I need to let my mind escape, to run away from what is on this table. It feels like the air is pressing in on me. I keep expecting to see black fog building near the floor.

I have to focus on something else. I need normalcy. I have to do something else before I lose my fucking mind.

Something clicks.

It’s like the decision is made for me. It makes no sense, but it makes perfect sense.

I’ll escape into a world of my own making.

I’ll write.

I stand up and walk almost unconsciously to the Writing Room.

I sit at my desk, open up my notebook, and begin frantically writing.

It’s the most ridiculous nonsense I’ve ever written, but for some reason, I keep telling myself it’s good, even though somewhere deep down, I know this makes no sense. I’m writing a scene where my main character is chasing a girl down to the shore of a lake. I’m going into vivid detail, describing his rage and hatred of this girl. I have no idea who this girl is. She hasn’t been a character anywhere before. I’m so focused that I can see it in my head. I’m the main character, angrily chasing the girl to the water’s edge. I catch her by the hair and yank her backwards. She cries out. I shove her head under the water to quiet her screams. She struggles but she knows, she knows what happened, and she was going to tell, and no one could ever kno—

“I can’t sleep …”

I snap out of it. I’ve forgotten all about the ring. I’ve also forgotten about dinner.

“I’m sorry, pumpkin,” I say, looking up. “Did you want me to—?”

The doorway is empty.

“Caitlyn?”

The house is still.

I hold my breath in the silence.

… drip … drip …

It came from the living room.

I don’t want to get up. I don’t want to see. I want to close the door and wait for the sun to rise, but that would mean Caitlyn is out there with it, and I know whatever it is, it won’t leave us alone.

I step out of the Writing Room and look up the stairs. The only light is the dimmed glow coming from under Caitlyn’s door.

… drip … drip …

It’s in the dining room.

I quietly walk across the living room, into the dining room, and stop by the table. I search again for the source of the dripping water. I press my ear to the wall. Maybe it’s inside—

Clack.

I nearly cry out.

It came from the kitchen.

There’s a faint, rusty groan of a door opening.

I step into the kitchen and turn on the light.

The basement door is open.