Chapter 2 - The Silhouette in the Hallway Light
The doors didn't move at first. That was the worst part. Lily's fingers were twisted so tight in the sleeve of my pajamas I could feel her little nails through the satin, and that sliver of cool hallway light at the edge of the double doors just stayed there, perfectly still. I could hear my own breathing and Lily's, hers fast and shallow against my side.
Then the light widened by an inch.
It wasn't a draft. Someone had put a hand on one of the brass handles. I saw the shadow before I saw anything else, a dark shape filling the gap, shoulders blocking that cool light, head tipped just enough to look in. Whoever it was didn't knock or speak. He just stood there and listened.
Lily went rigid. Her bunny was crushed between us now, its long gray ear pressed against my ribs. I wanted to sit up and yell, to ask who the hell was standing outside our bedroom at this hour, but her grip stopped me. She'd seen this before. That thought hit me harder than anything else. My four-year-old had seen this before.
I felt her face turn up toward mine, inches away in the dim light from the lamp. Her eyes were wide and wet and fixed on me, not on the door. She was waiting to see what I'd do.
The shadow shifted. The door eased open another half inch and I could hear it now, a soft inhale from the hallway, someone trying to be quiet while they listened for sleep sounds. The crystal lamp base on the nightstand threw a faint prism onto the ceiling. The glass of water sat right beside it, half-full and completely still.
I made the choice then. If I shouted, he'd run. If I ran at the door, Lily would be alone on the bed in the dark. And if he knew we were awake and watching, whatever he put in that water would be gone by morning and I'd have nothing but a scared kid's warning.
So I closed my eyes.
I let my head sink back into the pillow and I forced my breathing to slow. In through my nose, out through my mouth, the way I breathed when I was really asleep. I let my arm go heavy around Lily. She understood instantly. Her body stayed tense for one heartbeat, two, then she curled tighter against me and went still too, her breathing trying to copy mine.
The hallway air moved. I kept my eyes shut to a slit, just enough to see through my lashes. The silhouette was still there, a head and shoulders framed in that cool light, completely motionless. He was listening for us.
Seconds dragged. My chest wanted to heave. I counted my exhales so I wouldn't gasp. Four, five, six.
Someone in the hallway exhaled too, a quiet, disappointed sound, and the light narrowed. The hand was still on the brass handle, guiding the door closed slowly, carefully, so the latch wouldn't click. Whoever it was knew how to move in this house without making noise. That wasn't a stranger. A stranger wouldn't know which floorboard creaked or how far to turn the handle before it caught.
I heard the softest shift of weight, a footstep on the hall runner, then another, retreating. Not hurrying. Unrushed, like he had all night and could try again later. The light at the doors thinned back to that original sliver and then held as the doors settled into place. The house went quiet again except for the faint hum of the heater.
I didn't move right away. I kept breathing like I was asleep for another twenty seconds, my hand resting on Lily's back, feeling her heart hammering under her pink dress. When the hallway stayed silent, I let my eyes open properly.
Lily was already looking at me. Her mouth was close to my ear.
"He always leaves before it dissolves," she whispered. Her voice was so small I barely caught it. "Then he comes back."
I stared at the doors, then at the glass on the nightstand. The water in it was clear. I couldn't see anything floating or settled at the bottom, but the way she'd said it — before it dissolves — made my stomach turn.
"Has he come a lot?" I whispered back.
She nodded against my shoulder, her pink bows brushing my chin. She held up three fingers, then hesitated and tucked one down, then put it back up. Three or four times. Enough for her to know the pattern. Enough for her to know to watch the glass and watch the doors and warn me.
May you like
I pulled her closer and we just lay there, both awake, both facing those tall dark doors with the brass handles that now looked too quiet. The glass sat untouched on the ornate nightstand, the picture book still open on the satin bedding where she'd left it. I wasn't going to touch either one.
We were going to stay right there until morning, awake together, and I was going to keep that water exactly where it was.
