The entire glass side of the house was the same—painted with hands. Some prints dragged finger trails that turned my thoughts dark.

I tapped on the bathroom door. “Warren? I’m going to have a look outside.”

The door swung open. “No—Mom, you can’t.” He shook his narrow head.

“I have to. I need to see what’s going on.”

“Can’t we just call the police? Please?”

The live wires between my teeth flared again, and I squeezed to keep from shaking. “You know I can’t.”

His eyes spilled over.

“I can’t lose you again.” I swallowed the tightness in my throat. “Look—let me see if I can figure this out. Take care of it. If I can’t, we’ll hit the road. If you want, I’ll drop you at a hotel. You can call the cops. They’ll take you back to Dad. Just give me a head start, okay? Please?” That word again. Please. Every time it comes, something ends. I lose. Not this time.

He nodded. His face folded as he swung the door shut again.

I slid to the floor.

Everything felt broken.

***

There were no footprints in the grass, no depressions in the flowerbeds, no sign of anyone. I stared at the handprints. They seemed to be on the inside of the glass, and bent the light as if they were scratched into it. Scrubbing at them did nothing.

Warren slept in the bathtub that night. I sat in the living room, practicing my aim at the crude ashtray. Just give me a target.

In the attic, the dismembered light began to blink. And in its erratic strobe, I saw the shadows—figures passing by the window wall, trailing dark fingers along the glass, leaving dark stains in their wake. The glass scratched—etched, as if their fingers bled acid.

“Warren!”

The bathroom door cracked open. I pulled the pre-pay burner phone from my pocket and slapped it on the counter. “I’m going out there. Stay inside. Make the call, if you have to.”

“Mom, please—don’t go out there!” With every flash of light, the angles of his face grew deeper.

I turned away—and he was one again, and more than I could handle—until his hand, bigger than mine now, curled around my wrist.

“Don’t go,” he said.

I didn’t deserve this—another chance. Until I remembered that it was my last chance. And fuck-all if some creepers were going to take it from me.

I pulled away from his thin fingers and slipped out the door.

I swung the gun around, trailed it across the windows where the shadows had walked.

They were gone.

Inside, the light flashed. Warren’s face was pressed to the glass, eyes wide and black—pupils starved for light, long fingers splayed. Behind him, shadows walked, black silhouettes in the shock of light.