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The boots pivoted. He was facing the sink. He was facing us.
“Found you,” the voice whispered, low and amused.
The cupboard door handle slowly began to turn.
End of Part 1
The cupboard door creaked, a sound that screamed in the silence.
I didn’t wait. Instinct, sharp and violent, took over. I kicked the door open with both feet, putting every ounce of my hysterical strength into the blow.
It connected.
The door slammed into the stranger’s shins. He howled—a sound that was definitely not Daniel—and stumbled back, crashing into the kitchen island.
“Run, Emily! GO!” I screamed, grabbing her arm and yanking her out of the dark space.
We scrambled to our feet. I caught a glimpse of him as he recovered. He was tall, clean-shaven, wearing a leather jacket that looked almost identical to one Daniel owned. His hair was the same shade of brown, cut in the same style. From a distance, in the dim light, he was a perfect copy. But up close, the eyes were wrong. They were flat, dead things. Cold obsidian voids devoid of warmth or recognition.
He lunged for me.
I shoved Emily toward the back door and threw myself in his path. He grabbed my shoulder, his fingers digging into my trapezius muscle like steel claws. I twisted, screaming, and raked my nails across his face. He cursed, his grip slipping just enough for me to spin away.
“Mom!” Emily was at the back door, fumbling with the lock. Her hands were shaking so badly she couldn’t turn the latch.
The stranger recovered his balance. He wasn’t rushing anymore. He smiled, and that was the most terrifying part. It was a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out something that glinted silver in the kitchen light. A knife.
“You’re making this difficult, Claire,” he said, his voice shifting. He dropped the imitation of Daniel. His real voice was higher, scratchier. “I just wanted to be part of the family.”
“Open the door, Emily!” I shrieked, grabbing a heavy ceramic fruit bowl from the counter and hurling it at him.
He ducked, and the bowl shattered against the wall, sending shards of pottery raining down. The distraction bought us a second. I threw my body weight against the back door, aiding Emily’s small hands. The lock clicked.
We burst into the backyard.
The cold air burned my lungs. The rain was torrential now, turning the garden into a mud slick. We slipped and slid across the patio, heading for the gate that led to the neighbor’s yard, Mrs. Thompson’s.
“Don’t look back!” I shouted over the wind.
But the grass was slick. I lost my footing near the rose bushes, my feet flying out from under me. I hit the ground hard, the impact knocking the wind out of me.
“Mom!” Emily stopped, turning back.
“Go! Get help!” I wheezed, scrambling to my hands and knees.
Heavy boots pounded onto the patio stones behind us. He was coming. He moved with a terrifying athleticism, vaulting the patio railing.
He reached me before I could stand. He grabbed my ankle, dragging me backward through the mud. I screamed, kicking wildly, my other foot connecting with his chest, but he didn’t let go. He was strong—psychotically strong.
He dragged me back toward the house, away from the safety of the street. I clawed at the wet grass, tearing up clumps of earth, but there was nothing to hold onto.
“Emily, run!” I screamed one last time.
She didn’t run. She grabbed a garden shovel leaning against the shed—a heavy, rusted thing she could barely lift—and charged.
“Leave her alone!” she screamed, swinging the shovel with all her might.
It hit the man in the shoulder. It wasn’t enough to injure him, but it shocked him. He let go of my leg, turning his dead eyes toward my daughter.
“Bad girl,” he hissed.
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