The Pact Of Five

THE NOTE

CHAPTER 4

Timeline: 27 Days Until 18

Stay out of my room.”

I slammed the door shut behind me, my voice sharp and shaking, and spun around to face the empty hallway. No one was there. No one had been there. But I said it anyway, loud enough for them to hear if they were lingering in the hall, if they were standing right outside like they had been all week.

I locked the door—twice. Dragged the heavy oak chest across the floor and shoved it up against the handle. Just like I did every night. Just like it mattered.

My hands were still trembling when I turned around. And then I froze.

There, dead center of my bed, resting perfectly flat against my pillow, was another note.

I didn’t move for a long time. My heart slammed against my ribs, hard and fast, fear and something hotter tangled up tight in my chest. I’d been gone less than an hour. I’d locked everything. I’d blocked the door. The windows were latched from the inside. There was no way anyone could have gotten in. No way at all.

Slowly, step by step, I walked forward. The paper was crisp, clean, folded once down the middle. Same dark ink. Same bold, confident handwriting. No name. No signature. They didn’t need one.

I unfolded it, my fingers brushing the smooth surface, and read the three lines written there:

We know you lock the door.

We know you block it.

It doesn’t matter.

My breath caught. I spun around, scanning every shadow, every corner of the room. The closet door was shut. The curtains were drawn. Nothing moved. Nothing but the sudden, sharp realization that they could come and go as they pleased. That my barriers were nothing more than a joke between them.

I sank down onto the edge of the bed, the paper crinkling in my fist. Twenty-seven days. That’s all that was left. And they were already everywhere. In my hallway. In my room. In my head.

I stood up fast and crossed to the window, yanking the curtain aside. The yard was dark, the moon low and thin, casting long, pale shadows across the grass. I scanned the treeline, the porch, the driveway—half-expecting to see one of them staring right back at me. But the yard was empty. Too empty. Like they’d stepped back just far enough that I couldn’t see them, but never far enough to stop watching.

“Who are you?” I whispered to the dark. “Which one of you is it?”

No answer. Just the quiet hum of crickets and the faint, distant rustle of leaves. But I could feel it—eyes on me, heavy and warm and hungry, like a hand resting on the back of my neck.

I turned back to the note, smoothing it out on my nightstand. Underneath the first three lines, there was more—smaller, written at the very bottom, like an afterthought I was meant to find later:

We’re not just waiting for your birthday. We’re waiting for you to stop fighting it.

Anger flared up, sharp and bright, cutting through the fear. I picked it up, crumpled it into a tight ball, and threw it across the room. It hit the wall and dropped to the floor, useless. But the words stayed. Burned into my mind like they’d been written there.

I paced the room, back and forth, my bare feet silent on the rug. They thought this was inevitable. They thought I was theirs to claim, to wait for, to count down to like I was a prize at the end of a race. But I wasn’t. I was a person. And I still had twenty-seven days. Twenty-seven days to figure out how to stop this. Or how to decide if I even wanted to.

A soft knock came at the door.

I froze mid-step, my heart jumping into my throat. “Who is it?”

“Just me.” Micah’s voice, low and quiet, right on the other side of the wood. “I saw the light go on. Can I come in?”

I looked at the door—blocked, locked, useless. “No. You can’t.”

Silence for a beat. Then, “I know you’re angry. And I know you found the note. I didn’t write it. But I know who did.”

My breath caught. “Who?”

“Open the door and I’ll tell you.”

“Move the chest and unlock it first,” I said, sharp and sure. “If you can get in without me opening it… then you can tell me.”

Another pause. A faint, quiet laugh, warm and dark. “Touché. I’ll tell you this much through the wood. None of us are breaking in. Not yet. But we have ways of knowing when things change. When you’re ready.”

“Ready for what?” I stepped closer to the door, my voice dropping. “To be fought over? To be won?”

“To be seen.” His voice softened, deepening until it felt like he was standing right beside me. “We don’t want to win you. We want you to choose. And whoever you pick… the rest will walk away. That’s the pact. That’s the promise.”

“And if I don’t pick any of you?”

“Then we stay. And we wait. Forever.” He paused, then added, quieter, “But you’re already picking. You just don’t know it yet.”

I gripped the edge of the doorframe, my knuckles turning white. “Go away, Micah.”

“Not going anywhere. Not tonight.” I heard him lean against the wall, right outside my door. “I’ll be here all night. If you need anything. If you get scared. If you just want to talk. I’m not leaving. None of us are.”

I stepped back, my head spinning. He wasn’t leaving. They were taking shifts. Standing guard outside my bedroom door like I was a prisoner they were keeping safe. Or a prisoner they were keeping locked up.

I walked to the bed and sat down, staring at the crumpled note on the floor. Twenty-seven days. And every day, they got bolder. Every day, they got closer. And every time I told them to leave, I was secretly terrified that they actually would.

I reached down, picked up the note, and smoothed it out again on my nightstand. The words were still there. Same as before. Same promise. Same threat. Same quiet, unshakable certainty that this was already decided. That I was already theirs.

Somewhere outside, a wolf howled. Long, low, and close. And right outside my door, Micah shifted his weight, the wood creaking softly. Waiting. Counting. Just like the note said.