It was a Friday night—the kind where the house felt too quiet, and the clock seemed to tick just a little louder than usual. Mom was out for the evening, and I was stuck babysitting my nine-year-old sister, Mikayla.

I was deep into my new game on the Nintendo Claudette—a chunky silver handheld with a screen just bright enough to annoy Mikayla—while she sat next to me, glued to the TV. Like any little sister, she could be a little annoying sometimes. Tonight, she was bouncing on the couch cushions like they were trampolines, legs swinging, humming whatever weird theme song was stuck in her head.

I glanced down at the coffee table. No wonder she was bouncing off the walls. Scattered cookie crumbs and a couple of empty orange soda bottles told me everything I needed to know.

“Where did you get those?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I got them from the kitchen, while you were not looking,” she said, giggling like she’d just pulled off the heist of the century.

I sighed and turned to see what she was watching. Of course—it was that weird Cartoon Network show again, The Adventures of Princess Panty-Boy. I still don’t get the hype. I watched it once, out of morbid curiosity. It’s about this boy who dresses up as a girl in every episode, running around looking for fancy underwear like it's some kind of treasure. It’s kind of corny, but I guess for a kid, it’s peak comedy. I’m twelve—basically a teenager. I don’t watch cartoons that much anymore.

The phone rang, and I grabbed it. It was Mom. She said she’d call every so often to check on us.

“Yeah, we’re fine,” I said. “We had pizza. Mikayla kinda went rogue and grabbed some soda and cookies when I wasn’t looking.”

I could already picture her frown.

“I know, I know—it wasn’t my idea.”

We talked for another minute or two. From the background noise, it sounded like she was at a restaurant. Laughter, clinking silverware, that whole grown-up vibe.

Mom’s been going out a lot lately—dressing nicer, staying out later. Mikayla thinks she’s “looking for love.” I think she’s just tired of eating dinner with two kids who argue about cartoons and cookie theft.

Our dad left when Mikayla was only two. She doesn’t even remember him. I do, though. I remember the day he packed up and left, like he was going to the store and just… never came back. No address. No goodbye. Sometimes I wonder if he ever really cared about us. It’s been seven years. Probably not.

With him gone, I kind of became the man of the house. I still have to follow Mom’s rules, of course, but when she’s not home… it’s all on me. And yeah, that can be a disaster. Like tonight. Instead of hanging out at my friend’s place, playing Bonestorm on their huge flatscreen, I’m here—playing a handheld game and trying to keep Mikayla from bouncing into another dimension.

Oh, and Bonestorm? Yeah, we don’t talk about that around Mom. If she ever found out I played that game, I’d be grounded until the end of time.

“Hey!” Mikayla yelled.

I looked up, expecting another sugar-fueled outburst, but her voice had a sharp edge to it this time. I followed her gaze to the TV.

“We interrupt this boring kids' show for a special report,” a serious voice said, cutting through the cartoon's goofy music. The screen showed a news anchor with a tight-lipped expression and shadows under his eyes.

“An eight-year-old girl has been reported missing,” he announced. “About ten minutes ago, Sandy Gordon from Prior Lake…”

My stomach dropped.
“Oh no,” I whispered. “Another kid?”

Mikayla’s hand curled around mine. Her eyes were wide, and for once, she wasn’t bouncing around or making jokes. I pulled her closer and hugged her tight.

“I’m sorry if I scared you,” I said gently. She didn’t answer—just gave me a little pout, her lips pressed together like she was trying not to cry.

“...the fifth child in the last two days,” the man on the screen continued.

That number hit me like a brick. Five. In two days.

I needed a break. I got up and went into the kitchen for some apple juice, Mikayla trailing behind me like a shadow. She hadn’t left my side for days—not even to go to the bathroom alone.

Summer break was the only reason I was even home with her right now. If school was in session, I’d be in class, and she’d be watching this stuff alone. That thought made my skin crawl.

I grabbed two cups, filled them, and handed one to Mikayla. On the table, the half-empty box of Pizza Lucé sat open with two slices left. I handed one to her and took the other for myself.

As we stepped back into the living room, a loud, violent crash made me jump—and I dropped my cup of juice.

The sound had come from just outside the front door.

My heart leapt into my throat. Mikayla yelped and grabbed my arm.

I ran to the door. The porch beyond the glass was shrouded in a thick, inky blackness. I flipped the porch light switch—nothing. The bulb didn’t even flicker.

“Mikayla, stay where you are,” I told her firmly. I kept my eyes fixed on the window, trying to make sense of the dark shapes shifting outside. The shadows didn’t look right. And then—

Eyes.
Glowing. Yellow. Eyes.

Not high up like a person’s. Low. Near the porch floor.

I froze. My breath caught in my throat. The eyes blinked—slowly. And then they began to move closer.

I reached for the phone with trembling fingers. Should I call the police? Was this just an animal? Was someone trying to scare us? The eyes grew brighter as they crept toward the door.

And then, the shape emerged into view.

A kitten.
A tiny, fluffy, soaking wet kitten.

My knees nearly gave out from the mix of fear and relief.

I opened the door cautiously, half-expecting something to lunge past the frame. But the kitten just walked in. Calm. Too calm. Like it knew exactly where it was going.

I locked the door behind it, trying to slow my breathing. Mikayla lit up when she saw it.

“Where did he come from?” she asked, kneeling to pick him up.

“I think he’s the one that made all that noise,” I said. “Poor thing must’ve been out there alone. I’ll get him something to eat.”

“Bring him some milk!” she called as I stepped into the kitchen. I could hear her giggling again—soft, shaky, but real. It was comforting, for a second.

I poured some milk into a saucer, feeling the chill of the jug against my skin. I didn’t hear Mikayla anymore. I figured she’d just gone back to watching TV.

But when I came back into the room… she wasn’t there.

Neither was the kitten.

I set the saucer on the coffee table, heart already thudding.

“Mikayla?” I called. No answer.

I searched every room—hallway, bathroom, my bedroom, even under the beds. Nothing. No giggles. No footsteps. No kitten.

“Mikayla!” I yelled louder. My voice cracked. Still nothing.

I grabbed my phone and tried to call 911. The screen wouldn’t turn on. Battery dead. But it was full just an hour ago.

I threw the phone on the ground, panic rising like a wave about to crash.

“Mikayla!!”

I bolted out the front door, into the howling wind and pounding rain. The sky had turned black, the air charged with something heavy and electric. I called her name again and again, the sound ripped from my mouth by the wind.

Nothing.

I ran back inside, drenched and shaking. I locked the door behind me. She wouldn’t have gone out the back. I was in the kitchen. I would’ve seen her.

Then the lights went out.

I was swallowed in darkness.

I stumbled, tripping over the edge of a chair, catching myself on the couch. The air felt wrong—too still, too silent, like the house was holding its breath.

Then came the footsteps.

Upstairs. Slow. Heavy. Measured.

I ran up the steps, skipping two at a time. As soon as I reached the top—silence.

“Mikayla,” I whispered, but it didn’t even sound like my own voice.

Her room—empty. Mine—empty.

I turned to Mom’s room. Just as I reached for the knob…

Scratch.

It came from downstairs. Long. Slow. Like nails dragging across the wood.

I froze.

“Mikayla, this isn’t funny!” I shouted down the staircase, my voice echoing through the empty house. “Stop trying to scare me!”

No reply. Just another scratch. Louder.

I crept to the front door and peered through the window. The porch was still dark. Still empty.

But the scratching didn’t stop.

I reached for the lock with a shaking hand. It was still bolted.

There was no way she’d gone outside through there.

The scratching turned frantic—scrabbling, clawing. I staggered back, heart hammering in my chest.

Then came the footsteps again—from upstairs. And a door creaked open, somewhere behind me.

That’s when I knew—I wasn’t alone.

I bolted to the back door, flung it open, and the storm nearly knocked me off my feet. But I didn’t care. I just needed to run—get to a neighbor—get help.

But before I could even step outside—

CRACK.

Something slammed into the back of my skull.

The world tipped sideways.

And everything went black.