Chapter 4: The Door Between Worlds

The car wound up the hillside, headlights illuminating the outline of their home. The porch light flickered, palm shadows dancing. For the first time, the house looked hostile. Campbell’s hand tightened on James’s, the boys silent in the back seat. The gate squealed open—too loud. In the headlights, James caught sight of the yard. His heart lurched.

"Someone’s been messing around again..." he muttered, not caring if the boys heard. His stomach dropped, cold and heavy.

Campbell sat frozen, hands trembling in her lap. She stared at the chaos outside—sports gear, toys, kitchenware scattered everywhere. Even James’s prized road bike lay on the grass, wheel spinning slowly. Helpless anger burned in her chest.

"You and the kids stay in the car. Lock the doors and call 911," James instructed. She nodded, voice lost, pulling the boys close and double-checking the locks. Her phone shook in her hand as she dialed.

James got out alone, pausing to meet her eyes—a silent promise to keep them safe. No gun, just a hammer from the lawn, cold and awkward in his grip. He moved slowly, scanning every window for movement.

Inside, he heard the shuffle of feet, a floorboard creak. His blood ran cold. "This time, I’m catching you," he thought, wiping his palm on his jeans, bracing himself.

He placed his hand on the door lock—still locked. Fumbling with his keys, hands shaking, the metal jangling too loud in the silent night. The door wouldn’t budge.

He pressed his shoulder to the wood. It held fast, like someone was bracing it from the inside. He checked the deadbolt—fine. The lock worked, but something, or someone, was holding the door.

James pressed his ear to the wood. On the other side: faint, labored breathing. His pulse thundered. Adrenaline surged as he pushed with all his might, every muscle straining. The hammer bit into his palm, wood creaking. The struggle stretched—then, slowly, the door gave an inch.

The air inside smelled musty and sharp. Through the crack, the dim hallway loomed. Just as he leaned in, he saw it—a bloodshot hand, thin and trembling, gripping the edge of the door. In that instant, James knew: whatever was inside was human, desperate, and no longer hiding.

From that moment on, Campbell never truly felt alone in the house again.