The Book of Veiled Souls

Francine carried the book to one of the ornate tables in the occult room. The wood was dark and worn smooth by decades of study. Hunter and Deb followed, taking seats on either side of Francine.

She placed the book carefully in the center of the table.

For a moment, no one spoke.

The cover felt warm beneath Francine’s fingertips, as though it retained a memory of every hand that had ever turned its pages.

She opened the book.

The pages whispered as they parted.

Inside, the words were written in elegant calligraphy, each letter carefully inked in dark strokes that seemed almost too deliberate to be merely decorative. The script curved and intertwined, ornate but precise, as though the language itself demanded reverence.

Francine traced the first line with her eyes and began to read aloud.

“Let no spirit be summoned without cost, for every return demands a sacrifice.”

Silence settled over the table.

“That sounds ominous,” Deb said quietly.

Francine turned the page.

More calligraphy flowed across the parchment, darker here, the strokes heavier.

She read aloud.

“Blood taken by force strengthens the vessel but not the summoning.”

Hunter frowned. “What does that mean?”

Mrs. Roberts did not answer immediately. Her eyes had gone distant, calculating.

“It means,” she said slowly, “that stolen blood can make a host stronger. More durable. Easier to control.” She looked at Francine. “But it cannot complete a resurrection.”

Deb leaned forward. “So if someone is trying to bring Thomas Blake back ...”

“They would need blood given willingly,” Mrs. Roberts finished.

Silence fell again.

Francine’s thoughts raced.

William had taken the dampyre blood. Forced it.

That explained why Thomas’s spirit had been freed but never fully restored.

But if someone were trying again…

“They would need someone to agree,” Francine whispered.

"Back up a minute,” Hunter said. “We’re just assuming at this point that this is William or Thomas again. But something feels different this time.”

Mrs. Roberts looked at him thoughtfully. “Different how?”

Hunter ran a hand through his hair. “Last time, it was brute force. Possession. Stolen blood. Desperation. This…” He gestured vaguely at the book. “This feels deliberate. Calculated.”

Francine felt it too.

Thomas had been rage and hunger. Her father had been obsession.

But what was happening now felt patient.

Planned.

"Okay,” Deb said slowly. “We know Robbie was estranged from his father. We know he tried to mend things more than once, but his father was irrational. Obsessed with vampire blood.”

She looked around the table.

“Robbie was nothing like him. Not until after his father died. And then suddenly he’s the same. Obsessing. Ranting about blood bringing someone back from the dead. Attacking Heidi.” Her voice dropped. “Could he be trying to bring his father back?”

“Or someone else,” Francine said.

The thought settled heavily between them.

“It started as his father’s obsession,” she continued, her fingers resting on the open page. “But who was his father trying to bring back?”

Francine’s eyes dropped to the text again. The ink seemed darker now, the script more deliberate. As if it were waiting.

“That,” she said quietly, “is the better question.”

“You’re onto something,” Mrs. Roberts said softly. “Keep going.”

Francine turned the page.

The script shifted slightly, the lettering more elaborate, as though marking the beginning of a recorded history.

It told of Thomas Blake.

Of his mother, accused of witchcraft and burned before the village as an example. Of a boy forced to stand in the crowd and watch the flames consume her. Of the way his screams had gone unanswered.

Of the cellar where he was later confined. Dark. Windowless. Air thick with damp and rot.

It was there, in the suffocating blackness, that he reached outward in his grief and fury.

And something answered.

The account described how Thomas had vowed revenge. How he had grown in power, feeding on bitterness and rage. How, years later, the Seven Witches had united to confront him.

And how they had banished him from flesh into spirit.

“We already know all that about Thomas,” Hunter said. “Tell us something new.”

“I’m getting there,” Francine said, irritation edging her voice.

She turned the page.

The script shifted again. The ink was darker here, the strokes heavier, less decorative and more precise. At the top of the page, written in careful calligraphy:

An Accounting of the Demon Azravael.

Francine felt the name before she fully read it.

Azravael.

The letters seemed to pull at one another, sharp angles intertwined with sweeping curves, as though the word resisted being spoken.

“Azravael,” she read aloud, “is a demon of covenant and reclamation. It does not grant resurrection. It negotiates return.”

Deb frowned. “What’s the difference?”

Francine’s eyes moved down the page.

“It cannot restore life,” she said slowly. “It can only loosen what has been bound and anchor it to willing flesh.”

The room felt smaller.

Hunter leaned forward. “So it doesn’t bring someone back. It gives them a body.”

“Yes,” Francine whispered.

She kept reading.

“Azravael answers grief. It answers obsession. It answers those who seek to undo death not for power, but for love.”

Silence settled heavily over the table.

Mrs. Roberts’ voice was very quiet when she spoke.

“Thomas reached out in anger,” she said. “But someone else may be reaching out in sorrow.”

"We need to know more about Robbie and his father," Francine said. 

Hunter blinked. “We already know his father was obsessed. Vampire blood. Resurrection. He died before he could finish whatever ritual he was planning.”

“Yes,” Francine said. “But obsession doesn’t begin in a vacuum.”

She looked down at the page again.

"Azravael answers grief. Who was his father grieving?"

The Seven Witches

The library had a parking garage, which meant Francine did not have to step into full daylight, but she kept the cape wrapped tight around her anyway. Sunlight slipped through the concrete slats in narrow beams that seemed to search the floor. She avoided them instinctively.

Deb and Hunter stayed close. Hunter was covered as well. Francine wondered how strange they must look to anyone passing by. Then again, before she knew about the supernatural world around her, she had ignored every impossible thing in plain sight. She had worked beside a crew of supernatural creatures at the Corner Shop and never once questioned it, not until her grandmother’s charm wore off.

The charm had been meant to hide her from her father. Instead, it left her blind. When her grandmother died and the protection failed, Francine was exposed and unprepared.

Now she was walking toward another monster, this one a demon, and she still felt unprepared. Hopefully the Occult section of the library held something that could help.

Stepping into the library felt like crossing into another world. The ceilings arched high overhead like a cathedral, lifting the air with them. Artwork lined the walls in careful rows, and tall windows of colored glass filtered the light into muted blues and reds that pooled across the floor. Francine felt at home here. She felt safe. 

The three of them made their way to the occult section. Francine slowed as they approached the far wall, where seven framed photographs were displayed prominently beneath a brass plaque. The Seven Witches.

She paused in front of them.

One of the women was her grandmother, barely in her early 20s, her expression bright and fearless. Another was a young Mrs. Roberts, long before the silver in her hair and the careful reserve she wore now.

Francine studied the photographs of her grandmother and Delphine, who had gone by Stephanie back then. She wondered if Stephanie had been her first name or her middle name. Delphine suited her now, but she could imagine a younger woman choosing something that sounded lighter.

A faint pressure built behind her eyes.

It was not that anything in the pictures looked wrong. It was that something looked familiar. Too familiar.

Her gaze drifted across the seven witches, lingering on the way they stood, on the angle of her grandmother’s chin, on the faint, knowing smiles they all seemed to share.

She had seen this before.

Not the photograph itself, though she knew it well, but this arrangement. This moment. This feeling.

It had something to do with the witches. With Thomas Blake, the spirit they had once banished. The same one her father had tried to bring back.

The memory pressed closer, just out of reach.

And then it came.

They had banished Thomas Blake. But he had tried to return. Her father, William Blake, had possessed Joseph and used him to obtain dampyre blood. The blood had given him strength. It had given him control.

And blood was the key to bringing Thomas back.

It had not worked. Not completely.

Thomas’s spirit had been released, but his body had been destroyed. He was out there somewhere.

Francine’s pulse quickened. Was he involved in what was happening to Jessie and her daughter? Had he influenced Robbie’s sudden change in behavior?

Robbie had insisted vampire blood could bring someone back from the dead. Sandra had dismissed it as nonsense. An old wives’ tale. Once the heart stopped, nothing could restore the body.

“But the spirit…” Francine whispered. “Could vampire blood release a spirit and allow it to possess a body?”

“That’s an interesting question.”

Francine started. Mrs. Roberts stood a few feet behind them, hands folded neatly in front of her.

“Short answer, yes,” Mrs. Roberts continued. “Under the right circumstances, blood that powerful could loosen a spirit from its bindings. The better question is why. And who, or rather what, would require blood of that potency?”

“What?” Hunter frowned. “Obviously a demon. That’s what we’re dealing with.”

“Are you certain?” Mrs. Roberts asked calmly. “Yes, a demon attached itself to Francine. But demons have entered our world before without the assistance of blood. They rarely act independently. They are invited. Summoned. Directed.”

A chill crept up Francine’s spine.

“So the real question,” Mrs. Roberts said softly, “is not what the demon is. It is who the demon is serving.”

“And I suppose you have the answer to that?” Deb asked.

“No.” Mrs. Roberts’ lips curved faintly. “But I have a book that might.”

Mrs. Roberts led them to a shelf lined with ominous-looking books. The air seemed heavier here, as though the shelves carried more than paper and ink.

One volume stood out from the rest.

Its binding was gold, inlaid with delicate silver filigree that caught the colored light from the windows and fractured it into cold glints. The symbols etched into the spine shimmered faintly, as though aware of her presence.

When Mrs. Roberts reached out her hand, the book slid free of the shelf.

It did not fall.

It rose.

And then it settled neatly into her palm.

The title read, The Book of Veiled Souls.

They Belong To Me

 Carl was in the kitchen making bacon and eggs for Jessie and Heidi. The little girl giggled at one of his jokes, and Francine heard Jessie tell him it was the first laugh she’d heard from her daughter in months.

Francine felt a familiar flicker of worry. Carl was older than she was, but ever since she’d discovered he was her brother, she’d felt protective of him. In many ways, he had been more sheltered. True, he’d grown up knowing about the supernatural world, while their grandmother had tried to shield her from it. But Francine had adapted. Carl had grown up wanting a normal life. With who their father was, that had never been possible. And then there was the fact that he could see ghosts.

It had tormented him for years, so badly that he’d once sought relief in a bottle. She was proud of him. Ever since his near-death experience, he hadn’t touched a drop.

Francine stood in the hallway and listened to them talk, relieved that it was the only sound in the apartment. The lights no longer flickered. There was no scratching at the walls. No sense of something pressing in from the outside.

It was quiet.

For now.

She felt eyes on her.

Looking up, she found Hunter watching her from across the room. A small flutter stirred low in her stomach. She wondered how long he’d been there. If he had been watching her the entire time she slept.

“Good morning,” he said.

“Morning. What time is it?”

“Seven thirteen.” His voice was steady, but he looked tired. Even without sleep, the daylight drained him.

Hunter was a creature of the night. Francine should have been too. She couldn’t risk direct sunlight, but she had discovered she preferred being awake during the day. The world felt less lonely then. Less empty. Night was for isolation, when everyone she cared about was asleep.

That was why they had bought the van. If she stayed in the back, wrapped in a cloak and protected with sunscreen, she could move about during daylight hours. She could dash into vampire-friendly places like the library, whose windows were permanently shaded. She had a feeling Mrs. Roberts was responsible for that.

Hungry, Francine stepped into the kitchen. Eggs and bacon were not for her. She opened the refrigerator and pulled out a glass jar filled with dark red liquid. Blood. A donation from a bank that catered to the gentler kind of vampire. The kind that did not want to hunt.

She tried to drink discreetly, turning slightly away from the table, but she felt Jessie’s gaze on her.

“Can you eat normal food?” Jessie asked, curiosity outweighing caution.

Francine lowered the jar. “No. Before I was fully turned, I could manage raw meat. Now any food I eat makes me violently sick.”

“Oh.”

Jessie looked down at her plate, thoughtful rather than frightened.

Francine turned away again, pretending not to notice that Hunter was still watching her.

“Is Deb still asleep?” she asked, trying to ease the quiet tension that lingered in the room.

“I was,” Deb said, walking into the kitchen and reaching for a strip of bacon. “Then I smelled breakfast.”

A faint smile tugged at Francine’s lips. “Do you want to go with me to the library this morning?”

“Try and stop me,” Deb said around a bite. “I’m still mad you didn’t let me go with you to the diner.”

“I don’t need a guard dog,” Francine said. “Just the company.”

“I will come too,” Hunter said.

Francine glanced at him.

“I don’t think the demon will be able to access the library,” he continued. “I’m certain Mrs. Roberts has the building protected against anything evil. But I don’t believe we should take any chances.”

His eyes held hers again, and this time she did not look away.

Her phone rang.

She jumped, heart slamming against her ribs. A nervous laugh escaped her before she could stop it.

“I’m so jumpy,” she muttered. “It’s probably Mrs. Roberts. Or Sondra. Maybe she’s less grumpy now that she’s had a night in her own bed.”

Even as she said it, her stomach tightened.

She picked up the phone. “Hello?”

Static answered her.

Not the faint hiss of a weak connection. This was thick. Grinding. It crackled in her ear like something alive.

“Hello?” she repeated.

For a moment, there was nothing but that sound.

Then a voice pushed through.

Gravelly. Low. Wrong.

“They belong to me.”

The words slithered through the speaker.

“Stay out of my way, or I will make sure you are permanently out of everyone’s way.”

The line went dead.

Francine lowered the phone slowly.

The kitchen had gone silent.

Even the bacon had stopped sizzling.

Hope Is For Mortals

Francine let Heidi and Jessie take her bed. She could sleep on the couch just fine. If she could sleep at all with everything going on. Carl claimed the recliner, and Sondra said she would camp on the floor. Hunter did not sleep. Not often, anyway. He said that after hundreds of years of living, insomnia became permanent.

The lights flickered at uneven intervals, brief pulses of brightness that made the shadows jump. The scraping along the walls and door never fully stopped. Robbie was still searching for a way in. Francine kept telling herself he, or it, would eventually get bored and leave.

The scratching stopped.

The sudden silence felt wrong. Heavy. Waiting.

Then her phone rang.

Francine flinched. She glanced at the clock.

2:57 a.m.

The phone vibrated against the table, its glow bright in the dark. She stared at it. Could that thing be calling? The thought was ridiculous.

Still, at this point, she wouldn’t put anything past it.

“Are you going to answer it?” Carl asked quietly.

“What if it’s him?” Deb whispered. She had stepped out of her room and now stood beside Francine, eyes fixed on the screen.

“Then I guess we talk,” Francine said. Her voice sounded steadier than she felt. She picked up the phone. “Hello?”

“Francine, honey, are you okay?”

Relief flooded her.

“Oh. Mrs. Roberts. Hi.”

“Francine,” Delphine Roberts said calmly, “I was walking past your apartment, and I couldn’t help but notice your building seems to have a bit of a possession problem.”

“Yeah. Just a little bit. I’m hoping he gets bored and goes away.”

“Francine, I know you aren’t as advanced in the supernatural world as some of us, but you’ve been here long enough to know that isn’t how this works. Once a demon latches onto you, he doesn’t give up.”

“A girl can hope,” Francine said weakly.

“Hope is for mortals and the foolishly in love. You are neither.” Mrs. Roberts paused. “I’ve sent a small spell your way. He’s gone for now. But he’ll be back. Come by the library in the morning. I believe I have a book that may help.”

“I was planning to,” Francine said.

“Good. I’ll expect you. Now try to get some sleep. It’s after three.”

The line went dead.

For a moment, no one moved.

The air felt different. Lighter. The oppressive weight pressing against the walls had lifted, but the quiet did not feel safe. It felt temporary.

“I don’t know what Mrs. Roberts did,” Francine said, her voice thin with relief, “but she did something to send it away. It will be back eventually, but at least now we might be able to sleep.”

“If that thing is gone,” Sondra said, already reaching for her purse, “I’m going home.”

She grabbed her keys and headed for the door. Her hand paused on the knob. She glanced back at Francine.

“A word of advice, Francine. You can’t save everyone.” Her gaze sharpened. “And if you keep trying, one day there won’t be anyone left to save you.”

The door shut behind her with a quiet, final click.

“She’s not wrong,” Hunter said.

Francine didn’t look at him.

“You haven’t had a good night’s sleep in months,” he continued. “Not since the dreams started. You’re running on stubbornness and guilt.” His voice lowered. “This demon is stronger than anything you’ve faced before.”

“I know that.”

“Do you?” His eyes searched her face. “Because I’ve seen what happens when you push yourself too far. You don’t heal like you used to.”

Silence settled between them.

“If we don’t help them, that little girl will be hurt. She may even be killed.” Francine lifted her chin, defiance hardening her expression. “She reached out to me. Asking for help. I can’t turn my back on her.” Her voice softened slightly. “But no one else has to put themselves in danger. If any of you want out, I’m fine with that.”

“Not a chance,” Deb said immediately. She stepped closer to Francine. “You’re my bestie. Nothing, not even a raging demon from whatever nightmare pit it crawled out of, is going to stop me from helping you.”

“You know I’m in,” Carl added.

Hunter did not speak right away.

When he finally did, his voice was quieter.

“I’m not saying don’t help,” he said. “I’m saying be careful.” His gaze held hers now, steady and unguarded. “I don’t want to lose you.”

Something in his expression made her chest tighten.

She looked away first.

She didn’t know what this was between them, this thread that had existed ever since the night he turned her. It was more than obligation. More than gratitude. Sometimes it felt like gravity.

And he was leaning toward it.

She wasn’t sure she was ready to fall.

Daddy's Here

 “We need to come up with a plan,” Sondra said. “If we’re going to protect the woman and her child from this devil. We can’t hide her here forever. It will find her.”

No one spoke. We looked at one another, waiting for someone else to have the answer.

The lights flickered once.

Just once.

“We don’t even know what we’re dealing with,” Deb said at last, her voice lower now. “How are we supposed to plan any kind of defense?”

“We can’t defend against this thing,” Sondra said. Her jaw tightened. “We have to go on the offensive. We strike first.”

A faint thud sounded somewhere in the walls. Not pipes. Not settling wood. Something heavier. Something deliberate.

“And how exactly do you propose we do that?” Hunter asked. Irritation edged his voice, but Francine could feel what lay beneath it. Fear. Not for himself. For her.

“I can talk to Grandmother,” Carl offered. “She may have heard something. A rumor about a demon that requires vampire blood.”

The air shifted. Colder.

Francine rubbed her arms, though she knew she did not truly feel cold anymore.

Grandmother had raised her. Carl had been raised by Aunt Penny, hidden away while everyone believed him dead. He had only known Grandmother for six months before she passed, yet somehow he still felt closer to her. Closer than Francine had ever managed to be.

And now he could speak to her.

Francine could not.

Ironic, since she was the one who was technically dead.

The overhead light buzzed softly, then steadied.

“I’ll start at the library,” Francine said, keeping her voice steady. “There has to be something in the occult section. Mrs. Roberts might be able to help.”

Sondra gave a single nod.

“It’s a start.”

As if in answer, something scratched lightly across the ceiling above them.

Slow.

Patient.

Listening.

“Daddy’s here,” Heidi said, shuddering.

The front door rattled.

Not violently.

Almost playfully.

Then there was a light scraping on the door. Slow. Deliberate.

“He’s taunting us,” Francine said. “But he can’t get in. I’ve put wards up around the apartment. They should hold. At least for now.”

The handle turned.

Once.

Carefully.

As if testing the truth of her words.

No one moved.

No one breathed.

Another scrape dragged down the length of the door.

Patient.

Unhurried.

Confident.

Francine held her ground, though something cold and ancient pressed against the barrier she had woven. The wards hummed faintly in her senses, like a wire pulled too tight.

For now, they were holding.

For now.

"He might not be able to get inside,” Deb said, her voice thin. “But we can’t leave either. We’re trapped.”

The words settled over the room like dust.

Outside, something dragged slowly across the length of the door again. Not trying to break it down. Just reminding them it was there.

The Things Hiding in Plain Sight

Authors note: Forgive me, but I am jumping back a few chapters to show Jessie's reaction to being rescued by a Vampire. 

_-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

As the van sped away, Jessie stared at the girl sprawled across the seat. For a second she could not breathe. Her heart stumbled, then began pounding so hard it hurt.

The girl lifted her head and snarled.

There were fangs.

Not slightly pointed teeth. Not a trick of the light. Long, sharp fangs that pressed against her lower lip.

Jessie’s stomach dropped.

Robbie’s voice echoed in her mind. His wild eyes. His frantic warnings about vampires and creatures hiding in plain sight. She had written him off as delusional. Broken. Dangerous.

But Robbie was supposed to be dead.

And yet he was not.

“Are you alright?” Carl called from the front seat.

Jessie did not answer. She dragged Heidi into her chest and wrapped both arms around her, as if she could shield her daughter from the impossible sitting a few feet away.

The girl, if she was a girl, slowly closed her mouth. The fangs disappeared behind her lips. She offered a crooked smile that did nothing to make her look human.

“Demons,” she said under her breath. “They always have to ruin the day.”

Jessie’s throat felt tight. “What are you?”

“My name is Francine. I am Carl’s sister.” She hesitated, watching Jessie carefully. “And I am a vampire.”

“No.” The word slipped out before Jessie could stop it. “Vampires are not real.”

She did not know who she was arguing with. Francine. Carl. Herself.

The world did not work like this. Monsters were stories. Warnings you told children. They did not sit in the back of vans and complain about demons.

“It is okay, Mommy,” Heidi said softly, trying to twist around in her grip. “She is nice. They are going to help us.”

Jessie tightened her hold. Help them? From what? From demons? From the undead?

“This is not happening,” Jessie whispered. “None of this is real.”

Francine’s gaze did not waver. “I know this is hard to accept. But I am real. I am a vampire. My best friend is a werewolf. My brother talks to ghosts.” She glanced toward the front of the van, then back at Jessie. “And we want to help you with your little demon problem.”

Jessie stared at her, heart hammering, mind splintering.

If this was real, then everything she thought she understood about the world was a lie.

“Where are you taking us?” Jessie asked cautiously.

She glanced out the window and realized she had no idea where they were. The road was unfamiliar. The trees blurred together in the fading light. If she had to jump from the van, would she land somewhere safer than inside it? Or would something worse be waiting out there?

She shuddered.

Francine had mentioned a werewolf. And Robbie… whatever he had become.

A demon?

That did not seem possible. But then again, very little had seemed possible these past few months. And she had witnessed all of it.

Her daughter was blind because of the fire that destroyed their home. Blind, and yet somehow still able to see in ways Jessie could not.

Heidi drew pictures now. Monsters with too many teeth. Creatures with hollow eyes. Robbie appeared in them again and again, twisted into something that looked like it had crawled straight out of hell.

Jessie drew in a careful breath, forcing her voice to stay steady.

“Where are we going?” she asked again.

“To my place,” Francine said easily. “Our friends will be there. They will help us figure out what to do.”

Friends.

The word did not bring Jessie comfort.

It made her wonder how many more monsters she was about to meet.

Don't Look Behind You: 3 Tales of Terror

---

The Open Window

Stephanie shifted her weight, stretching her legs across the couch in search of something resembling comfort.

Brandon had arrived earlier with a twelve-pack and a bag of weed and had barely moved since. He was glued to the television. He did not even notice when she yawned.

On-screen, a blonde girl, naked except for high heels, stumbled through the woods.

Stephanie snorted.
“Why doesn’t she just kick the shoes off?”

“Hm?” Brandon did not glance away. His attention was fixed lower on the screen.

The girl tripped and fell. She rolled onto her back, screaming, as a man in a goat’s head mask stepped over her with an axe raised.

“At least use the heels for something,” Stephanie muttered. “Kick him in the balls.”

“Yeah. Kick him.” Brandon drained his beer and frowned at the empty can. “Hey, babe, grab me another?”

“Sure. I need to check on Miranda anyway.”

“Sucks you got stuck babysitting.”

“Oh yeah. Real tragedy.” She picked up the air freshener and tossed it at him. “I babysit. You get surround sound and a giant TV instead of that shoebox apartment. Spray that. I do not want the Petersons smelling weed.”

“They will not notice.”

On-screen, two teenagers were making out in a Volkswagen while the killer watched from the trees.

Stephanie shook her head and headed down the hall.

The instant she opened Miranda’s door, cold air brushed her face.

The window was wide open.

Miranda lay curled beneath her blankets, trembling.

Stephanie hurried inside, shut the window, locked it, and pulled the blanket tighter around the girl.

“Miranda, why is your window open?”

“The bad man opened it.”

Stephanie crouched beside the bed and brushed hair from the girl’s face. Miranda’s milky eyes were red from crying. She stared toward Stephanie without seeing her.

“What bad man?”

“He told me to be quiet. Said he would cut out my tongue.”

From the living room, a woman screamed. It was the movie.

Stephanie exhaled.

“I am sorry. I did not realize you could hear it in here. It is just the TV. You probably had a bad dream.”

“He is still here,” Miranda whispered. “I can hear him breathing.”

“There is no one here.”

“I hear him.”

Stephanie hesitated. Miranda could hear things most people could not. Still, this was impossible.

“If I check your room and no one is there, will you go back to sleep?”

“He is not in my room. He is in the hall.”

Stephanie stepped into the hallway.

Empty.

“See?”

“Not anymore,” Miranda said. “He is in the kitchen.”

Stephanie listened.

The refrigerator door thudded shut.

“That is Brandon.”

“No. Brandon is dead.”

“Miranda,” Stephanie snapped, sharper than she intended, “do not say that.”

“It is true.” Miranda’s fingers tightened around her sleeve. “He is going to kill you next.”

“That is enough.” Stephanie stood. “We are going to see Brandon so you can calm down.”

They walked into the living room.

The couch was empty.

On the television, another couple writhed on a bed. Behind them, the axe lifted.

Stephanie shut the TV off.

“Brandon?”

“He will not answer,” Miranda said quietly.

A toilet flushed down the hall.

“See?” Stephanie said quickly.

“That is not Brandon.”

Stephanie ignored her and walked toward the bathroom.

“I have had enough of this. I will leave the hall light on and your door cracked.”

“I am blind,” Miranda said softly. “I will not know.”

Stephanie bent and kissed her cheek anyway.

“I love you, Mandy Bear.”

The bathroom door was closed. Steam seeped from beneath it.

She knocked.

“Brandon?”

The shower ran steadily.

She opened the door.

“Okay, very funny.”

She pulled back the curtain.

Water sprayed into an empty tub.

The room suddenly felt too small.

“Brandon?”

She shut off the water and stepped into the hallway.

Miranda’s bed was empty.

Her pulse quickened.

“Miranda?”

She found her standing in the kitchen.

“The bad man is here,” Miranda said calmly.

“Where?”

Miranda lifted her hand and pressed it to her chest.

“He is here.”

Stephanie took a step forward and stopped.

Miranda was holding a knife.

“Sweetie. Give that to me.”

Her voice shook despite her effort to steady it.

She reached out slowly.

Miranda released it without resistance.

A sharp yowl split the silence.

Stephanie jumped.

“Brandon?”

She hurried into the living room, pulling Miranda with her.

The television was back on.

Brandon’s arm hung over the side of the couch.

The Petersons’ black cat was at his hand.

Licking.

Then biting.

Stephanie stepped closer.

Brandon’s eyes stared blankly at the ceiling.

His abdomen was split open.

The cat tugged at something inside him.

Stephanie screamed.

She scooped Miranda into her arms and ran for the door.

Headlights flooded the driveway.

In the glare, a tall silhouette stood at the window.

An axe hung loosely in its hand.

---

Stephanie did not sleep that night.

The police searched. The killer vanished into the maze of backyards the moment the Petersons arrived.

Her father brought her home.

Now she lay in her bed with the light on.

Outside her door, a floorboard creaked.

She froze.

A shadow blocked the thin line of light beneath the door.

“Daddy?”

Silence.

The handle began to turn.

Slowly.

Very slowly.

From the other side, she heard breathing.

---

He Never Left

Shannon shut the book. It was not drawing her in at all. A woman having an affair in the middle of nowhere, waiting for her lover. A storm. Someone watching through the window. It was all such a cliché.

It would have been funny if it had not felt so familiar.

Only in her case, Stephen had left his wife and married her.

Rain streaked down the glass. She checked the clock. Twenty minutes since Stephen had gone out for pizza.

He should have been back by now.

Across the street, lights flickered in the old house. Stephen had told her about that place. Years ago, the babysitter had gone insane and killed her boyfriend. Then she went home and murdered her own family. She claimed ghosts and possession. Said the housing development had been built on ancient burial ground.

Now she was locked in the state hospital.

Shannon started to close the curtain, then stopped.

A girl stood in the window across the street.

Staring at her.

Shannon gave a small wave.

The girl did not move.

After a moment, Shannon let the curtain fall.

Headlights flashed across the wall.

Relieved, she hurried to the door and flung it open.

“It is about time. I am starving.”

The words died.

It was not Stephen.

A sheriff’s cruiser sat in the driveway. Two officers approached.

“Is this the home of Stephen Anya?” the tall one asked.

“Yes. I am his wife. We moved in today.”

“Is he here?”

“No. He went out for pizza.”

The shorter officer cleared his throat. “Does he drive a Ford Taurus?”

Her stomach tightened. “Was he in an accident?”

“May we come in?”

She nodded weakly.

Inside, they explained. The car was found on Petersburg Road. Headlights on. Driver’s door open. No damage. No skid marks.

Empty.

“Where is he?” she whispered.

“We were hoping he was here.”

Shannon shook her head. “He used to live down the street years ago.”

“Which house?”

“The one at the end.”

The shorter officer frowned. “That house belongs to the Stevensons. Their son disappeared seven years ago. Bryan Stevens.”

“You think my husband is him?”

“We are asking questions.”

She handed over their wedding photo.

“If your husband is not Bryan Stevens,” the officer said carefully, “he could pass for him.”

The rest of the night blurred.

Seven years earlier, a young woman named Stephanie had been babysitting across the street. By morning, her boyfriend was dead. Later, she was found hanging in a hospital room. Her last visitor had been Bryan.

“And you look just like her,” the officer said quietly.

Later, Shannon sat alone, pretending to read.

Every sound made her jump.

She looked out the window.

The girl was there again.

About twelve years old. The age of the blind girl Stephanie had been babysitting.

She seemed to be staring directly at Shannon.

But that was impossible.

She was blind.

A patrol car idled across the street. Officer Duncan had arranged for protection.

“He is not Bryan,” Shannon whispered. “This is coincidence.”

She must have drifted off.

A scream shattered the silence.

Sirens followed.

She ran to the window. Police cars crowded the end of the street. Officer Duncan hurried toward her house.

“There has been a murder,” he said. “Bryan’s sister. And the officer outside.”

Shannon’s mouth went dry.

“You should come with us.”

“Let me grab a few things.”

Upstairs, she packed quickly.

A thud sounded below.

“Officer Duncan?”

No answer.

She crept downstairs.

The front door stood open.

Outside, police lights still flashed. Officer Duncan stood at the sidewalk speaking with the tall officer.

Relief washed over her.

She returned upstairs.

She was placing her nightgown into her bag when a floorboard creaked in the hall.

She turned.

The girl from across the street stood in the doorway.

Her dress hung loosely. Her hair was long and stringy, covering her eyes.

She held a knife.

She stepped forward.

As she moved into the light, Shannon saw the face beneath the hair.

It was Stephen.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------ 

                                    The Wife

The storm came without warning.

Less than an hour earlier, when Zara arrived at the cabin, the sky had been clear.

Now lightning split the darkness.

In the brief flash, she saw the road had washed away completely.

“So much for tonight,” she muttered.

Her phone rang.

Joe.

“The roads are washed out, babe. I cannot make it.”

“I figured.”

“There is always tomorrow.”

They never had enough time. Stolen weekends. Secret nights.

His wife made sure of that.

After the call, she lay in the dark.

The power flickered and went out.

Perfect.

She found a candle in the kitchen and lit it.

Lightning flashed again.

For a split second, someone stood outside the window.

She blinked.

Gone.

Her phone rang again.

“You are going to die,” a distorted voice said.

“Who is this?”

Silence.

Then glass shattered in the kitchen.

Heart pounding, she grabbed the fireplace poker.

The kitchen window was broken. A tree branch jutted through the frame.

“Get a grip,” she whispered.

Her phone chimed.

Shame about the window. I would not count on Joe to fix it.

Cold spread through her chest.

She dialed Joe.

Behind her, a phone began to ring.

Joe’s ringtone.

Inside the cabin.

She turned.

Joe’s wife stood in the doorway.

Older than the photos. Hair gray and wild. Eyes dark and unhinged.

“Karen?”

Zara raised the poker.

Karen lifted her hands.

In one, she held a butcher knife.

In the other, Joe’s severed head.

“I told you,” Karen said softly. “You were going to die.”