The message wasn’t a threat. It was a promise. The same feeling of dread when she first heard him speak her name started to wash over her. The camera was useless. The police wouldn’t help. The locks were a joke. She was alone. An instinct for survival overrode her paralysing fear. She couldn’t run; the exits were all traps. He was probably just waiting on the other side of the door for her to rush outside. Her only option was to make her fragile box into a fortress.

 

Sarah moved feverishly, barely taking a moment to catch her breath. After moving the dresser, she raced into the dining room and dragged chairs with her to the front and back doors. Her muscles ached as she jammed them under the doorknob, creating a tangled and unstable barricade. It might not stop anyone determined enough to get in, but it would make a noise. It would give her a warning. She tore the curtains back, checking the locks again, searching for any sign of how the caller had gotten in. They were all secure. Everything was closed and locked. She was sealed in. Safe.

 

Sarah leaned her forehead against the cool glass of the living room window, taking shaky breaths as she tried to stop her hands from shaking. For a fleeting moment, she almost believed she would be safe. The home was silent, save for the pounding of her heart in her chest. The panic started to recede, and she pushed off the window to go back to her room and start her morning shower.

 

But as she walked down the small hallway to her bedroom, she saw it: the pull-down ladder to the attic. The flat, square panel in the ceiling. It was slightly ajar. A half inch of pure darkness stared back at her. She always kept it sealed tight. In the winter, it would get stuck and be impossible to open without a fight.

 

The silence was no longer peaceful. The house held its breath. It was the silence of a predator waiting, holding perfectly still, knowing its prey had just sensed it. And then she heard it. Directly above her. The sound of weight being shifted. A slow, deliberate creak.