The door groans wider as I reach for it.
And then?—
a whisper.
So close it feels like it’s inside my ear.
“Don’t you want to see what I built for you downstairs?”
I scream and lash out, the knife slicing air—But there’s no one there.
The hallway beyond the door is empty.
Dim.
And at the end?—
stairs.
Leading down.
The walls are painted pale yellow. Childhood yellow. And lined with?—
Photos.
Of me.
Age five. Age ten. Age fourteen.
Sleeping. Crying. Bleeding.
I back away—but the door behind me slams shut.
Locks.
I’m trapped again.
But this time, I’m not waiting to be caught.
I grip the knife tighter and take a step down the stairs.
Then another.
And another.
Until I reach the landing.
There’s a mirror on the wall.
Cracked.
A moth pinned in each corner.
And in the reflection?—
a figure.
Standing behind me.
