Prologue
It was three o’clock in the morning — the darkest hour of night — and he knew it would come.
That was when it stalked. When it was awake. When it was willing to make its presence known.
Despite this, he remained inside the home, in perhaps the worst possible place — the third floor. The attic was only one room, a simple place for storage. But he had heard the stories. The atrocities that had happened in that room. No wonder a creature such as that stalked the place so late at night.
He could have fled, but he didn’t. He could hide, but he would be found.
So instead, he painted.
One last portrait. One final memory. The last thing he would see before it took him.
It would be unfinished. He was out of time.
The painter’s brush went rogue, smearing a gash of red where he had not intended. His jittery hand was unstable. So was his heart, palpitating roughly inside his chest.
The rainstorm outside continued to batter down against the roof, the thunder rolling loudly in the distance.
Just as the alarm on his digital watch started to beep, signaling the coming of the witching hour, he heard it.
Footsteps coming from outside. Slowly approaching.
The painter took a step back from his unfinished work, closed his eyes, and took a deep, calming breath. It did little for his sharp, unsteady breaths.
There was nothing left to do but stand and fight. Even though he knew it was a fight he could never win.
There was no winning against something like that.
He dropped his brush to the ground, the red paint staining the floor like blood. And picked up the axe. He’d found the old hatchet when he’d moved into the house, and ever since the strange things started happening, he never slept far from it. Never mind that such a simple weapon would not be effective against the creature that was coming for him.
He turned around and faced the attic door, gripping the weapon in both hands. The painter was an artist turned warrior. He clutched the handle tighter and tighter, knuckles white, his grip slippery with palm sweat.
The footsteps stopped just outside the door.
When it opened, he saw something he didn’t expect. A different kind of monster had come calling. But one equally dangerous.
“So,” the painter said. “It’s come to this.”
His visitor said nothing. Probably because there was nothing left to say.
And he knew the end had come. So he raised his weapon and charged, a loud cry bellowing from his lungs as he made his last stand.
1
Eleanor, an important call just came through for you.
It was one text among many waiting on her phone. She’d only put it away for thirty minutes and already the lock screen had filled up with notifications.
Eleanor debated whether to read it right then and there. James had also texted her, which was not surprising. It was Tuesday, after all. Their day.
No, she thought. I’ll get to it later. Too much to do today.
Mary Ann, her assistant, should’ve already known. She had only been with her for about a year. The girl showed potential, but still was a bit dull and needy sometimes. When she’d first started, she deemed every message that came through to Eleanor’s office important and urgent. Over time, she’d learned to prioritize them according to Eleanor’s wishes. Sometimes, though, she still messed up.
Especially on days like that one. Eleanor simply did not have time to deal with the little things.
Eleanor slid the phone back into her pocket as she hurried down the hallway of her office building, laptop and a stack of papers in her hands. She mentally checked and rechecked the things she’d need for the upcoming meeting.
Mr. Franklin rounded the corner in front of her. Eleanor didn’t even notice him until he spoke. “Ms. Lawson,” he said, voice deep and stern. “Looking forward to your presentation.” He checked his watch. “Meeting room in ten minutes?”
She didn’t break stride at all. “Yes, sir,” she told her boss. Her boss’s boss, to be precise.
Eleanor checked her own watch — eight minutes, actually.
Think, she told herself. Have I missed anything?
She’d already confirmed the meeting would be held in conference room 203-B. That was important, because the room had a faulty connection that caused presentations to flicker on and off. So she’d swapped the defective cable with the good one from room 203-A. The room also had windows that allowed the sun to cast glares on the display, making the screen hard to see. She’d already gone inside and lowered the blinds halfway down to prevent the issue. Eleanor had also removed the excess chairs, leaving only enough for the people who would be there. That would give her presentation the illusion of being well-attended.
The particulars mattered. Eleanor had spent the last month preparing for the project — the IT setup for the new branch her company was opening in New Jersey. She was in charge of establishing the network and had prepared a PowerPoint presentation to demonstrate her plan of execution to her superiors.
She’d only forgotten one detail — her laser pointer. She’d need it to guide her listeners’ attention through the presentation.
Just as she got to her desk, her phone started buzzing in her pocket again. It was Mary Ann, calling this time. She tapped ignore and slid it back in her pocket.
She rummaged through her drawer. Where did I put it? Then she spotted the laser all the way in the back. She collected her laptop and papers and bumped the drawer closed with her hip, maneuvered around the desk, and rushed toward the office door.
But someone was standing in her way.
Mary Ann. The girl stood unmoving, clutching a small, wrinkled piece of paper to her chest.
“I saw that you texted me,” Eleanor said, ignoring the girl’s odd demeanor, “but you know I have an important —”
“I know,” Mary Ann said, “and I’m sorry to bother you. But this message came through for you and I thought you’d like to know.”
Eleanor sighed. “Fine. Who is it from?”
“I don’t know,” Mary Ann said.
Eleanor paused. “You don’t know?”
“They didn’t leave a name or a number.”
“And?”
Mary Ann sucked in a deep breath. “It’s about your brother. Dennis. Apparently, he has passed away.”
