Chapter 3: Proof in the Shadows

Around 3 a.m., James woke to use the bathroom. The hallway was chilly, shadows stretched long. He checked the clock: 2:57 AM. On his way back, he heard it: "creak... clunk"—the same sound from downstairs. He froze, senses sharpening, all sleep gone.

He gently woke Campbell, whispering, "I’ll go check. You take the kids and lock the door." Heart racing, she hurried the boys into their room, locking the door tight.

James opened the nightstand, took out his pistol. The weight was reassuring—Hawaii’s strict laws meant only his military permit allowed it. He loaded the gun, the metallic click loud in the hush, and pressed his back to the wall, breath slow and steady.

He crept downstairs, every step measured, flashlight beam slicing through the dark. Again: "creak... clunk." It was close—definitely a door. Goosebumps prickled his arms. Someone was in the house.

He braced himself, both hands gripping the gun. Room by room, he searched: behind the couch, under the kitchen island, even the laundry chute. Nothing. Every closet—empty. What was going on?

Frustrated, he splashed his face in the bathroom, trying to clear his mind. The tile was cold underfoot. Then, in the mirror, he caught something: the laundry room door’s frosted glass showed a faint, human shape—shoulders, head, unmoving.

Heart pounding, he spun around, but the figure was gone. He lunged for the door, hearing a faint scuffle—bare feet on tile. A rustle. "Who’s there? Get out here!" His voice was raw, echoing. Silence pressed back.

He aimed at the door, every muscle tense. Ten seconds passed. No movement. He burst into the laundry room, gun ready—no one. Just a single sock on the floor, the dryer humming. He checked every corner, opened cabinets, banged on walls for secret panels. Nothing. The strangeness crawled up his spine.

That night, the family huddled together on the boys’ floor, comforters piled, door locked. James sat guard, pistol within reach, waking every hour to scan the darkness. When dawn came, relief was overwhelming.

At breakfast, the family gathered around the kitchen island—cereal bowls untouched, faces drawn. The boys revealed what they’d kept to themselves: toys and games had vanished, then reappeared changed. The younger’s Lego set was rebuilt into a dragon, the older’s Switch returned with all games deleted. The boys accused each other at first, but now their fear was real, their voices trembling.

Campbell’s stomach twisted. She looked at her husband, feeling the isolation close in. They all realized: someone was living in their home. But who, and why? James mentally mapped the house, searching for blind spots. Campbell’s mind reeled—was it a former resident, a stranger, something worse?

The unknown motive was the most terrifying part. James saw Campbell’s fear and felt his own resolve harden. This was real, and dangerous. "If this isn’t resolved, I can’t stay here another day," Campbell said, voice shaking.

He nodded. He’d always handled things himself, but now he knew: it was time to get help. He called his parents in California, packed the family, and left the haunted house behind, essentials only. Campbell kept glancing in the rearview, heart pounding, until Honolulu faded away.

A week later, the installer called: the surveillance system was ready. After some rest, the family composed themselves and flew back. The boys clung to Campbell at baggage claim. They joked and tried to laugh on the drive home, but as they pulled into the driveway, none of them realized—they weren’t the only ones coming home that night.