Horrible Harper

Chapter Twelve, Episode Six

Scene Twelve

Robert stood in the center of the living room, facing Margaret and Charles, who sat quietly on the couch. His voice was firm, almost urgent:

— “I’m going to see Dr. Mason now. Where are the drawings Harper made today?”

Margaret lifted her eyes toward him, her tone cautious:

— “They’re in her room… but why?”

Robert stepped closer, his expression tight.

— “Dr. Mason requested them. He believes he might be able to locate Harper through the painting.”

Margaret hesitated for a moment before nodding.

— “Very well… they’re yours.”

She rose slowly from the couch and made her way toward the dim corridor that led to Harper’s room. Each step seemed heavier than the last, as though she feared what she might find behind the door. Her hand lingered on the knob before turning it ever so carefully, pushing the door open.

A wave of unease washed over her. The air was cold, heavy, and the shadows stretching across the walls gave the impression of an abandoned place. With a trembling hand, she flicked on the light. A pale yellow glow spilled into the room, revealing a disturbing sight: papers scattered across the desk, and the drawing Harper had made lying on the floor, cast aside like something unwanted.

Margaret crouched slowly, lifting the canvas from the ground. Her breath caught—scratches marred the surface, jagged and desperate, as if Harper had tried to tear it apart in a moment of rage but stopped herself at the very last second.

She left the room reluctantly, carrying the painting back to the living room. Extending it toward Robert, she said quietly:

— “Here it is… but I doubt he’ll find anything in it. And look—Harper tried to destroy it, though it seems she changed her mind at the last moment.”

Robert took the canvas from her, his eyes dark.

— “I’ll let him know. Dr. Mason also told me Harper might return home on her own… so keep the door unlocked. Always.”

Without waiting for a reply, he strode out of the house, the front door slamming shut behind him. Moments later, his car roared to life, carrying him away into the night.

But he did not see her.

Harper was already near the house.

She moved slowly through the darkness, her steps deliberate, her figure pale against the night. She paused, her gaze fixed on Robert’s car as it sped away. Her eyes—cold, unblinking, merciless—held a chill that could freeze the blood of anyone who met them. Then, without a sound, she resumed her path toward the house, every step echoing like an omen.

Inside, Margaret sat beside Charles on the couch. The boy’s eyelids fluttered with exhaustion, fighting against the pull of sleep.

Margaret brushed a strand of hair from his forehead, her voice tender:

— “Charles… do you want to go back to bed?”

— “Yes…” he whispered faintly, his head nodding.

She stood, taking his small hand gently in hers, and leaned close to murmur:

— “Come with me, darling. We’ll sleep in my room tonight. I won’t risk leaving you alone anymore.”

She guided him slowly toward her room, their footsteps fading into the silence. Around them, the house seemed to breathe, its walls waiting—anticipating—the inevitable return of Harper.

Scene Thirteen

Harper was still walking in the darkness, her steps slow yet unwavering, as if the ground itself carried her forward against her will. Her features were rigid, her gaze glassy, her face stripped of any emotion—like a wandering soul marching with the footsteps of death toward its inevitable fate.

Suddenly, she stopped.

She turned her head slowly, only to see the boy’s window blaze with a harsh light that pierced the night’s darkness. Then came a chilling scream—hoarse, desperate—tearing through the silence as though the house itself had awakened, terrified from a nightmare.

Harper’s eyes fixed on the light for a few moments, glinting with a cold, merciless gleam. Then, without hesitation, she turned her body and resumed her path—this time with heavier, more resolute steps. The sound of her feet on the ground echoed like faint drums, heralding the arrival of a new tragedy.

She approached the house and stepped inside. She did not look back at the screams still reverberating outside, nor did her face betray the slightest flicker of concern. She entered with steady, deliberate strides.

At that moment, the scene unfolded like a surreal painting: light flooding from the boy’s window, screams piercing through the walls, and Harper slipping into the house with the composure of an executioner who never glances at his victims.

The horror had only just begun…