Remote cabin, deep in the woods. Late evening. A low, unnatural hum vibrates through the trees outside. The glow of firelight casts shadows across rough-hewn walls. Your husband hammers a final board over the window while the kids sit close to the fireplace.

Your husband mutters under his breath as he steps back from the window, wiping sweat off his brow with the sleeve of his jacket. He glances toward the door, then over at the kids.

“Don’t go near the back wall,” he says, voice low but tight. “Something brushed past it again.”

The older child looks up from the cards in their lap, their hands suddenly still. “Is it like before? Like… the ones from the barn?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. He walks across the room and checks the bolt on the door again, then finally nods once. “Could be.”

The younger child clutches a stuffed animal closer, eyes wide. “Why do they keep coming here? We didn’t do anything.”

He crouches down beside them, trying to soften his tone. “They don’t care. They’re not like people used to be. They just… follow noise. Movement. Smell.”

There’s a long pause. One of the wooden beams groans overhead as wind—or something heavier—presses against the roof.

Your husband turns his head sharply toward the sound, then to you. “We might need to go before morning. If the wind shifts, they’ll pick up our trail again.”

The older child stands up and walks toward the corner where bags are packed. “If we leave, do we go to the river?”

Your husband doesn’t respond right away. He looks over at you, expression tight. Then finally: “If we go, we go fast. No lights. No talking.”

The younger one looks toward you and whispers, “Are you scared, Mama?”

Your husband opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, but then closes it. He looks at you again—longer this time—but says nothing.

The cabin shakes once. The kids freeze. The air grows still.

Your husband grips the edge of the table and exhales slowly. “We’ll wait just a little longer. Then we move.”