinched. For a second, we just stared at each other, the man I loved and the stranger who hadn’t believed me.
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I should’ve believed you.”
“It’s fine,” I said. “I barely believed myself.”
“What do we do?” he asked.
The question hit the center of me. Outside, something slammed against the door hard enough to rattle the frame. Another blow hit the siding. A rock thudded into a window.
A chant rose from the crowd—low, rhythmic, rising and falling like some twisted playground song. I recognized the cadence before the words:
“Tillington locks its borders tight.
New folks vanish overnight.
The Nightmare House keeps every name,
and all who enter leave the same.”
“Kristin!” Patrick yelled, snapping me out of my daze.
I handed him the knife. “We do what we have to do.”
I considered giving him the splitting maul, but I was already familiar with it, and this time I wouldn’t need a neighbor’s help. Patrick’s expression changed as he looked over the blade. The soft teacher was gone and some harder version of him was surfacing.
“I’m not great with weapons,” he admitted.
“Pretend it’s a stubborn curriculum, carve out the useless parts, and don’t stop until it bleeds.”
Another blow hit the front door, making the hinges squeal. I hefted the splitting maul onto my shoulder, settling into a grip that felt disturbingly natural.
“If we get out of this—” Patrick began.
“When,” I corrected. “When we get out of this.”
I stepped closer so our shoulders touched. Gasoline, blood, and fear wrapped around us like a second skin.
“On three,” I said. “We hold the line. We protect the kids. Whatever happens, we don’t let them in.”
He nodded.
“One,” I whispered. A crack split the doorframe.
“Two,” he said, adjusting the knife in his hand.
Outside, someone giggled—a high, delighted sound. We didn’t say three. The next blow tore the top hinge free, metal screaming as it twisted loose.