Mara's knees struck the attic floor with a dull thud, the impact reverberating through her bones as the knife slipped from her trembling hands, clattering against the worn wooden boards. The masked figure before her—her nightmare, her tormentor—dissolved into a cloud of ash, the gray particles swirling upward in a chaotic dance. The dust was thick, oppressive, a gritty haze that stung her eyes until they watered and clogged her throat with every ragged breath she drew. She coughed violently, her hand flailing through the air to wave the suffocating cloud away, her sobs breaking free and echoing in the sudden, eerie stillness that enveloped the attic.
The scar on her arm pulsed faintly, a dying ember beneath her skin, its warmth fading as though it, too, were exhausted by the ordeal. Below her, the hatch hung in tatters, its wooden frame reduced to jagged splinters that framed the yawning darkness of the house beneath. The shadows down there seemed to pulse, alive with the memory of what had just transpired. He was gone—her father, the shadow, the grotesque figure with the stitched grin that had haunted her for so long—reduced to nothing more than a pile of grit scattered across the attic floorboards. The transformation was abrupt, final, and yet it left her reeling, her mind struggling to catch up with the reality of his absence.
The house itself seemed to hold its breath, the groaning of its ancient walls falling silent for the first time in hours. The flickering lights, which had danced erratically throughout the night, steadied into a soft, unwavering glow, casting long shadows across the attic's cluttered expanse. Mara wiped her face with the back of her hand, smearing tears and ash across her cheeks in a gritty streak, the mixture cold and damp against her flushed skin. Her fingers reached instinctively for the knife, its rusty blade dulled from the desperate fight that had unfolded moments before. She gripped it tightly, the metal cool against her palm, grounding her in the chaos of her emotions.
Ellie's scream still rang in her ears, sharp and piercing—Kill him, or he kills us both!—a command that had seared itself into her mind, driving her actions even as her heart faltered. She had obeyed, plunging the blade into the figure with all the strength she could muster, watching as he crumbled before her. But the victory felt hollow, a fragile illusion that crumbled the moment she registered the silence. The attic was too empty now, the absence of Ellie's voice cutting deeper than any wound—a loss she couldn't name, couldn't quantify, but felt with every fiber of her being.
A faint scrape sounded behind her, a whisper of movement that sent a jolt of ice through her veins. Mara froze, her hand tightening around the knife's handle until her knuckles whitened. The ash on the floor shifted, slow at first, as though stirred by an unseen breeze, then faster, gathering itself into a shape—a silhouette rising from the boards with deliberate, menacing purpose. Her heart slammed against her ribs, each beat a thunderous echo in her chest, as the figure reformed before her eyes. The burlap mask stitched itself back together, red thread weaving through the coarse fabric like veins threading through flesh. His boots solidified next, muddy and firm against the floor, the gloved hand clutching the longer knife, its edge still dripping with something dark and viscous.
The hollow eyes locked onto her, unblinking voids beneath the mask, and the stitched grin widened, splitting the seams until the fabric strained. "No," she whispered, her voice barely audible, a fragile thread of sound as she scrambled to her Harcourt feet. "I killed you—I saw you fall!" Her words were a plea, a denial, but they hung unanswered in the air. He didn't speak, didn't pause—just lunged, faster this time, his blade slashing toward her chest with lethal intent.
Mara dove aside, her body crashing into the heavy trunk that sat against the wall, the impact jarring her bones as the knife glanced off her shoulder. The blade tore through her jacket, slicing into her flesh, and pain flared—hot and sharp, a searing line that radiated down her arm. She rolled, adrenaline surging, and swung her own blade upward in a desperate arc, catching his arm. The rusty metal sank into the figure's limb, and a cascade of dust spilled forth, gray and powdery, but he wrenched free with unnerving ease. The wound closed almost instantly, the ash swirling back into place as though drawn by some unseen force, reforming his shape without a trace of damage.
The attic shuddered around them, a deep tremor that sent cracks spiderwebbing across the ceiling. Plaster rained down in a fine white dust, coating her hair, her shoulders, as she circled him warily. Her breath came in ragged gasps, the knife trembling in her grip, its weight a lifeline she clung to. He wasn't real—not flesh, not blood—but something else entirely, a memory made solid, her guilt given form and purpose. Yet he moved like a hunter, relentless and precise, his boots thudding against the floor with an unnatural weight that seemed to shake the very foundation of the house.
She ducked beneath another wild swing, his longer knife embedding itself deep in the trunk with a splintering crunch. Seizing the moment, she stabbed at his side, the blade sinking deep into the ash-filled form. More dust poured out, a choking cloud that filled the air, and he staggered, the burlap mask crumpling inward as though the force sustaining it wavered. Mara yanked the knife free, her chest heaving, and watched as he dissolved once more—ash pooling at her feet, the red stitches unraveling like threads of a broken tapestry, the hollow eyes fading into nothingness.
"Stay down," she hissed, her voice breaking, raw with exhaustion and defiance. The dust settled slowly, the attic falling still once more, and she backed toward the shattered hatch, her shoulder bleeding freely now, the pain a constant throb that screamed with every movement. Her jacket hung in tatters, the fabric soaked with blood, but she barely noticed, her focus fixed on the pile of ash, waiting for any sign of movement.
Then, a sound pierced the silence—a single, sharp chime from the phone that hung on the attic wall. Mara spun toward it, the noise a jolt to her frayed nerves, her pulse racing anew. The receiver trembled on its hook, rattling as though alive, and she snatched it up with desperate hands, pressing it to her ear. "Ellie? Are you there?" Her voice cracked, pleading, yearning for the connection she'd lost.
"Mara, he's not done!" Ellie's voice came through, faint and strained, cutting through a haze of static that buzzed like a swarm of insects. "You can't kill him like that—he's us, he's you! He keeps coming back—please, do it right!" The words were a frantic warning, a lifeline thrown across an abyss, but before Mara could respond, the line went dead, the silence swallowing Ellie's voice once more.
The ash stirred again, faster this time, rising in a violent swirl of gray that stung her eyes and coated her tongue. Mara dropped the phone, her scream trapped in her throat as the figure reformed before her—taller now, the mask tighter against its unseen face, the red stitches glowing like embers in the dim light. His knife gleamed in his hand, fresh and sharp, no trace of rust or wear, its edge catching the faint glow of the attic's single bulb. He advanced, his steps a drumbeat that shook the floorboards, each thud reverberating through her skull.
She swung her blade, wild and desperate, the rusty metal slicing through his chest in a spray of dust. But he didn't stop—didn't falter. The ash sprayed outward, a fleeting wound that meant nothing to him, and he grabbed her wrist with a gloved hand, his grip like iron. He twisted, forcing her fingers to splay, and the knife clattered to the floor, useless. She kicked out, her boot slamming into his leg with all the force she could muster, and he stumbled, his hold loosening just enough for her to break free.
Mara dove for the blade, rolling across the floor as his knife slashed downward, splintering the boards where she'd been a heartbeat before. The house roared in response, a cacophony of sound as windows shattered downstairs, the walls buckling inward with a groan of splintering wood. She gripped the knife again, her shoulder throbbing with every movement, and faced him, her back pressed against the trunk for support. He loomed over her, the mask splitting further, the red thread dangling like bloody tendrils swaying in an unfelt breeze. Ellie's words—He's us, he's you—sank into her like a blade, a truth she couldn't escape, couldn't deny.
He wasn't just her father's ghost, a specter of the past come to haunt her. He was her fear, her shame, the part of her she'd locked away with Ellie in the recesses of her mind, reborn with every strike she landed, every wound she inflicted. He lunged again, his movements fluid and unstoppable, and she sidestepped at the last moment, driving her knife into his back with a twist of her wrist. She poured everything into the strike—her anger, her grief, her terror—twisting the blade deeper until dust exploded outward in a violent burst. The mask collapsed inward, a hollow shell, and he fell, ash scattering across the attic in a wide arc.
Mara stumbled back, gasping for air, her chest tight as she watched the pile, waiting for the inevitable reformation. But this time, nothing came. The air cleared slowly, the floor steadied beneath her feet, and the ash remained still—a gray stain on the boards, marked by a single red stitch that lay like a discarded thread. She sank to her knees, the knife slipping from her blood-slick hands to rest beside her, its blade dulled and stained. The attic was silent once more, the house holding its fractured breath, the chaos of the night receding into an uneasy calm.
She'd won—again—but the triumph was fleeting, overshadowed by the void Ellie's absence carved into her soul. The scar on her arm went cold, a dead line etched into her skin, no longer pulsing with the heat of battle. She knew, with a certainty that settled into her bones, that he'd be back. He always would. This wasn't the end, only a pause, a brief respite before the cycle began anew.
Outside, the shed door creaked in the distance, a faint call carried on the dawn's first light. The sound drifted upward, through the broken windows and the shattered hatch, a whisper of the world beyond the attic's confines. Mara lifted her head, her gaze drawn to the jagged opening below, the darkness that waited there. She didn't move, not yet—her body too heavy, her mind too fractured—but the sound lingered, a thread of something she couldn't yet grasp, pulling her toward whatever came next.