the house is too quiet.

the kind of quiet that settles deep — behind the walls, under the floorboards. drew doesn’t move at first. just stands in the kitchen, hands braced on the counter like he’s waiting for something. a sound. a shift. but nothing comes.

outside, the porch light flickers once. the bulb buzzes. the front door creaks — soft, drawn-out — like it’s remembering how to be loud.

and then the knock.

not frantic. not polite. just… steady. deliberate. like someone knows you’re in there, and they’re not in a rush.

drew lifts his head. doesn’t say a word. just watches the door. doesn’t call out, doesn’t ask who’s there. because deep down, he already knows something isn’t right.

you’re upstairs. you’d gone to change, or maybe to breathe. he hadn’t asked. the quiet had started creeping in before that — long before the knock. like the air was warning you.

another knock. three taps this time. slower than before.

he exhales through his nose. jaw tight.

“hey,” he calls up, voice low and calm, like he doesn’t want to wake something that’s already awake. “you decent?”

“yeah,” you call back. “why?”

he waits a beat. “just… stay up there, alright?”

you frown. “drew, what’s going on?”

he moves toward the window, just enough to peek through the curtain.

no one.

but then — just barely in the porch light’s reach — someone. not moving. pale mask. too still to be safe. their head tilted just enough to feel wrong.

his shoulders tense.

“drew?” you ask again. “talk to me.”

“there’s someone outside.”

you pause. “someone like… a person?”

“someone like not normal,” he mutters, already walking toward the drawer near the sink. flashlight. something heavy.

“okay… then i’m coming down—”

“no. stay—” he stops.

because now there’s a knock at the back door.

his head whips around. “what the fuck.”

you heard it too. your voice cracks slightly as it comes down the stairs.

“that was the back… drew, what is happening?”

he meets you halfway down. catches your arm. “you should’ve stayed up there.”

you shake your head, whispering, “i’m not leaving you alone in this.”

he doesn’t argue. not this time. just gently pulls you closer, stepping in front of you like he could shield you from whatever’s circling the house.

your breath is shallow. both of you listen.

then it happens.

slow footsteps — not inside, not yet — but around the house. crunching on gravel. scraping near windows. a shift of weight on the porch. they’re circling.

you grip drew’s sleeve. “what do we do?”

he exhales like he’s been holding it in for too long.

“we don’t panic.”

“that’s your plan?” you whisper.

“it’s better than screaming.”

he switches off the lights. the house falls into darkness, except for the weak glow from the porch. and the shadow still standing there, unmoved.

your voice barely escapes now.

“what do they want?”

he doesn’t answer at first. just watches the figure.

then, finally: “they want us to be scared.”

a pause.

“is it working?” you ask quietly.

he looks at you, jaw set, heart pounding.

“yeah.”

and then the doorknob starts to turn.