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The house was quiet that night, quieter than usual.

Mom was in the living room.

Her head buried in bills spread across the coffee table,

muttering about overdue payments. I finished my dinner alone, the sound of my fork

scraping the plate echoing in the stillness. It wasn't strange for me to eat by myself. Mom was

always busy, but something about the silence felt heavier. I rinsed my plate, turned

off the kitchen light, and made my way to my room. The hallway stretched before me, dim and

shadowed, the faint wind outside rattling the loose panes of glass. I flicked on my bedroom light

and closed the door, a small ritual I'd done a thousand times before.

My dog Jerry was already curled up in his usual spot on the old rug by my bed.

The room should have felt familiar, comforting even, but that night something felt off.

I couldn't put my finger on it.

Maybe it was the way the wind seemed louder, or how

the chill from outside seeped through the window frame. I checked the lock on the window, twisting

...