Jake's little sister, Mia, vanished on the night of the storm. The police said she'd slipped into the river. But Jake knew better. He'd seen her—standing barefoot in the backyard, her nightgown glowing in the dark, staring at the old oak tree. She'd raised a finger to her lips. "Shhh," she whispered. "They're listening."
Then the lightning struck.
When the flash faded, Mia was gone. All that remained was a single red ribbon, tied to the oak's lowest branch.
Three months later, Jake still heard her voice.
"Jakey," she'd hum from the attic. "Play with me."
Mom said it was grief. Dad drank until he forgot Mia's name. But Jake followed the sounds—scratches in the walls, giggles in the crawlspace—until he found the hole.
Behind the basement furnace, tucked under a rotting floorboard: a tunnel. Narrow, damp, reeking of wet soil. Jake crawled in, his phone flashlight trembling.
The tunnel opened into a cavern. Roots hung like nooses. And there, in the center, stood Mia.
Except it wasn't Mia.
Her skin was gray, her hair tangled with leaves. Black veins spidered up her neck. She held out her hand, the red ribbon coiled in her palm. "You took too long," she said, her voice echoing from a dozen places at once.
Behind her, shadows peeled off the walls. Tall, faceless, humming a tune Mom used to sing at bedtime.
"They're hungry," Not-Mia said. "But they'll take you instead. If you run."
Jake stumbled back. The shadows surged, their hum rising to a screech. He ran, the tunnel collapsing behind him, dirt filling his mouth.
He woke in the hospital. Broken leg. Concussion. "Hallucinations," the doctor said. "Trauma."
But that night, Jake's IV stand toppled. The heart monitor flatlined. And in the static, Mia's voice: "You left me. Now they're coming."
The shadows arrived at midnight.
They slid under the door, across the ceiling, their hum vibrating the bedrails. Jake couldn't scream. Couldn't move.
Then—a tug on his wrist. The red ribbon, tied there.
The shadows recoiled.
"She marked you," they hissed. "But the ribbon fades."
When dawn came, Jake was alone. The ribbon was gone.
Now, Jake walks the riverbank every night. The shadows follow, always ten steps behind. He leaves toys by the oak—a doll, a wind-up train, a flashlight with fresh batteries.
Sometimes, in the rain, he sees her. Mia, flickering like a broken film reel, the ribbon in her hand.
"I'm sorry," he whispers.
The shadows hum louder.
But Mia smiles. "Not yet," she says.
And the ribbon reappears, tied to his wrist.