Chapter 6
The brass handle of the heavy oak front door turned downward with agonizing slowness, the metallic click echoing like a gunshot through the silent, suffocating dining room. Mark remained frozen on his knees on the Persian rug, clutching the small pink ribbon to his chest as his knuckles turned stark white. Arthur sat unmoving in the velvet armchair, his hollow eyes fixed entirely on the entryway, breathing with a shallow, rattling wheeze.
The door creaked open, revealing a wall of thick, unnatural fog rolling across the porch and spilling over the threshold into the hallway. Standing silhouetted in the swirling white mist was a tall figure wearing a dark trench coat, holding something small and bundled in a familiar pink blanket.
“Who’s there?!” Mark yelled, scrambling up from the floor with a sudden surge of desperate adrenaline, lunging toward the hallway.
The figure stepped fully inside, shaking off the damp mist, and pulled down the dark wool hood to reveal the weathered, familiar face of Detective Vance.
“Mark? What in God’s name are you doing screaming in an abandoned house?” Detective Vance asked, shining his heavy-duty flashlight directly into Mark’s dilated eyes.
Mark threw his arm up to block the blinding beam of light, breathing heavily as he looked around the hallway. The peeling wallpaper, thick layers of dust on the baseboards, and water-damaged ceiling tiles suddenly snapped into sharp, horrific focus. The pristine dining room table with its silver settings was nothing more than a rotting, termite-eaten piece of plywood covered in decades of grey soot.
“Abandoned?” Mark whispered, his voice cracking as he looked back at the velvet armchair.
The expensive velvet chair was gone, replaced by a charred, burnt wooden frame sitting amidst piles of ash and fallen plaster.
“This house burned down to the ground six months ago, Mark,” Vance said gently, lowering his flashlight beam to the floorboards. “The county fire marshal report concluded it was a total loss. Everyone in the neighborhood thought you skipped town after the tragedy.”
Mark fell back against the rotting wall, his mind violently rejecting the reality crashing down around him.
“No... no, I just walked in here with Lily,” Mark insisted, his voice trembling as he held up the small pink ribbon. “She was right here. Clara was here. My mother was in the kitchen.”
Vance sighed heavily, stepping closer and placing a heavy, sympathetic hand on Mark’s shaking shoulder.
“Mark, you need to come with me. The search parties gave up looking for you three days ago when you wandered off from the motel,” Vance urged softly, pulling out a pair of clean steel handcuffs from his belt. “You’re severely dehydrated, and your fever is dangerously high.”
“Don’t touch me!” Mark snarled, pulling away with a sudden, violent burst of energy, clutching the pink ribbon tighter. “You don’t understand! If I leave this house, they’ll win!”
Vance stared at Mark with deep, sorrowful pity, slowly raising his radio to call for backup transport.
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“Dispatch, this is Vance. I found him inside the burn site at Elm Street,” Vance spoke into the radio, keeping his eyes locked on Mark. “Send the medical unit immediately. He’s completely unhinged.”
Before Vance could finish the transmission, a sharp, childish giggle echoed loudly from the dark, collapsed staircase leading to the second floor.
