Found You

 The floor creaks again.

Not the house—it. I know the difference now. The sound is slower, heavier, like something remembering how to walk.

I stare into the dark under my bed. Something shifts there, soft as a sigh. The flashlight flickers, then dies, leaving me with only my heartbeat.

Pulling the blanket to my chin, I call for my mother, but my voice sticks in my throat. She wouldn’t hear me anyway, not even if I screamed, not on those pills.

When the whisper comes—my name, low and cracked—I run. The closet’s the only place left. I squeeze between hanging coats, hold my breath, try to make myself small.

The door creaks shut on its own. I press my hand over my mouth, listening for it. The room is silent now.

Something breathes behind me.

A hand, cold and damp, settles on my shoulder.

And a voice whispers, “Found you.”