Mara let the letter fall, the paper drifting to the kitchen floor like a leaf caught in a slow wind, its edges curling slightly as it settled among the dust motes that danced in the dim light filtering through the window. Her fingers lingered in the air for a moment, trembling, as if reluctant to let go of the tangible proof of her mother's voice, a voice she hadn't heard in years—not since '99, not since the world had tilted off its axis and left her grasping at shadows.
Her mother's words—He's not himself lately—burned in her chest, a flare of grief and confusion she couldn't douse, couldn't smother no matter how hard she pressed her palms against her sternum. They echoed there, sharp and insistent, a litany of doubt that gnawed at the edges of her sanity. Not himself. What did that even mean? Her father, the man who'd once carved wooden birds with a steady hand and a quiet smile, now reduced to a specter unraveling at the seams—how could her mother have known, have seen it coming, when Mara herself had been blind to it until now?
The shed door's bang echoed in her skull, a punctuation mark to the impossible: her mom alive in '99, scribbling those words on paper, her father spiraling into something unrecognizable, and Ellie—poor, desperate Ellie—begging for help in a voice that cracked like brittle glass. That sound, that hollow thud of wood against frame, reverberated through her, a memory she couldn't place but felt deep in her bones. It was the sound of late nights, of her father retreating to his sanctuary with a bottle in hand, of the shed becoming something more than a workshop—a tomb, a vault, a place where secrets festered.
The house hummed around her, alive with its own pulse, a rhythm she couldn't escape. The radio's static crackled from the corner, a jagged noise that scratched at the air like a voice trying to break through, to claw its way into coherence. She could almost imagine it forming words, whispers of her name or something darker, but it remained just out of reach, a taunting murmur beneath the surface. The refrigerator kicked on with a low groan, the pipes creaked in the walls, and the floorboards sighed under her weight—each sound weaving into a chorus that seemed to mock her, to remind her she wasn't alone, not really.
She pressed her hands to the table, steadying herself against the cool wood, her knuckles whitening as she gripped the edge. But the porcelain sink, gleaming faintly in the corner, the quilt draped over the chair, the rug frayed at the edges—they mocked her too, silent sentinels of a past she couldn't hold onto, couldn't reclaim no matter how tightly she clenched her fists. They were relics of a life that had slipped through her fingers, a life where her mother's laughter had filled the kitchen and her father's hands had been steady, not trembling with whatever madness had taken root.
The lights flickered again, a staccato dance that made the shadows jump and twist along the walls, stretching into shapes that didn't quite fit the furniture they sprang from. She grabbed her flashlight from the counter, its cold metal a fleeting comfort in her palm, but when she flicked the switch, it stayed dark—dead, useless. She cursed under her breath, the word sharp and bitter on her tongue, and tossed it back onto the counter where it clattered against a stack of unwashed dishes. The sound was too loud in the quiet, a small rebellion against the suffocating stillness.
The kitchen felt smaller now, the walls leaning in as if to press against her, to trap her in this moment of unraveling. The air carried a faint scent—sawdust, sharp and familiar, tinged with the earthy bite of pine and the musk of old wood. It was the smell of her father's shed after a long day, a scent that had once been comforting, a tether to hours spent watching him work, his hands deft and sure. Now it was an intrusion, a ghost that lingered in the corners of the room, curling around her like smoke.
She turned to the window, drawn by instinct, some primal pull she couldn't name, and froze. He was there.
Outside, in the thinning fog that clung to the ground like a shroud, a figure stood at the edge of the yard. Tall, motionless, his silhouette stark against the gray dawn that bled through the mist. The burlap mask hung over his face, rough and uneven, stitched with red thread in a jagged, grinning line that split the fabric like a wound. The edges were frayed and damp, darkened by the morning dew or something worse, something she didn't want to imagine.
His eyes—hollow, black voids beneath the mask—locked onto the house, onto her, unblinking, unwavering. Mara's breath caught in her throat, her body icing over as a chill raced down her spine, locking her joints in place. It was him—Ellie's shadow man, the figure from her sister's frantic stories, the nightmare that had haunted their childhood. But it was more than that. It was her father, or the shell of him, the man he'd become in the years since the shed had swallowed him whole. She couldn't reconcile it—the memory of his gentle voice with the terror of that stitched grin.
She stumbled back, her hip catching the edge of a chair, and it toppled to the floor with a crash that splintered the silence. The sound jolted her, but the figure didn't move, didn't flinch, just stood there, a statue carved from dread, rooted in the muddy earth. The knife—the rusty one she'd found under the sink days ago, its blade pitted and dull—flashed in her mind, still lying where she'd dropped it in a panic. She could see it now, half-hidden under a rag, its handle worn smooth by years of use.
She needed it, needed something to anchor her against the fear that clawed at her chest, but her legs wouldn't obey, rooted by the weight of his stare. Those hollow eyes bore into her, stripping away the fragile walls she'd built around herself, leaving her raw and exposed. Her pulse thundered in her ears, a wild drumbeat that drowned out the house's hum, and her fingers twitched, aching for the knife she couldn't reach.
The radio surged then, static twisting into a low, guttural hum that vibrated through the floor, a sound that felt alive, sentient. The lights blinked out, plunging the kitchen into gloom, and for a moment, she was blind, swallowed by the dark. When they flared back on, stuttering into life, he was closer. Halfway across the yard now, his boots sunk into the mud, the mask tilted slightly, like he was listening—to her, to the house, to something she couldn't hear.
Mara's heart slammed against her ribs, a frantic rhythm that matched the flickering lights, and her hands fumbled for the counter behind her, knocking over a mug that shattered on the tile. She hadn't seen him move—no steps, no blur of motion—just there, nearer, the distance shrinking like a thread pulled taut until it snapped. The red stitches gleamed, wet and vivid in the dawn light, and his gloved hand hung at his side, fingers curling slowly, deliberately, as if testing the air.
"Stay back," she whispered, the words barely sound, swallowed by the house's oppressive quiet. They felt useless, a plea to a thing that couldn't hear, couldn't care. She edged toward the doorway, her eyes locked on him, but the window framed him like a portrait, inescapable, a grotesque centerpiece to the morning's gray canvas. The shed loomed behind him, its door shut tight now, a silent witness to whatever had birthed this moment.
The phone rang upstairs, sharp and jarring, cutting through the haze of her fear like a blade. It snapped her focus, and she bolted from the kitchen, tripping over the fallen chair in her haste, the wood scraping against her shin. She raced to the attic, her boots pounding the stairs, each step a thunderclap in the narrow stairwell. The ringing grew louder, a beacon in the chaos, pulling her upward, away from the figure in the yard.
She snatched the receiver mid-chime, her voice a ragged gasp as she pressed it to her ear. "Ellie?"
"Mara, he's here!" Ellie's scream tore through the line, high and frantic, laced with a terror that made Mara's blood run cold. "He's at the crawlspace—he found me! I can see his mask through the crack, those stitches—he's trying to pry it open!" Her sister's words tumbled over each other, a torrent of panic that painted a vivid, horrifying picture.
Mara's stomach dropped, a sick lurch that left her dizzy, and her eyes darted to the hatch below her, the trapdoor that led to the house's underbelly. "Ellie, hold on—he's outside, I just saw him in the yard—"
"No, he's here!" Ellie sobbed, her voice breaking into shards. "He's right outside the crawlspace, I hear the wood cracking—he's got the knife! Mara, you're making it worse—every time you do something, he gets closer!"
"What?" Mara choked, gripping the phone so hard her knuckles ached. "I haven't done anything—I locked the window, hid the knife—"
"You're pulling him here!" Ellie shouted, her voice fracturing under the weight of her fear. "You're changing things, and it's stronger now—he's stronger! Please, stop—just stop!"
The line went dead, static roaring in its wake, a deafening howl that filled the attic. Mara dropped the receiver, her hands shaking, Ellie's words slicing through her like shards of glass. Pulling him here. The accusation lodged in her throat, a bitter truth she couldn't swallow. Was it true? Had her every move—every lock turned, every step taken—drawn him closer, fed the nightmare until it stood on her doorstep?
The house groaned, a low rumble that vibrated the floorboards beneath her feet, a sound that seemed to rise from its bones. She stumbled to the hatch, peering down into the hallway below. It was empty, the mirror on the far wall reflecting nothing but gray light, a dull sheen that revealed no secrets. But then—a shadow moved, a flicker at the edge of her sight.
She spun, heart in her throat, expecting him—those hollow eyes, that stitched grin—but the attic was still. Just the trunk in the corner, its lid shut tight, the phone dangling from its cord, and the muddy footprints circling it, stark against the dusty floor. Her footprints, she told herself, though they seemed too large, too deliberate.
The shadow flickered again, not on the wall but in her vision, a silhouette burned into her eyes like an afterimage of the sun. She blinked, hard, and it was gone, leaving a cold sweat on her skin, a clammy film that clung to her neck and arms. Downstairs, the radio flared back to life, static twisting into a whisper—Mara, Mara—soft and deliberate, like her father's voice after too many nights in the shed, hoarse and distant.
She backed toward the ladder, her boots brushing the footprints, the mud smearing under her soles in wet, dark streaks. The air thickened, heavy with sawdust and something sour, a rancid undertone that made her stomach churn. The lights flickered once more, casting the attic in strobe-like bursts, each flash a snapshot of the room—trunk, phone, footprints, walls.
In the final flash, she saw him—standing at the far end, mask tilted, red stitches glowing like embers, his gloved hand raised, pointing at her with a slow, deliberate menace. The lights died, and he vanished into the black, leaving only the echo of his presence, a weight that pressed against her chest.
Mara didn't wait—she scrambled down the ladder, half-falling as her boots slipped on the rungs, her hands scraping against the rough wood. She ran to the bedroom, slamming the door behind her with a force that rattled the frame. Her breath came in gasps, shallow and ragged, and her arm burned, the scar from years ago—a jagged line from a fall in the shed—alive with a phantom pain that pulsed in time with her heartbeat.
Outside, the fog pressed against the window, a thick, swirling mass that obscured the yard, the shed, the world beyond. The shed stood silent, its door still shut, a monolith in the mist. She pressed her back to the door, her eyes fixed on the glass, searching for movement, for that stitched grin.
But in the glass, her reflection flickered—and behind her, just for a heartbeat, was the mask, its red thread vivid against the burlap, its hollow eyes staring through her. She whirled, a scream caught in her throat, but the room was empty, the air still. Just her, alone, with the echo of Ellie's warning and the weight of a nightmare she couldn't outrun.