Chapter 3 - The Brass Knob
The frantic buzzing of the phone in Clara’s palm felt like a live wire, sending jagged jolts of electricity up her arm. The melody looping from the inactive speaker was a simple, three-note nursery rhyme played backward, creating a discordant, unsettling rhythm that grated against her nerves. She stared down at the screen, expecting to see Mark’s face or at least an incoming caller ID. Instead, the display remained pitch black, a stark void reflecting her own pale, terrified features.
Leo walked away from her with a quiet, measured tread, his sneakers squeaking softly against the polished wooden floor. He didn't look back to see if she was following. He marched straight to the corner of the kitchen where his toy chest sat overflowing with wooden blocks and stuffed animals. Without hesitation, he reached deep into the bottom of the bin and pulled out a heavy, rusted padlock—the exact duplicate of the one Clara kept on the basement door to keep him safe from the steep, uncarpeted stairs.
"You forgot to lock it on Tuesday," Leo stated, his voice returning to its normal childish pitch, which somehow made the statement ten times more terrifying. He set the heavy iron lock on the floor, right at the base of the kitchen island.
Clara’s stomach churned violently. Tuesday. On Tuesday, she had gone down to the basement to switch a load of laundry while Mark was supposedly out picking up groceries. She remembered leaving the heavy door ajar because the bulb on the landing had burned out, and she hated the absolute darkness of that subterranean space. She had checked the lock afterward, or at least she thought she had.
"Leo," Clara choked out, taking a cautious step backward, keeping her eyes fixed on the padlock. "Where did you get that?"
"Dad gave it to me," the toddler answered simply, picking up a red wooden block and stacking it carefully on top of a yellow one. His hands were steady, entirely devoid of the tremors shaking Clara’s frame. "He said you lose things when you get scared. He said you lost him, too."
The accusation hung in the air like a physical weight. Clara felt the room tilt. Mark hadn't just gone missing yesterday. The police reports, the frantic calls, the search parties—they all pointed to a disappearance three days ago. But Mark’s car was still parked in the driveway, its engine cold, the driver's side door unlocked, and a half-empty cup of coffee sitting in the cup holder. The grocery bags were never found. The local precinct had treated it as a standard missing persons case, but Clara had harbored a dark, suffocating suspicion that he had simply walked out on them.
Yet, listening to her two-year-old son speak with the precise cadence of her husband's voice, a much more sinister reality began to claw its way into her mind.
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The phone in her hand abruptly stopped vibrating. The screen flashed white for a single, blinding millisecond, revealing a single text message stamped across the dark glass: I am standing right behind you.
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