The darkness swallowed Mara whole. The flashlight was dead, its last flicker snuffed out by the attic's chill, leaving her blind in the black.
The footprints—those muddy, impossible marks—lingered in her mind, their edges sharp even in the absence of light.
She fumbled for the ladder, her hands slick with sweat, the phone's static still buzzing in her ears.
Ellie's scream had cut off too fast, too final, and the silence that followed felt like a weight pressing her down.
She climbed down, each rung a gamble in the dark, her boots slipping once before finding solid ground.
The hallway stretched before her, a faint gray seeping from the bedroom window—the first hint of dawn, weak and distant.
She stumbled to the room, collapsing onto the bed, her breath ragged. Her arm burned under the towel, the scar pulsing like a second heartbeat.
She didn't dare look at it, didn't want to see if it had changed again. The house was quiet now, but it was a liar's quiet—hollow, hiding something.
Mara pressed her palms to her eyes, trying to piece it together. The footprints, the knife, the diaries—all tied to Ellie, to 1999, to a terror she couldn't place.
She'd lived that year, walked these floors, but her memories were a fog, a blank wall she couldn't breach. And Ellie—Ellie knew her, needed her, but who was she?
The phone rang again.
Mara's head snapped up, her body tensing. It was softer this time, muffled, like the sound was straining to reach her.
She dragged herself back to the attic, the ladder creaking under her weight, her limbs heavy with exhaustion.
The phone sat in its spot, dimly lit by a sliver of dawn creeping through a crack in the roof. She lifted the receiver, her voice a rasp. "Ellie?"
"Mara," Ellie whispered, her tone fragile, like glass about to shatter. "I'm okay. Barely. He's gone—for now. I got away, hid in the crawlspace under the stairs. He didn't find me."
Mara exhaled, relief warring with dread. "Good. Stay there. Don't move until you're sure."
"I can't stay long," Ellie said, her voice trembling. "He'll come back. Mara, I saw him closer this time. His mask—it's burlap, stitched with red thread, like a smile. And his eyes… they're empty, but I know them."
"Know them how?" Mara pressed, clutching the phone tighter.
Ellie hesitated, a shaky breath crackling through the line. "It's Dad. It's our father. I didn't want to believe it, but it's him. The way he stands, the way he breathes—it's him, Mara."
The words hit like a punch, stealing the air from Mara's lungs. "What? No, that's—my dad's dead. He died in 2000. Car accident, same as Mom. He can't—"
"He's not dead here," Ellie cut in, fierce and desperate. "It's 1999, Mara. He's alive, but he's… different. After Mom died, he changed. He started talking to himself, locking himself in the shed. I thought he was just sad, but then he started watching me—following me. Now he's got that mask, that knife. He's not right anymore."
Mara's mind reeled, memories flickering like static. Her father—tall, quiet, always smelling of sawdust from the shed.
He'd been a shadow after her mom's death, barely there, his eyes dull behind a forced smile.
She remembered him sitting in the dark, staring at nothing, but never violent, never a threat.
"Ellie, this doesn't make sense. He wasn't like that. I'd remember—"
"You don't!" Ellie snapped, her voice breaking. "You don't remember because you left me here! You forgot, Mara, but I didn't—I can't. He's coming for me, and you're the only one who can stop him!"
The line went dead, the dial tone a low drone. Mara dropped the phone, her hands trembling.
Left her? Forgot her? Ellie's words didn't fit—there'd been no sister, no one else in that house but her, her grandmother, and the ghost of her father's grief.
But her chest ached, a hollow pang she couldn't name, like a piece of her was missing.
She stumbled to the trunk, yanking it open, desperate for proof. Beneath the quilts was a small box, wooden, its lid carved with initials: M.K.—hers.
She pried it free, spilling its contents across the floor: trinkets, a locket, a folded photo. She unfolded it, her breath catching.
It was her father, standing by the shed, his face gaunt, eyes shadowed. In his hand was a burlap sack, half-sewn, red thread dangling from the stitches.
A memory surged—sharp, jagged, unwanted. Her father in the kitchen, late at night, his voice low and broken: "You took her from me, Mara. You did this."
She'd been half-asleep, thought it was a dream, but his hands were shaking, clutching something she couldn't see.
The next day, he'd been gone—distant again, locked in the shed. She'd buried it, let it fade, but now it clawed back, raw and real.
The attic floor creaked behind her. She spun, the photo fluttering to the ground, but the space was empty—except for the footprints, muddy and fresh, circling the trunk.
They hadn't been there a moment ago. Her gaze darted to the hatch, still bolted, then back to the prints.
In the center, smudged into the mud, was a single red stitch, bright as blood.
Mara's scream lodged in her throat, silent, as the dawn's gray light bled through the crack, illuminating nothing but her own trembling shadow.