The Guest Room
The floorboard creaks behind her.
Riley spins, flashlight beam cutting through the dark. Empty hallway.
She turns back to the guest room. The door is open now. She’d closed it.
Her breath fogs in front of her face.
Riley crosses to the thermostat in the hall. The green display reads 74°.
She exhales again. White mist hangs in the beam of her flashlight.
From downstairs, the alarm system chimes: “Front door opened.”
Riley freezes. Listens.
“Front door closed.”
No sound of the door.
She moves to the guest room window, checking the lock. Her reflection stares back—and behind her shoulder, for just a moment, something else. But what?
Riley spins. Nothing there.
From beneath the floor: THUMP.
Riley backs toward the stairs, flashlight shaking.
She takes the stairs two at a time, hits the front door, twists the deadbolt—
It doesn’t move. Locked from the outside.
Her phone. She pulls it from her pocket. The screen glows: seven missed calls. All from her number. All while she was holding the phone.
The last voicemail is still recording.
She raises it to her ear and hears her own voice screaming.
The flashlight beam catches the window beside the door.
In the reflection: the thing from upstairs stands directly behind her now.
Riley turns.
—Sal