The pounding at the door did not stop.
Each strike rattled the frame as though whoever — whatever — was outside wasn't simply knocking but demanding.
The storm roared louder, wind hissing through the cracks in the shutters, thunder breaking over the roof like cannon fire. Yet the sound of the knocking cut through everything.
Gemma didn't flinch. She sat as still as a stone, the photograph of Ryan balanced in her lap, her eyes locked on the door.
Gabriel's heart hammered. He stood frozen in the middle of the room, torn between bolting upstairs to his parents and planting himself in front of his sister. His mouth felt dry, words lodged in his throat.
George's heavy footsteps thundered down the stairs, Lucy stumbling after him, pale as parchment.
"Stay away from the door!" George barked, his hand already reaching for the lock.
Lucy gasped, grabbing his arm. "George, don't—"
But he shoved her aside, jaw clenched. "Better to face what's outside than cower like prey inside."
Gabriel's stomach twisted. "Dad—"
The pounding stopped.
For a moment, silence. The kind that wasn't peace but pressure, the kind that pressed against eardrums and made the hairs on the back of your neck rise.
Then — slowly, deliberately — the handle rattled.
Lucy shrieked and covered her mouth. Gabriel lunged forward, but George barked, "Back!" and held up a hand, eyes locked on the door.
Gemma rose. Barefoot. Silent. She moved past them all, toward the threshold. Her nightdress whispered against the wooden floorboards, each step measured, unhurried.
"Gemma!" Lucy cried, voice breaking, but the girl did not stop.
George's face twisted. "Don't you dare."
Her hand hovered over the lock.
And then—
Three whispers seeped through the wood, sliding like smoke into the room.
"Not hers.
Not mine.
His."
Gabriel's breath caught. His hand darted to his pocket, where the scrap of Gemma's handwriting lay folded. The exact same words.
Lucy collapsed to her knees. "No. God, no."
George's face was iron, but his hand trembled once before he steadied it into a fist. "Go upstairs. All of you."
Gabriel didn't move. Neither did Gemma.
The storm outside surged, lightning flashing across the windows. In the white-hot moment of illumination, Gabriel swore he saw a figure standing just beyond the glass. Tall. White hair gleaming wet against the storm.
By the time the thunder rolled, the window was empty.
The knock didn't return.
But something worse lingered — the stillness, the sense that whoever had come wasn't gone.
George finally wrenched Gemma back, dragging her away from the door with a force that made Gabriel wince. "You don't touch that lock," he growled into her ear. His voice, for once, cracked.
Gemma didn't resist. She let him pull her back into the living room, her eyes still fixed on the door, her face unreadable.
Gabriel looked at her, then at his father, then at the door.
And in his chest, a seed of certainty sprouted:
Whoever was outside wasn't finished.
They were only waiting.