The following three days were thick with a tension that none of the family members dared to acknowledge aloud.
Each morning, Michael headed to his mechanic shop with a dismissive grunt, brushing off the growing alarm in the news reports.
Linda, a practical woman shaped by the life-and-death realities of hospital work, found her usual composure clashing with a deep, instinctive fear only a mother could feel.
She would call home during her breaks, her voice a little too sharp, a little too insistent, as she checked on Rickon and Yara.
True to her word, Yara refused to go to school.
She spent the time in her room, not reading, but sitting by her window, watching the sky with a solemnity that was deeply unsettling.
Rickon, caught in between, felt the lingering dread from that night harden into a heavy knot deep in his stomach.
He tried to immerse himself in video games, their familiar digital worlds offering a brief escape from the stifling tension in the house.
But the image of his sister's face lingered, her eyes filled with a certainty that felt both ancient and absolute.
He found himself constantly glancing at the clock, the passing hours feeling less like a countdown to a celestial spectacle and more like the ticking of a bomb.
On the third day, everything seemed completely normal. Nothing unusual happened, and the sun rose at its usual time. People carried on with their daily routines as if nothing were amiss.
The sky was brightly lit by the scorching sun. By the afternoon, Linda had already called three times.
Michael had called once, his tone blunt, telling Rickon to "make sure your sister isn't scaring herself silly."
The house remained quiet, except for the low hum of the refrigerator and the tense, anxious voices of news anchors on the television, which Rickon had left on as background noise.
He was in the kitchen, pulling a soda from the fridge, when the clock on the microwave blinked to 2:30 PM.
It began not with a sound, but with a feeling.
A low, violent shudder that started deep within the earth and surged upwards, as if a colossal beast were stirring beneath the foundations of the world.
The floor beneath Rickon's feet shifted sideways.
A glass tumbled from the counter, shattering on the tiles with a sound that was immediately swallowed by a deafening roar.
"Rickon!" Yara screamed from the living room.
He stumbled, catching himself on the doorframe as the entire house swayed violently.
Books flew from shelves, pictures slammed against the walls, and a deep, groaning crack spidered its way up the plaster next to him.
This wasn't the gentle sway of a minor tremor, it was a violent, world-shattering earthquake measuring 15.8 Mw in magnitude.
He could hear the tortured screech of twisting metal and the explosive crash of collapsing structures from outside.
The shaking was so intense it felt like the planet itself was being torn apart.
And then, just as suddenly as it began, the shaking stopped. A profound, unnatural silence fell.
But the terror was far from over!
Through the window, Rickon watched in horror as the hazy afternoon light began to fade with impossible speed.
It wasn't the gentle descent of evening, it was as if a giant, cosmic switch had been flipped.
The sun, their sun, was being consumed.
Within seconds, it vanished completely, replaced by a perfect, terrifying circle of absolute blackness hanging in the sky.
The world was plunged into an abyssal darkness, a profound void that felt colder and more complete than any night.
But it wasn't truly dark.
For in the heart of the sky, where the sun should have been, a new celestial body pulsed into existence.
A moon, not the familiar silver-white orb that lit their nights, but one that burned with a sickening, ominous blood-red glow.
It cast the world in gruesome shades of crimson and black, painting their familiar street in the colours of a slaughterhouse.
Panic erupted. The brief silence was shattered by a loud mix of car alarms, the screech of tires, and the sickening crunch of metal as drivers, blinded by the sudden darkness, crashed into one another.
Then came the screams. Raw, human screams of pure terror, rising from every direction.
"Rickon, what's happening?" Yara was at his side, her small body trembling uncontrollably, her face a pale mask in the ghastly red glow.
He pulled her away from the window, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.
On the television, the news anchor's usual calm had completely fallen apart.
Her face, illuminated by the studio lights, was slick with sweat.
"We… we are getting reports… I don't understand," she stammered, her voice cracking.
The camera feed cut to a shaky, handheld view from a news helicopter, showing a city street bathed in the same hellish red light.
People were running, their bodies casting long, distorted shadows.
But they weren't just running from the chaos. They were running from something else!
The camera zoomed in, the image pixelated and unstable.
Figures were emerging from alleyways and, impossibly, from shimmering cracks that seemed to open in the very air.
They were monstrous. Some were vaguely humanoid, with horns but grotesquely twisted, with limbs too long and skin the colour of bruised flesh.
Others were skittering, insect-like creatures that moved with a horrifying speed.
The reporter's voice dissolved into a strangled scream.
"They're everywhere! Oh God, they're killing people! They're monsters! They're...." The feed cut to static.
Terror, cold and absolute, seized Rickon.
This wasn't a natural disaster. It was an invasion.
His father's sarcastic jokes about survival kits, and his own frustration over the missed football match, now felt like distant memories from a world that had already vanished.
All that mattered now was the small, trembling girl beside him.
His mind, once clouded by lazy indifference, snapped into razor-sharp focus.
"Get away from the windows!" he yelled, his voice sounding foreign to his own ears.
He shoved Yara towards the central hallway of the house as he lunged for the front door, slamming the deadbolt home.
He ran through the small house, a whirlwind of desperate energy, locking the back door, and pulling the curtains shut, plunging them into near-total darkness, a sanctuary from the blood-red nightmare outside.
He grabbed his phone, his thumb fumbling with the screen.
He dialled his mother's number. The call didn't even ring.
A pre-recorded voice, chillingly calm, announced: "All circuits are busy. Please try your call again later."
He tried again. And again. Nothing.
His hands shaking, he dialled his father's number. The same result. They were alone. Completely and utterly alone.
The screams outside were getting closer now, punctuated by deep, inhuman roars that vibrated through the walls of the house.
He heard a window shatter at the neighbour's house, followed by a series of wet, tearing sounds and a final, choked-off cry.
They were coming!
Yara was sobbing now, her small hands clamped over her mouth to stifle the sound.
Her wide, terrified eyes glowed in the gloom.
They couldn't stay in the hallway. They needed to hide. His eyes darted around the room, searching, assessing.
The couch? Too obvious. Under the beds? The first place anyone would look.
Then his eyes fell on the heavy, old-fashioned wooden wardrobe in his bedroom. It was deep, packed with old clothes and blankets his mom refused to throw away.
A sanctuary of forgotten things.
"Yara, listen to me," he said, grabbing her by the shoulders. His voice was a harsh whisper. "We have to hide. Now!"
He practically dragged her into his bedroom.
The monstrous sounds were just outside their front door now, a heavy, rhythmic thudding, accompanied by a low, scraping noise, like claws on concrete.
They didn't have seconds!
He pulled the wardrobe door open, the old wood groaning in protest. He began moving aside piles of clothes, creating a space at the back.
"Get in. All the way to the back," he commanded.
Yara, paralyzed by fear, just stared at him. The thudding at the front door became a splintering crash. They were inside.
"NOW!" Rickon roared, the sound raw with panic. The fear in his voice finally broke her paralysis.
She scrambled into the wardrobe, crawling into the dark space. He threw clothes and an old, musty-smelling comforter on top of her, concealing her completely.
Then, just as heavy, non-human footsteps began to stomp through their living room, he squeezed himself into the remaining space, pulling the heavy door shut until it was closed, leaving only a sliver of a crack.
The darkness inside the wardrobe was absolute, thick with the smell of mothballs and dust.
He could feel Yara's small, shivering body pressed against his back. He wrapped an arm around her, holding her tight.
He could hear the creatures in the house now. They were overturning furniture, their movements punctuated by guttural clicks and low snarls.
They were searching.
He lowered his head until his lips were right beside Yara's ear. He could feel the frantic, terrified puffs of her breath against his cheek.
He gave her the only instruction that mattered, the one their lives depended on.
"Do not make a sound."