Then, Margot turned to the window. The padlock was still there. Cold metal stung her raw fingertips as she slotted it into the hasp lock and then turned the key. It clicked as it sealed. She rattled it, tugging and jangling to check nothing would come loose, then dropped it back against the cold panes.

Will locks work against what lives here?

She didn’t know the answer. Her parents seemed to believe in the locks, for all the good it had done them.

Finally, Margot plugged the power cord into her phone. It showed it was charging, which meant the house hadn’t completely lost power. She placed her phone on the ground, light function still activated, beside her bed. Just on the other side of it was the axe, its blade coated in shadows. It should have made Margot feel safer. It didn’t.

She slipped her shoes off and draped her jacket across the bed’s cover for extra warmth, then climbed in, still dressed in her clothes from that afternoon.

The sheets were cold. Margot pressed numb feet together as she tried to force warmth into them. The phone’s flashlight shone toward the ceiling. It illuminated the room less clearly than she would have wanted but was still better than lying in the dark. It could stay on until morning—a poor man’s night-light to ward off nightmares, both real and imagined.

She folded her arms around her torso. It was late. The tiredness was like a heavy weight on her chest, pressing her down. Every time she closed her eyes, though, they snapped open again almost immediately.

The house was too loud. Through layers upon layers of walls, she heard subtle creaks and pops as the ancient wood relaxed in the cool air. A bird far in the distance cackled once, twice, then fell silent. Something small seemed to tap across the hallway. A rat? Something more?

Above, the attic was separated from her by a thin layer of wood and paint. The attic…and the thing inside the attic. She wondered whether it was still there. Whether it might have been following her through the house, listening to her footfalls. Whether it might be sitting right above her at that moment, unseen but endlessly patient.

She rolled onto her side, knees drawn close to her chest. A low, throbbing headache had started behind her eyes, which stung. She began to doubt that she could fall asleep at all that night.

Time ticked on relentlessly. The phone’s light sent strange shapes across the wall. And Margot, dragged down by the crushing weariness, finally felt her eyes close.

For a long stretch there was nothing but darkness. Shapes bled in and out of the gloom in erratic patches—dreams trying to form, only to collapse under their own weight. And then, a voice: “The viewing is optional.”