Mara didn't move from the attic floor where she sat, her legs folded beneath her, the rough wood pressing into her knees through the thin fabric of her jeans. The ash lay scattered before her in a chaotic sprawl, a gray shroud dusted with that single red stitch, vivid against the muted tones—a fragile thread, the last remnant of the masked figure who had haunted her through the night. It was all that remained of him now, that crimson mark, a silent accusation or perhaps a final plea, though she couldn't decide which. The air hung heavy with the scent of dust and decay, the attic a tomb of memories she'd tried so hard to seal shut.
Her knife rested beside her, its rusty blade streaked with her own blood, dried now into a dull, crusted line that traced the edge of the metal. The shoulder wound throbbed beneath her torn jacket, a dull ache that pulsed with every breath she took, a reminder of the struggle that had unfolded in this cramped, shadowed space. She could still feel the weight of the blade in her hand as she'd driven it into him, the resistance of flesh—or whatever he'd been made of—giving way beneath her desperate strength. The jacket hung off her frame, frayed at the seams, the tear exposing the raw, angry skin beneath, though the bleeding had slowed to a sluggish seep.
The house was still—too still—its usual groans and shudders silenced as if it, too, held its breath in the aftermath. Downstairs, the windows stood as a jagged chorus of broken glass, their shattered panes glinting faintly in the creeping dawn. She could picture them without looking: the way the shards caught the light, scattering it across the floorboards in fractured patterns, a mirror to the chaos that had unfolded within these walls. The silence pressed against her ears, a void where there should have been sound—the creak of settling wood, the whistle of wind through the cracks, the distant hum of life beyond this decaying shell. But there was nothing, only the weight of absence.
Dawn crept through the cracked roof, its pale, cold fingers slipping through the gaps in the shingles to paint the attic in a fragile light. The beams above her sagged, weathered and worn, their shadows stretching long and thin across the floor like skeletal hands reaching for something they could never grasp. The light touched her face, illuminating the smudges of ash and sweat that streaked her skin, and she felt its chill against her cheek, a stark contrast to the heat that still lingered in her chest from the fight. She tilted her head slightly, letting the glow spill over her closed eyelids for a moment, as if it could wash away the exhaustion that clung to her bones.
Her breath steadied, slow and shallow, each inhale a deliberate act to anchor herself in the present. But her mind raced, picking through the wreckage of the fight like a scavenger sifting through ruins. She replayed every moment: the masked figure's sudden lunges, the way his hands—cold and unyielding—had closed around her throat, the rasp of his breath beneath the burlap that hid his face. He'd come back—twice—each time stronger, each time more real, his presence solidifying with every encounter, only to dissolve under her blade in a burst of ash and silence. She could still feel the shock of it, the way he'd crumbled, leaving her gasping, her hands trembling around the knife's handle.
Ellie's voice echoed in her head, a relentless loop that refused to fade—He's us, he's you—words that had slipped from her sister's lips in a moment of clarity or madness, she couldn't tell which. She'd felt the truth of it in the weight of his grip, the way it mirrored her own desperation, and in the hollow stare behind the mask, a gaze that seemed to see straight through her. It wasn't just a fight for survival; it was something deeper, something she'd been running from far longer than this night. The realization settled over her like a second skin, heavy and inescapable.
She pressed her hands to her face, the ash gritty against her palms, its texture rough and unforgiving as it smeared across her skin. She rubbed at her eyes, feeling the sting of fatigue, and let the pieces fall into place, each one clicking like a lock tumbling open. Ellie wasn't a ghost, not a sister, not some lost girl trapped in the summer of '99, preserved in the amber of memory. Ellie was her—sixteen, terrified, the part of herself she'd severed when the world broke apart around her, when the safety of childhood had shattered under the weight of her father's grief.
Mara saw it now, clear as the scar that ran jagged across her forearm: her father's descent after her mother's death, the way his quiet rage had turned inward at first, then outward, spilling over onto her. She remembered the nights he'd stood in her doorway, his silhouette framed by the dim hall light, burlap sack in hand—a makeshift mask he'd worn for reasons she'd never understood—muttering her name in a voice that was both plea and threat. Mara, Mara. The sound had burrowed into her, a splinter she couldn't extract. She'd run, hidden, locked him out, barricading her door with whatever she could drag across the floor—a dresser, a chair, her own fragile will.
But not before he'd chased her, knife gleaming in the moonlight that streamed through the window, his grief twisted into something monstrous, unrecognizable. She could still hear the thud of his boots on the stairs, the scrape of the blade against the wall as he'd searched for her. She'd survived that summer, somehow, her body intact but her mind fractured. Her grandmother had found her, trembling in the crawlspace beneath the house, her breath coming in shallow gasps, her hands clutching at the dirt as if it could hold her together. Her father had left—disappeared into the night, dead a year later in a crash she barely mourned, his absence a relief she couldn't voice.
But the terror hadn't left with him. She'd buried it, split it off, locked Ellie—the girl who'd faced him, who'd stared into that burlap mask and lived—in a corner of her mind, rewriting her past into something bearable, something she could carry without breaking. The diaries she'd found in the trunk, the old rotary phone that rang with Ellie's voice, the scar that ached when the weather turned cold—they were Ellie breaking free, screaming for her to remember what she'd tried so hard to forget.
Mara's hands dropped from her face, her gaze falling to the ash scattered across the floor. The masked figure wasn't her father—not really. He was her creation, her guilt stitched together with his memory, fueled by the trauma she'd abandoned to survive. Every call from Ellie, every change she'd made to protect herself—locking the window, hiding the knife—had fed him, pulled him closer, blurring the lines between that summer and now. He was her shadow, her mirror, a reflection of the fear she'd refused to face, and she'd been fighting herself all along.
The trunk creaked behind her, its lid lifting an inch before settling back with a soft thud. Mara flinched, her hand twitching toward the knife, her muscles tensing as she waited for something—anything—to emerge. But nothing came, just a faint whiff of mildew and old cloth that drifted into the air, tickling her nose. She exhaled, her breath shaky, and crawled toward it, her shoulder protesting with every movement. The pain was a sharp spike now, radiating down her arm, but she gritted her teeth and pried the trunk open, the hinges groaning in protest.
Inside, beneath the faded quilts that smelled of mothballs and time, was the wooden box—M.K. carved into the lid in her own childish scrawl. She tipped it out with trembling hands, spilling its contents onto the floor: the locket her mother had worn, its clasp rusted shut; the photo of her father standing by the shed, his face blurred by age and exposure; and something new—a folded note, yellowed and brittle, its edges curling inward. She unfolded it carefully, her breath catching in her throat as she recognized her own handwriting, shaky and small: July 25, 1999. He's gone. Gran says he won't come back. I can't stop shaking. I keep hearing him—Mara, Mara. I want to forget.
The ink smudged at the edges, tears long dried into faint stains, and a memory surged forward—her, curled in this very attic, scribbling this note after he'd left, her mind already cracking under the weight of what had happened, desperate to bury it. She could feel the pencil in her hand, the way it had trembled, the splintered wood of the floor digging into her knees as she'd written, the air thick with the scent of dust and her own fear.
The phone buzzed beside her, a single hum that jolted her from the memory, and she turned to look at it. It sat silent now, its cord limp and lifeless, but Ellie's voice echoed in her skull—Do it right. Killing him wasn't enough—he'd reform, fed by her refusal to face the split, to acknowledge the part of herself she'd cast aside. Ellie wasn't just her past; she was her strength, her fight, the piece she'd locked away to survive that summer. To end this, she had to take her back, to stitch that terrified girl into the fabric of who she was now.
Mara stood, wincing as her shoulder throbbed with a fresh wave of pain, and picked up the knife. The ash stirred faintly on the floor, a whisper of movement that sent a chill down her spine, but she ignored it, her resolve hardening like steel in her chest. He wasn't the enemy—her denial was. She'd made him, given him form and power, and she could unmake him, but it meant letting Ellie go—letting that scared girl die to become whole again, to stop running from the truth.
The shed door creaked outside, softer now, a call she couldn't ignore. She glanced at the hatch, the broken house below stretching out like a battlefield, and tightened her grip on the knife, its weight familiar in her hand. The fight wasn't over—not yet. But now she knew what she was fighting for: not just survival, but reclamation, a chance to mend the fracture she'd carried for so long.
The attic floor creaked behind her, a shadow flickering in the corner of her eye, quick and fleeting. She didn't turn. She knew who it was—Ellie, or him, or both, the lines between them blurred beyond recognition. Her heart thudded in her chest, a steady rhythm that matched the pulse of her determination. She took a step toward the hatch, the knife gleaming faintly in the dawn light, and prepared herself for what waited below. This time, she wouldn't flinch. This time, she'd face it all.