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Would he beat my mother? Would he beat me? Or would he do some other awful thing? That man was a fucking monster and I wished I could just leave that place forever.

“I warned you.” Before the kid could even blink, I was on him. My fists were swinging, the dark was taking a hold of me, and I didn’t stop swinging until blood covered my knuckles.

The little shithead wasn’t talking anymore, he wasn’t even moving. Did I kill him? His friends were standing there, staring wide-eyed.

Frantically, I looked around, hoping nobody saw me. We were behind the school. It was just us.

The kid coughed and rolled over, groaning and wheezing. I backed up, further and further. I didn’t bother saying anything else, I think they got the message. I turned and ran.

I didn’t stop running until I made it back home.

My lungs burned. My fists ached, blood sticky and drying between my knuckles. Every step, I waited for sirens, for someone to grab me, drag me back to the school. Nobody came. The only sound was my ragged breathing, the crunch of my shoes over frozen mud.

The house hunched at the end of the road, windows black, roof heavy with old snow. The kind of place that ate the sun and spat out shadows. I slowed, chest heaving, and wiped my hands on my jeans.

I pushed the door open, letting it creak on its hinges. The house was silent. No smell of dinner, no sound of humming, no rattle of dishes.

“Mom?” I called out. My voice cracked. Nothing answered.

I moved through the rooms, checking corners, checking closets. My mother’s coat was still on the peg, her purse slumped on the table, spilling its guts—lipstick, keys, a bundle of crumpled receipts.

I felt the familiar prickle—fear creeping up my spine, whispering secrets in my ear. If she wasn’t inside, she was outside.

I stepped out the back door, breath fogging in the air, and followed the frozen trail through brittle grass and patches of dirty snow. The boards of the porch creaked, the wind biting at my bare hands. My heart hammered.

The hole was at the far end of the yard, past the rotten swing set, behind the rusted shed. It wasn’t really a grave—more like a pit, six feet deep, just wide enough for a person to hunch in.

My father had dug it years ago, called it “the quiet place”—said it was where you went to think, to get yourself right. Said it was for when my mother needed “cooling off,” when her nerves were acting up.

She was in there now.

Her voice carried up in shreds, broken syllables. I crept closer, peering over the edge. The boards that usually covered the hole were tossed aside, teeth marks chewed into the wood.

My mother was crouched at the bottom, rocking, back and forth, back and forth, arms wrapped tight around her chest. Her hair was wild, streaked with dirt. Her face was pale, eyes too wide, darting between shadows.

She was muttering—whispering to someone I couldn’t see, words twisting, tumbling over themselves. I caught pieces as the wind gusted down into the pit.

“No, no, don’t look, don’t let him find you, shh, shh, he’s waiting, the dark is crawling, crawling, I told you, I told you, I told you⁠—”

She didn’t see me. She wasn’t here at all. Her mind had gone somewhere else, somewhere colder, darker than this hole.

“Mom,” I called, voice trembling. “Mom, it’s me. Milo. I’m here.”

She didn’t answer. Just kept rocking, fingers digging into her skin, nails leaving red crescents.

I wanted to climb down, but my legs wouldn’t move. The thought of being trapped in there with her, in the dark, made my skin itch, made my chest tighten until I couldn’t breathe.

I backed away, eyes burning, turned and ran to the house.

Inside, I found my father. He was in the living room, sprawled in his chair, boots kicked up, beer in hand. The TV was on, some sports game flashing blue light over his face. He didn’t look at me, just grunted.

I stood there, heart pounding, fists still stained with blood. My voice came out small, scared. “Dad, mom’s freaking out. She probably shouldn’t be in the dark, not when she’s having an episode.”

He turned. His eyes narrowed, mouth twisted. “You questioning me, boy?”

I swallowed, throat heavy with panic. “No, I just—she’s not… She’s not okay down there. She needs help. She keeps talking to herself, and she’s cold, and⁠—”

He moved so fast I barely saw it coming. His hand shot out, grabbing a fistful of my hair, yanking me forward.