The door clicks shut behind you.

It’s the kind of sound that should mean safe, but it doesn’t.

You and Tara stand in the room like it’s a shelter from a storm you can’t see yet.

Boxes stacked in corners. A broken desk. A single window with blinds half down. A dusty couch that looks like it’s been abandoned for years.

“Okay,” you say, forcing your voice to be calm. “This is fine. This is safe.”

Tara leans against the wall, breathing heavy. She wipes her palm across her face, like she’s trying to erase what she just saw.

“Yeah,” she whispers. “Safe.”

Neither of you says it the way you mean it.

You set your bag down and pull out a flashlight, clicking it on.

The beam shakes. You shake with it.

“Don’t,” Tara says, voice tense. “Don’t make it obvious.”

“Obvious what?” you ask, trying to keep it light.

She stares at the door.

“Obvious that we’re scared.”

You laugh softly, too loud. “We’re not scared.”

Tara’s eyes flick to you, and for a second you see it—the truth behind the lie.

Then she looks away.

“Right,” she says, voice flat. “Not scared.”

You sit on the couch, too fast, like you’re trying to prove something.

The silence stretches.

You can feel it—this room isn’t right. The air feels thick, like it’s waiting.

You tell yourself it’s just paranoia.

Tara moves to the window and pulls the blinds down further, sealing the room tighter.

“Why are you doing that?” you ask.

She doesn’t look at you. “Because if we can’t see out, maybe it can’t see in.”

Your stomach drops.

You stand, slowly, and walk toward her.

“Tara,” you say, gentle. “That’s not how this works.”

She finally looks at you, eyes wide.

“You think it’s here?” she whispers.

You swallow.

“Yeah,” you admit, and your voice is barely a breath. “I think it’s here.”

Tara’s jaw tightens.

For a second, you both just stand there, holding onto the lie that the room is safe.

Neither of you wants to be the first to say it out loud.