Not sung like Damien’s twisted “incy wincy spider.”
No.
He whistled.
Soft. Slow. Always when I was asleep.
Always the same pattern.
Five notes. One long, four short.
I hear it now.
From the hallway.
A single, soft whistle.
Like someone smiling.
And waiting.
The whistle cuts through the silence again.
Long.
Short. Short. Short. Short.
Just like before.
My lungs seize. My fingers go numb. My vision closes in at the edges, like the room is shrinking.
He’s not just here.
He’s close.
Closer than Damien ever was.
I shoot to my feet, ignoring the sting between my thighs, ignoring the blood in my mouth from biting the inside of my cheek too hard.
The knife—Damien’s—is still on the dresser. My fingers close around the hilt like it’s the only real thing left in the world.
“Don’t panic,” I whisper, but it sounds fake. Thin. “He just wants you scared.”
It doesn’t matter.
I already am.
I inch toward the door and press my ear to it.
Silence now.
But that’s what he wants. That’s always what he wanted.
Let me think he’s gone, just long enough to drop the knife. Long enough to make me doubt the scream caught in my throat.
I twist the lock slowly.
One click.
