Chapter 2 - The Digital Evidence
The tiny speaker on Zuri’s smartphone hissed with static before a muffled voice echoed off the concrete floor of the laundry room. Marcus watched, paralyzed, as the screen illuminated Zuri’s trembling fingers holding the device. On the display, grainy footage rolled, showing the back hallway of their suburban home at two o'clock in the morning just three days ago.
“Look at the timestamp, Dad,” Zuri urged, her voice tight with panic. “We didn’t put Maya in the laundry room. We were trying to protect her from whatever is making her do this.”
Marcus leaned in, his dark henley brushing against the doorframe. On the screen, a figure dressed in Clara’s old oversized jacket sleepwalked past the kitchen, carrying a plate of leftover pasta with mechanical precision. But it wasn’t Clara. It was Maya, her eyes wide and completely glazed over, moving with the terrifying smoothness of a marionette.
Clara uncrossed her arms, letting out a long, shuddering breath that sounded like a confession. She finally looked Marcus in the eye, her face pale under the harsh laundry room lights.
“She’s been doing it for a month, Marcus,” Clara confessed quietly, her voice trembling. “Every single night at precisely two-fifteen. She sleepwalks into this room, climbs on top of the washer, and waits until morning. If we try to move her back to her bed, she screams until her throat bleeds.”
Marcus looked down at Maya, who was once again staring blankly at the hard-boiled egg on the plate. The anger that had fueled his initial confrontation evaporated, replaced by a suffocating wave of helplessness. He had spent the last six months working double shifts to pay off the mortgage, completely blind to the strange psychological fracture occurring right under his roof.
“Why didn’t you call me? Why keep this a secret from me?” Marcus asked, his voice softening into a plea.
“Because every time you’re stressed about money, you shut down,” Clara said sharply, stepping closer. “I didn't want to break you. But that’s not even the worst part of it.”
Zuri tapped the screen again, swiping to a second video file, one that made the blood run cold in Marcus’s veins.
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“Watch what happens when the timer on the microwave goes off,” Zuri whispered, pointing at the small digital clock mounted above the washing machine.
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