Mara didn't move for a long time. The diary lay at her feet, its final words—He's already here—staring up like an accusation.
The thudding from the attic had stopped, but the silence was worse, thick and suffocating, pressing against her like a hand over her mouth.
She clutched the flashlight, its beam steady now but weaker, as if the house was draining it.
Her mind churned, caught between the diaries she didn't remember writing and the phone calls she couldn't explain.
Ellie's voice, her own voice, whispered at the edges of her thoughts, pulling her apart.
She needed air. The dining room felt too small, the walls too close.
She stood, legs stiff, and grabbed her jacket, intending to step outside—just for a minute, just to breathe.
But as she reached for the door, the phone rang again. The sound clawed through the house, sharp and urgent, pinning her in place.
She cursed under her breath, torn between running out and running up. The attic won. The ladder creaked as she climbed, the cold biting deeper into her skin.
The phone sat there, trembling with each ring, the receiver still on the hook—always on the hook, no matter how she left it.
She snatched it up, her voice rough. "Ellie, what now?"
"Mara," Ellie said, her tone ragged, like she'd been crying. "He's back. I thought he left, but he's downstairs—I heard the door. He got in."
Mara's stomach dropped. "Where are you? Still in the attic?"
"Yeah," Ellie whispered. "Behind the trunk. But he knows I'm here. He's… he's coming up the stairs. I can hear him breathing."
Mara's flashlight darted to the hatch below her, half-expecting it to swing open. Nothing. Just the dark rectangle, bolted shut. "Ellie, stay quiet. Maybe he'll—"
A scream cut her off, high and sharp, muffled like it came through clenched teeth. "He's got a knife!" Ellie gasped. "He's at the hatch—oh God, he cut me!" Her voice broke into a sob. "My arm—it's bleeding bad."
"Ellie, hold on!" Mara shouted, gripping the receiver so hard her knuckles ached. "Press on it, stop the bleeding—tell me where he cut you!"
"My forearm," Ellie whimpered. "Left side. It's deep—he's still here, banging on the hatch. Mara, I can't—"
The line crackled, then went dead, the dial tone buzzing like a swarm of flies. Mara dropped the phone, her breath hitching.
She stumbled back, nearly tripping over the trunk, her mind racing. Ellie's scream echoed in her skull, raw and real, but the attic was empty—just her, the dust, the shadows.
She pressed a hand to her chest, trying to steady herself, when a sharp sting flared up her left arm.
She yanked up her sleeve, flashlight trembling in her other hand. There, on her forearm, was a gash—fresh, red, welling with blood.
It hadn't been there a minute ago. She hadn't felt it until now. The cut was long, jagged, slicing from her wrist halfway to her elbow, exactly where Ellie had said.
Mara choked on a gasp, dropping the flashlight. It rolled, casting wild arcs of light across the attic, and she pressed her hand to the wound, blood slicking her fingers.
"No, no, no," she muttered, fumbling for the light. Her pulse roared, drowning out the silence.
She hadn't cut herself—there was nothing sharp up here, nothing she'd brushed against.
But the pain was real, throbbing in time with her heartbeat, and the blood wouldn't stop.
She staggered to the ladder, clutching her arm, and climbed down, the rungs slick under her boots.
In the bathroom, she ran the tap, splashing cold water over the gash. It stung like hell, but the bleeding slowed, the cut clotting into an angry red line.
She wrapped it in a towel, her hands shaking, and stumbled to the living room, where the photo album still lay open.
Her younger self stared up from the page, the porch rail photo from '99. Mara's breath caught.
The smudge in the background was still there, but now, across her teenage arm—her left forearm—was a scar.
The same jagged line, faded but unmistakable, carved into the girl she'd been. She touched her own arm, the towel damp with blood, and the room tilted.
The phone didn't ring again, but she didn't need it to. Something was happening—something impossible—tying her to Ellie, to 1999, to a past she didn't know.
She sank onto the couch, the towel pressed tight, and stared at the photo. The girl's eyes seemed darker now, her crooked smile gone, replaced by a blank, hollow gaze.
Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the windows. Mara didn't look. She didn't want to see what might be staring back.