The shed door's bang jolted Mara to her feet, the sound a gunshot through the attic's stillness, reverberating off the slanted wooden walls and piercing the heavy silence that had cloaked her hiding place. Dust motes danced in the thin shafts of light filtering through the cracked windowpanes, stirred into motion by the sudden disturbance below. Her heart thudded against her ribcage, a frantic rhythm that matched the tremor in her hands as she pressed them to the rough floorboards, steadying herself against the dizziness that threatened to pull her under.
The truth—Ellie as her younger self, her father as the shadow—burned in her chest, a raw wound she couldn't close, festering with every memory that clawed its way to the surface. It wasn't just a revelation; it was a betrayal of everything she'd tried to bury, every lie she'd told herself to keep the past locked away. Ellie's wide, trusting eyes flashed in her mind, the little girl she'd once been, trailing after Mara through the fields, her laughter a melody against the rustling corn. And then her father—his silhouette looming in the doorway of their old house, the weight of his silence heavier than any words he'd ever spoken. That shadow had grown, twisted, until it wasn't just a memory anymore but something alive, something hunting her.
The house groaned around her, walls trembling as if the very structure shared her dread, its timbers creaking like the bones of an ancient beast stirring from slumber. The muddy footprints glistening on the attic floor caught her eye, slick and dark, like they'd just been pressed into the wood moments ago. They trailed from the hatch to where she crouched, an impossible path that defied the years she'd spent running from this place. She traced one with her fingertip, the cold muck smearing across her skin, and a shiver raced up her spine—not from the chill, but from the realization that time itself seemed to be unraveling here, pulling her back into the nightmare she'd escaped.
She stumbled to the hatch, her boots slipping in the muck, the soles leaving smeared streaks as she fought for balance. Her breath came in shallow gasps, fogging in the dim light as she peered down into the abyss below. The hallway flickered before her eyes—now the narrow stretch of '99, with its faded floral wallpaper and the faint hum of a radio playing in the kitchen; now the peeling ruin of today, plaster crumbling, the air thick with neglect. It was as if the house couldn't decide which version of itself to be, time buckling under her weight, bending and folding until past and present collided in a dizzying blur.
She descended, the ladder creaking beneath her, each rung protesting with a groan that echoed in the hollow space. Her scar throbbed with every step, a jagged line across her forearm that pulsed like a second heartbeat, a reminder of the night she'd first run from him. The air grew thicker as she went, heavy with sawdust that stung her eyes and the sour reek of decay that coated her tongue. The lights downstairs pulsed erratically, casting long, jagged shadows that stretched across the walls like grasping fingers, shifting and twisting as if alive. She blinked hard, trying to focus, but the flickering made her head swim, the world tilting with every burst of light.
She needed the knife—the rusty blade from the kitchen, the one Ellie had begged her to hide all those years ago. It had been a child's plea, Ellie's small hands tugging at Mara's sleeve, her voice trembling as she whispered about the shadows that moved when no one was looking. Mara had laughed it off then, tucking the knife into a drawer with a promise to keep it safe. But now it was her only chance against him, against the thing she'd unwittingly made from her father's grief and her own denial—a monster born of guilt and unspoken words, stitched together by the threads of her fractured mind.
The kitchen was a blur as she entered, her vision swimming as the porcelain sink flickered to stainless steel and back again, a disjointed dance of memory and reality. The radio, once a constant hum of static and old country tunes, sat silent now, its cracked dial staring at her like a blind eye. Her boots skidded on the linoleum, the sound sharp in the stillness, and she caught herself against the counter, her fingers brushing the chipped edge where she'd once sat eating cereal with Ellie. The knife lay where she'd dropped it last—how long ago?—its rusty edge glinting in the stuttering light, a dull beacon amid the chaos.
She grabbed it, the handle cold and slick against her palm, the metal biting into her skin as she tightened her grip. She turned, her breath catching in her throat, just as the back door slammed open with a force that rattled the windows. Hinges screeched, a high-pitched wail that set her teeth on edge, and the fog poured in like a tide, thick and gray, swallowing the room in its clammy embrace. It curled around her ankles, tendrils snaking up her legs, and she fought the urge to gag as the damp, earthy scent filled her lungs.
He stood there.
The masked figure filled the doorway, taller than she remembered, his presence a distortion that warped the space around him. His burlap face was stitched with that red-thread grin, wider now, splitting the fabric as if it had grown with every year she'd spent denying him. His eyes were black hollows, unblinking pits that seemed to drink in the light, and his gloved hand gripped a second knife—longer than hers, its blade crusted with dirt, dripping with something dark that puddled on the floor. Her father's boots, scuffed and muddy, scraped the threshold as he stepped inside, slow and deliberate, each movement deliberate, as if savoring the terror it wrought. The air bent around him, shimmering like heat rising off asphalt, a mirage of menace that made her stomach lurch.
Mara's breath hitched, the knife trembling in her grip as she took an involuntary step back. "Dad?" she whispered, the word a plea, a question, a curse all at once, slipping past her lips before she could stop it. It hung in the air, fragile and futile, a child's hope dashed against the reality before her.
He tilted his head, the mask shifting slightly, the burlap creasing as if in mockery of her question. No answer came—just a low rasp, like air leaking from a broken bellows, a sound that sent a chill racing down her spine. It wasn't human, not anymore, but it carried the weight of something familiar, something she'd once known and lost.
He lunged.
She dodged, barely, her reflexes kicking in as his blade sliced through the air where she'd stood, embedding itself in the counter with a dull thud that vibrated through the floor. Wood splintered, shards flying as she stumbled back, her own knife swinging in a wild arc toward his arm. The rusty edge glanced off his glove, the leather thick and unyielding, absorbing the blow without so much as a tear. He didn't flinch, didn't slow, wrenching his weapon free with a twist of his wrist and turning on her, his movements jerky, unnatural, like a puppet on frayed strings pulled by an unseen hand.
"Stop!" she shouted, backing toward the hall, her voice cracking as it echoed off the walls. "It's me—Mara! You don't have to do this!" The words were desperate, a plea to the father she'd lost, the man she hoped still lingered beneath the mask. She searched those hollow eyes for a flicker of recognition, a sign that he heard her, but there was nothing—only darkness staring back.
He paused, head cocking again, the stitches stretching as if the grin could widen further, a grotesque parody of amusement. For a heartbeat, she saw her father—his quiet eyes, the ones that softened when he'd tuck her in at night; his calloused hands, rough from years of work but gentle when they brushed her hair from her face. But then the mask swallowed it, the hollows deepening, and he advanced, boots thudding on the floorboards with a rhythm that matched the pounding of her heart.
She ran, scrambling into the dining room, her legs burning as she vaulted over the overturned table that lay like a fallen sentinel in the center of the room. The diary pages crunched underfoot, their brittle edges curling, her name smeared across them in Ellie's childish scrawl—accusations, confessions, pleas from a past she couldn't outrun. The chandelier flickered overhead, bulbs popping with sharp cracks that rained glass onto the floor, and she ducked instinctively, shielding her face as she moved.
He followed, relentless, his knife slashing down with a force that splintered the table's edge, sending chunks of wood skittering across the room. She rolled away, the blade missing her by inches, the air hissing as it passed. Adrenaline surged, and she swung back, her knife catching his leg with a satisfying thud. The rusty metal bit deep, tearing through fabric, and she braced for the cry, the blood—but no blood came. Instead, a hiss of dust, dry and gray, spilled from the wound, swirling into the air like smoke from a dying fire.
He staggered, just for a moment, then straightened, the dust curling around him in tendrils that caught the flickering light. Mara's stomach twisted, bile rising in her throat—he wasn't real, not flesh, not anymore. He was her guilt, her fear, her father's rage stitched together by her broken mind, a construct of everything she'd refused to face. But the knife in his hand was solid, its weight undeniable, and the intent in his stance was death, as real as the scar throbbing on her arm.
The phone rang upstairs, a single, piercing chime that cut through the chaos, and his head snapped toward the sound, the mask tilting as if drawn by an invisible thread. Mara seized the moment, darting past him, her shoulder slamming into his side with all the force she could muster. He stumbled, a hollow grunt escaping the burlap, and she raced to the stairs, her boots pounding against the floor as the attic loomed above her, her only refuge in this collapsing world.
The ladder was back, swaying precariously as she climbed, each rung slick with sweat from her palms. His boots pounded below her, a steady, unyielding beat that grew louder with every step she took. She reached the top, her hands scrabbling at the hatch, slamming it shut with a force that jarred her wrists. Her fingers fumbled for the bolt, trembling as they slid it home, the metal screeching against the wood just as he hit the hatch—a thud that shook the floor, the timbers groaning under his weight.
The phone rang again, louder now, insistent, and she lunged for it, her voice a ragged gasp as she answered. "Ellie?"
"Mara, kill him!" Ellie's scream burst through the receiver, fierce and desperate, her voice crackling with static but unmistakable. "He's got me pinned—he'll kill us both if you don't stop him! The knife—use it!" The words were a lifeline, a command, pulling Mara back from the edge of panic even as her mind reeled—Ellie, alive, fighting, somewhere in this nightmare.
The hatch buckled beneath her, a crack splitting the wood with a sound like breaking bones, his gloved fingers prying through the gap. Splinters rained down, and Mara dropped the phone, the receiver clattering to the floor as she gripped the knife with both hands. Her scar seared, a white-hot pain that seemed to recognize the moment, urging her forward as the hatch gave way.
He broke through, the wood splintering into jagged shards, and hauled himself up, the mask looming above her, red stitches glowing like embers in the dim light. His presence filled the attic, a suffocating weight that pressed against her chest, but she didn't hesitate. She charged, driving the rusty blade into his chest with a scream that tore from her throat, the point sinking deep into the burlap and whatever lay beneath.
He froze, a shudder rippling through him, and the dust poured out—thick, choking, filling the attic with a gray haze that stung her eyes and coated her lungs. The mask crumpled, the stitches unraveling one by one, the red threads falling like bloodless veins. For a split second, she saw his face—her father's, gaunt and broken, eyes wet with tears that never fell—before it dissolved, the figure collapsing into a heap of ash, the knife clattering to the floor amid the debris.
The house went still, the ringing silenced, the air clearing as the haze settled. Mara sank to her knees, sobbing, her chest heaving as the scar on her arm cooled, its fire fading to a dull ache, then nothing—just a mark etched into her skin. He was gone, the shadow dispelled, the weight of his presence lifted from her shoulders. But so was Ellie—her voice, her fight, swallowed by the silence that followed. The attic was empty, the trunk shut tight, its secrets locked away once more, the muddy footprints fading into the wood as if they'd never been.
She'd killed him. Or herself. Or both. The line between them blurred, her hands trembling as she stared at the ash scattered across the floor, the remnants of a man she'd loved and feared in equal measure. The knife lay beside her, its rusty edge dulled by the dust, a tool of salvation or damnation—she couldn't decide. The house held its breath around her, the groans and flickers stilled, leaving only the sound of her own ragged breathing echoing in the void.
She rose slowly, her legs unsteady, and crossed to the window, pushing it open to let the cool night air wash over her. The fog had lifted outside, the stars piercing the dark sky like pinpricks of light, indifferent to the chaos that had unfolded below. Mara leaned against the frame, her forehead pressed to the glass, and let the tears come—silent now, a release of everything she'd carried for too long. The attic was hers again, but it felt hollow, a space emptied of both terror and purpose. She was alone, the truth laid bare, and the weight of it settled into her bones, heavy but no longer crushing.
The shed door banged once more in the distance, a faint echo carried on the wind, but she didn't flinch. It was just the house now, settling into its scars as she settled into hers. The nightmare was over—or perhaps it had just begun, in a quieter, emptier form. She didn't know. All she knew was that she was still here, breathing, the knife at her side, the ash at her feet, and the memory of Ellie's voice fading into the night.