Chapter 2: The Man Behind the Door
The doorknob turned.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
I couldn't move.
For one impossible second, I stood there staring at it while every instinct inside me screamed the same command.
Run.
But I had two children behind me.
One was five years old.
The other could barely breathe.
I couldn't run.
The knob stopped moving.
Silence swallowed the hallway.
Then the door opened less than an inch.
A thin darkness appeared between the frame and the door.
“Daniel…”
The voice came again.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
I knew that voice.
Or at least, I thought I did.
“Who are you?”
No answer.
I reached for the door.
Before my fingers touched it, Lily screamed.
“DON'T!”
She grabbed my leg with both arms.
“Daddy, don't open it!”
I looked down at her.
“Lily, someone is inside.”
She shook her head.
“No.”
“Then who was talking?”
Her face went white.
“He doesn't talk.”
The door moved another inch.
I backed away.
“What do you mean?”
Lily stared at the gap.
“He only copies people.”
My blood ran cold.
“What?”
“He copies Mommy.”
The door suddenly slammed shut.
I jumped.
Then came three knocks.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
I stepped toward it again.
“Who is in there?”
A woman's voice answered.
Claire's voice.
“Daniel?”
I froze.
It was perfect.
Every detail.
The soft tone.
The slight tremble.
Even the way she pronounced my name.
“Daniel, please open the door.”
Lily buried her face against my leg.
“That's not Mommy.”
My phone was still connected to emergency services.
The operator asked if someone was inside the room.
“Yes,” I whispered.
“Do not approach the door. Officers are on the way.”
I almost laughed.
Police.
The word suddenly felt absurd.
What was I supposed to tell them?
My wife locked something in a room, my daughter says it can imitate voices, and it just called me by my name?
Then something hit the other side of the door.
Hard.
The entire frame shook.
Lily screamed.
I stepped backward.
Another impact.
The hinges rattled.
Then silence.
I grabbed Lily and moved toward the living room.
Tommy was still lying on the couch, barely moving.
I picked him up.
His skin felt cold.
“Come on, buddy.”
His tiny fingers moved.
Just once.
I almost cried from relief.
Then I heard footsteps upstairs.
I looked up.
The stairs were empty.
“Who's there?”
No answer.
I tightened my grip on Tommy.
Lily whispered:
“Daddy…”
“What?”
“Mommy is upstairs.”
My heart stopped.
“What?”
“She came home.”
I stared at her.
“When?”
“Before you.”
“Where is she?”
Lily pointed toward the ceiling.
“She went to the room.”
“What room?”
“Your room.”
I looked toward the stairs.
The house suddenly felt much larger than it had five minutes earlier.
“Did Mommy hurt you?”
Lily shook her head.
“No.”
“Did she hurt Tommy?”
She hesitated.
That hesitation destroyed me.
“Lily.”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“Mommy made him drink something.”
I looked down at Tommy.
“What?”
“Milk.”
“What milk?”
“His bottle.”
I felt sick.
“Why?”
“Mommy said Tommy was getting too loud.”
My jaw tightened.
“What happened after he drank it?”
“He got sleepy.”
I looked at my son.
His breathing was still weak.
“Did Mommy give you anything?”
Lily shook her head.
“She tried.”
My stomach twisted.
“But I spilled mine.”
I looked at the carpet.
A small plastic cup lay underneath the coffee table.
A white residue coated the inside.
I grabbed it.
There was a faint chemical smell.
I didn't know what it was.
But I knew one thing.
This wasn't an accident.
I carried Tommy toward the front door.
“We're going to the hospital.”
Lily followed.
Then the front door wouldn't open.
I tried the handle.
Nothing.
I pulled harder.
Locked.
I checked the deadbolt.
It was engaged from the inside.
I hadn't locked it.
I turned toward the hallway.
“Claire?”
No answer.
I tried the door again.
Nothing.
Then my phone vibrated.
A text message.
From Claire.
I stared at the screen.
Don't take the children to the hospital.
My hands went numb.
Another message arrived.
You don't know what you've brought home.
I stared at it.
“What does that mean?”
Lily began crying.
“Daddy…”
I looked at her.
She was staring behind me.
I slowly turned.
The television was on.
I hadn't turned it on.
The screen showed a black-and-white security camera feed.
My own house.
The living room.
The hallway.
And me.
Standing there with Tommy in my arms.
I looked at the television.
Then at the camera in the corner.
I had never installed a camera there.
The footage suddenly changed.
A timestamp appeared.
THREE DAYS AGO.
I watched.
Claire walked into the living room carrying Tommy.
Lily followed her.
Claire looked directly at the camera.
Then she said something.
I couldn't hear it.
The footage was muted.
She pointed toward the hallway.
Lily immediately shook her head.
Claire grabbed her arm.
My daughter stumbled.
I felt something inside me break.
“Why would she do that?”
The footage continued.
Claire opened the locked storage room.
She carried Tommy inside.
Lily stood outside crying.
Then Claire closed the door.
I stepped closer to the television.
“No…”
The screen changed again.
TWO DAYS AGO.
Claire opened the door.
She looked exhausted.
She wasn't alone.
A shadow moved behind her.
I leaned closer.
The image flickered.
For one second, I saw a man's face.
Then static.
The footage returned.
Claire was standing alone.
But something had changed.
She was crying.
She looked directly into the camera.
And mouthed four words.
I couldn't hear them.
But I could read her lips.
“He knows you're coming.”
The screen went black.
My phone vibrated again.
Another message.
This time, there was no text.
Only a photograph.
I opened it.
My hands began shaking.
It was a picture of me.
Sleeping.
Taken from inside my bedroom.
The timestamp said:
LAST NIGHT.
I hadn't been home last night.
I had been hundreds of miles away.
Someone had taken that photograph while I was sleeping.
Except…
I wasn't in a hotel room.
I looked at the image again.
The room behind me wasn't a hotel.
It was my bedroom.
My bed.
My lamp.
My curtains.
Everything.
Someone had been inside my house while I was away.
Someone had been watching me.
Or pretending to watch me.
Then another photograph arrived.
This one showed Lily.
Sleeping on the couch.
A dark figure stood behind her.
I dropped the phone.
Lily screamed.
“Daddy, what's wrong?”
I didn't answer.
Because there was one detail in the photograph I couldn't explain.
The figure behind Lily was wearing my old gray jacket.
The jacket I had thrown away six months ago.
The jacket that had belonged to my younger brother, Michael.
Michael.
The brother who had disappeared six years earlier.
The brother whose voice I had just heard behind the locked door.
I picked up the phone with trembling hands.
Another message appeared.
You should have stayed away.
Then:
Now he knows where your children are.
And finally:
Ask your wife what happened six years ago.
The front door suddenly unlocked.
It swung open by itself.
Cold night air rushed into the house.
Two police officers stood on the porch.
I almost collapsed with relief.
“Sir,” one of them said, “we received a call about a child in distress.”
“Yes.”
I looked over my shoulder.
At the end of the hallway, the storage-room door was still closed.
But there was something new.
A dark red line had appeared beneath it.
Liquid.
Slowly spreading across the floor.
The officer followed my gaze.
“What is that?”
I couldn't answer.
Lily grabbed my hand.
“Daddy…”
“What?”
She whispered:
“That's not blood.”
I looked at her.
“What is it?”
She stared at the door.
“It's what Mommy used to make Tommy sleep.”
Then the officer pulled his weapon.
“Everyone step outside.”
We moved toward the door.
But before I could leave, the locked room opened.
Not slowly this time.
It swung wide.
The officer raised his weapon.
“Police! Show me your hands!”
Nobody came out.
The room was completely dark.
Then a small object rolled across the floor.
It stopped at my feet.
A child's red toy car.
Tommy's favorite.
I bent down and picked it up.
Something was written on the bottom in black marker.
Six words.
DAD, DON'T TRUST THE WOMAN UPSTAIRS.
I looked at Lily.
She was crying.
“Daddy…”
“What?”
She pointed toward the ceiling.
“That's not Mommy.”
The police officer looked up.
Footsteps were coming down the stairs.
Slow.
Heavy.
One step at a time.
Then a woman's voice called from the darkness above us.
“Daniel…”
I knew that voice.
It was Claire.
But Lily was already shaking her head.
And then she whispered the sentence that changed everything.
May you like
“Daddy…”
“She's been dead since Tuesday.”
