The house was asleep.
Jesse lay awake, staring at the ceiling, the note unfolded on his chest like a warning he couldn’t shake. The symbols Caleb had carved into the walls seemed darker tonight. Not just ink—depth. Like the house itself was bleeding.
Then came the sound.
Not footsteps. Not breathing.
Scraping.
From inside the walls.
Jesse sat up. The air was thick, humid, like the house had exhaled something rotten. He stepped into the hallway, barefoot, knife tucked behind his waistband. The floorboards groaned beneath him—not from weight, but from resistance.
Caleb’s door was open.
Inside, the room was freezing. The window was shut, but frost bloomed across the glass in jagged spirals. Caleb lay on the bed, eyes wide, body stiff. His mouth moved, but no sound came out.
Jesse stepped closer.
Caleb’s chest rose and fell in shallow, unnatural rhythm. His fingers twitched. His eyes didn’t blink.
Then Jesse saw it.
A shadow—thin, long, wrong—crawling across the ceiling. It didn’t move like a person. It moved like a memory. Like something that had been here before and was just now remembering how to return.
It dropped.
Not onto the bed. Into it.
Caleb arched, spine cracking, mouth opening in a silent scream. His eyes rolled back. His fingers clawed at the sheets. Jesse rushed forward, grabbing his brother’s shoulders, shouting his name.
Caleb’s mouth snapped shut.
Then opened again.
But it wasn’t Caleb’s voice.
It was low. Wet. Ancient.
“He’s not ready.”
Jesse froze.
The voice spoke again, through Caleb’s throat, through his teeth.
“But he will be.”
Then Caleb collapsed.
Jesse held him, trembling, heart pounding. The room was silent again. The frost melted. The shadow was gone.
But Caleb’s skin was marked—three concentric circles carved into his chest, fresh and bleeding.
Jesse looked down at the note still clutched in his hand.
“It chose her. It’s coming for the boys next.”
He read it again.
As if this time, it might explain what the hell had just touched his brother.