A soft thud sounded from downstairs.
She froze. There wasn’t supposed to be anyone down there.
Her heart slammed against her ribs as she strained to listen. The old building creaked and settled constantly, but this sound was different. Deliberate. Like someone bumping into furniture in the dark.
Lord, help me not let fear control me, she prayed silently, a habit Uncle Eric had taught her after her parents’ murder. Give me wisdom to know real danger from imagined threats.
She forced a slow breath.
You’re being paranoid.
But paranoia had kept her alive before.
A familiar chill slid up her spine, dragging memories she’d spent years trying to bury. Her parents’ faces. Blood on white carpet. The sound of her own screaming.
Another noise drifted up from the shop below—definitely not the building settling. Footsteps. Slow. Careful. Someone trying not to be heard.
Maybe it was Uncle Eric. He’d been working late, helping her prepare for the opening. He had keys. He knew she stayed up late.
But Eric would have called out to her.
He wouldn’t move through the dark like this—especially knowing what she’d endured as a child.
She reached for her phone, then hesitated. What if she was wrong? What if it really was nothing, and she panicked for no reason?
Stop second guessing yourself and follow your gut! Another life lesson from Uncle Eric.
Her instincts screamed danger.
She slipped the locket into the side pocket of her jeans and held her breath, listening.
Silence.
Then the footsteps quickened.
Terror surged through her as she grabbed her phone and crept toward the narrow staircase leading down to the shop. The steps groaned beneath her weight despite her efforts to move quietly, each sound amplified in the darkness.
“Uncle Eric?” she whispered, hope thinning her voice.
No answer.
She edged through the storage room and pressed her back against the wall, peering around the corner into the shop. Moonlight spilled through the front windows, casting long shadows between furniture and display cases. Everything looked normal.
It wasn’t.
The air itself seemed to pulse with threat.
A shadow shifted near the back corner, slipping behind the display of Civil War memorabilia.
Her breath caught.
That wasn’t Uncle Eric.
The figure was tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in dark clothing. Something concealed their face—a ski mask or hood. They moved with purpose, rifling through boxes and papers on her desk as if searching for something.
What are they looking for?
She backed toward the stairs, phone slick in her sweaty palm. Her thumb hovered over the emergency button—
