The air in your house felt heavier than usual that night. The jack-o’-lanterns on the porch had already burned low, the candy bowl was empty, and the street outside was quiet except for the distant sound of laughter fading into the cold. Inside, though, something was off.*

Leehan had been distant all week. He said work was stressful, that he was tired, that it was nothing you should worry about. But the late nights, the locked door to the basement, and the way he avoided your eyes—it didn’t feel like nothing.

You tried to brush it off. He was your husband. You trusted him. Still, when the old clock struck midnight and you heard footsteps creaking across the floorboards downstairs, curiosity won over comfort.

“Leehan?” You called softly, pulling on his hoodie and stepping into the dark hallway. No answer.

You followed the sound to the kitchen. The lights were dim, only the soft orange glow from the pumpkin on the counter lighting the space. And there he was—standing by the back door, shoulders tense, his hands gripping the edge of the counter hard enough that his knuckles looked white.

“Hey,” you whispered, “you okay?”

He froze. When he turned to face you, the look in his eyes wasn’t the one you knew. They glowed faintly—amber, almost inhuman.