Chapter 6
The grip around Mark’s wrist was not just cold; it was biting, rigid, and impossibly strong. The fingers wrapped tightly against his skin felt less like living flesh and more like hardened timber frozen in deep winter frost. Mark let out a choked gasp, his feet instinctively scrambling backward against the polished wooden floor of the hallway.
"Let go!" Mark screamed, throwing his entire body weight away from the threshold, his free hand clawing desperately at the doorframe for leverage.
The entity on the other side did not pull him forward into the dark void. Instead, it held him precisely at the boundary line, anchoring him in place with unyielding pressure. The sweet, cloying fragrance of old pipe tobacco and fading perfume suddenly intensified, suffocating Mark’s lungs as he struggled for air.
Far down the hallway, the kitchen telephone echoed with frantic static. David’s distant voice barked frantically through the curly cord. "Mark! Mark, answer me! What’s happening? I heard someone yell! I’m calling the county sheriff right now!"
Buster was no longer howling. The golden retriever had retreated all the way into the living room, pressing his back against the sofa, his eyes wide and unblinking as he stared at the open white door with terror.
Mark gritted his teeth, his muscles burning as he yanked his arm with every ounce of strength he possessed. With a sudden, sickening pop of dislocating air, his wrist slipped free from the icy grip. He stumbled backward, sprawling hard onto the floorboards, dragging his right arm against his chest as he gasped for breath.
He looked down at his wrist in the dim glow of the hallway ceiling light. Deep, violet bruises in the exact shape of four large fingers and a thumb were already blooming across his pale skin, radiating a dull, throbbing heat.
Before he could even register the physical pain, a sharp scratching sound emanated from just inside the threshold. Mark looked up, expecting to see the silhouette of a person stepping out of the dark.
May you like
Instead, a small, worn leather-bound journal slid slowly across the dark floorboards, stopping right at the edge of the light beam.
Mark crawled toward it on his hands and knees, his breath catching as he reached out with his uninjured left hand. He flipped the cover open, and the first page revealed his own handwriting from when he was eight years old.
