The Shadow Caller

Chapter 1: The Farmhouse

 

The wind howled like a wounded beast, clawing at the Carver family’s farmhouse with relentless fury. The old structure groaned under the assault, its weathered timbers creaking as if pleading for mercy. Perched on a low rise in the heart of Nebraska’s endless plains, the house stood alone, a solitary sentinel surrounded by fields of brittle cornstalks that rattled in the gale. The sky above churned, a bruise of gray and purple, swollen with the promise of violence. Lightning flickered in the distance, brief and sharp, illuminating the vast emptiness that stretched beyond the property’s sagging fences. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of boiled cabbage and the faint, sour tang of mildew that never quite left the walls.

 

Ellen Carver stood at the kitchen sink, her hands submerged in soapy water, scrubbing a cast-iron skillet with mechanical precision. Her reflection in the window above the sink was a ghost, distorted by the rain that lashed the glass in sheets. At forty-two, her face bore the lines of a life spent wrestling with the land: crow’s feet etched deep from squinting into the sun, a mouth that had forgotten how to smile easily. Her auburn hair, once vibrant, was streaked with gray and pulled into a tight bun that tugged at her scalp. She glanced at the clock on the wall, its hands frozen at 6:47, the batteries long dead. The storm had killed the power an hour ago, and the house was lit only by the weak, flickering glow of candles and a single oil lamp on the dining table.

 

“Tom, you gonna check the generator?” she called, her voice sharp but tired, carrying over the wind’s wail.

 

Tom Carver sat at the table; his broad shoulders hunched over a newspaper he could barely read in the dim light. His flannel shirt was patched at the elbows, his knuckles scarred from years of fixing machinery that broke faster than he could afford to replace. At forty-five, he looked older, his beard flecked with white, his eyes sunken from sleepless nights worrying about bills. He folded the paper with a sigh, the crackle of it lost in the storm’s roar.

 

“It’s flooded out there, Ellen. Ain’t no point till this lets up,” he said, rubbing a hand over his face. “Besides, we got enough candles to last the night.”

 

Ellen snorted, rinsing the skillet and setting it on the counter with a clang. “Candles don’t keep the fridge running. Food’ll spoil.”

 

“Then we’ll eat it all tonight,” Tom said, forcing a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “Feast like kings.”

 

From the living room, Lily’s voice cut through, laced with teenage disdain. “Gross. I’m not eating that cabbage sludge.” She sprawled on the sagging couch, her lanky frame draped over the armrest, her phone glowing in her hands despite the lack of signal. At sixteen, Lily was all sharp angles and sharper attitude, her black hair dyed with streaks of purple that Ellen hated but had given up fighting over. Her earbuds dangled around her neck, useless without power to charge her phone. She scrolled through old photos, her thumb flicking with restless energy, as if she could will the storm to end through sheer boredom.

 

“Sludge or nothing, princess,” Ellen shot back, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “Unless you want to go hunt for something in the barn.”

 

Lily rolled her eyes but didn’t respond, her attention fixed on the screen. The wind slammed against the house, rattling the windows in their frames, and a low, guttural moan seemed to rise from the walls themselves. Ellen froze, her hands gripping the towel, her eyes darting to the window. The sound wasn’t just the wind. It was deeper, almost alive, like a voice trapped in the wood.

 

“You hear that?” she asked, her voice softer now, edged with unease.

 

Tom looked up, frowning. “Just the storm. Old place always makes noises when it’s like this.”

 

Ellen didn’t answer, her gaze lingering on the window. The rain blurred the world outside, turning it into a shifting, formless mass. For a moment, she thought she saw something move beyond the glass, a shadow too tall, too thin to be the swaying corn. She blinked, and it was gone, swallowed by the dark. Her heart thudded, heavy and slow, but she shook her head, chiding herself. Storms always brought ghosts to her imagination.

 

“Max, get away from that window,” she said, turning to her youngest. Max, eight years old and small for his age, stood on his tiptoes at the living room window, his nose pressed against the glass. His blond hair was a mess, his pajamas stained with ketchup from dinner. He was staring into the storm, his breath fogging the pane, his eyes wide with a mix of fear and fascination.

 

“There’s something out there,” Max said, his voice barely above a whisper. “In the field.”

 

Ellen crossed the room in three quick strides, her socks scuffing against the worn floorboards. She grabbed Max’s shoulder, pulling him back gently but firmly. “It’s just the corn moving. Wind’s tearing through it. Now come eat.”

 

Max didn’t move; his eyes fixed on the darkness. “It wasn’t corn. It was tall. Like a person, but… wrong.”

 

“Maxwell Carver, you stop that nonsense,” Ellen said, her voice sharper than she meant. She glanced out the window, half-expecting to see something, but there was only the rain and the endless black. Still, a chill crawled up her spine, settling in her bones. She tugged the curtain closed, the fabric rough under her fingers, and steered Max toward the table.

 

“Kid’s got an imagination,” Tom said, ruffling Max’s hair as the boy slid into a chair. “Gonna be a writer someday, huh?”

 

Max didn’t smile, his small hands twisting the hem of his pajama shirt. “I saw it,” he muttered, but no one answered.

 

The dining table was a battlefield of mismatched plates and half-eaten food: boiled cabbage, mashed potatoes gone cold, a slab of cornbread crumbling in the center. The oil lamp cast long shadows that danced across the walls, making the room feel smaller, tighter, as if the house were closing in. Ellen sat, her chair creaking, and spooned cabbage onto Max’s plate. Lily slouched in, dropping her phone on the table with a thud, and poked at her food with a fork.

 

“Eat,” Ellen said, her tone leaving no room for argument. Lily sighed but took a bite, grimacing.

 

The wind screamed louder, a high-pitched wail that made the chandelier above sway, its dusty crystals clinking softly. Tom reached for the cornbread, his knife scraping the plate, the sound grating in the tense quiet. Max stared at his food, his fork untouched, his eyes darting to the curtained window.

 

“Stop looking over there,” Ellen said, her patience thinning. “Nothing’s out there, Max.”

 

Before Max could answer, a crack of thunder shook the house, so loud it seemed to split the air. The candles flickered, one guttering out, its wax pooling on the table. Lily yelped, her fork clattering to the floor. Tom cursed under his breath, relighting the candle with a match that hissed and sparked.

 

“Everybody calm down,” he said, his voice steady but strained. “Just a storm. We’ve been through worse.”

 

Ellen nodded, but her hands trembled as she cut her cornbread. The air felt heavier now, charged, like the moment before a lightning strike. The smell of rain seeped through the walls, mingling with the mildew and the faint, acrid scent of the lamp’s burning oil. She took a bite, the cornbread dry in her mouth, forced herself to swallow.

 

Then came the knock.

 

It was sharp, deliberate, three heavy thuds against the front door. The sound cut through the storm’s roar, unmistakable, like a hammer striking wood. Ellen’s fork froze halfway to her mouth. Tom’s head snapped up, his eyes narrowing. Lily sat up straight, her phone forgotten. Max’s breath hitched, his small body going rigid.

 

“Who the hell’s out in this?” Tom said, pushing his chair back. The legs scraped the floor, loud in the sudden silence that followed the knocks.

 

“Don’t,” Ellen said, her voice low, instinctive. She didn’t know why, but the thought of opening that door made her stomach twist.

 

Tom ignored her, grabbing the oil lamp and striding to the door. The flame swayed, casting wild shadows that stretched and twisted across the walls. Ellen stood, her heart pounding, and followed, her socks silent on the cold floor. Lily and Max stayed at the table, their eyes wide, fixed on the door.

 

Tom’s hand closed around the knob; his knuckles white. He glanced back at Ellen, his jaw tight, then yanked the door open. The wind rushed in, cold and wet, carrying the smell of earth and something sharper, like rust or blood. The lamp’s flame guttered but held, illuminating a figure on the porch.

 

He was tall, gaunt, his face pale as bone under a soaked, tattered coat. Rain dripped from the brim of his hat, pooling at his feet. His eyes glinted in the lamplight, too bright, like polished glass. A smile curled his lips, thin and wrong, as if his face wasn’t used to the expression.

 

“Evening,” he said, his voice low, smooth, cutting through the wind like a blade. “Name’s Gideon. Car broke down a mile back. Saw your light. Mind if I come in?”

 

Ellen’s breath caught. The air around him seemed to hum, heavy with something she couldn’t name. Tom hesitated, the lamp trembling in his hand. The storm raged behind Gideon, lightning flashing, but the man didn’t flinch. His smile widened, and for a moment, Ellen thought she saw his shadow move, lagging behind him, as if it had a mind of its own.

 

The Knock

 

The door stood open, a gaping maw into the storm’s fury, and Gideon’s silhouette filled the frame like a specter summoned from the dark. The wind screamed, hurling rain across the porch in stinging sheets, but the man didn’t move. His coat, black and slick as oil, clung to his bony frame, dripping water that pooled at his feet in a way that seemed too slow, too deliberate, as if the liquid were reluctant to touch the ground. The oil lamp in Tom’s hand flickered wildly, its flame casting jagged shadows that danced across Gideon’s face, making his features shift and blur. His eyes, too bright, too sharp, bored into the Carvers, and his smile stretched wider, a thin crescent of teeth that gleamed unnaturally in the dim light. The air around him carried a stench, faint but piercing, like meat left too long in the sun, mixed with the metallic tang of old blood.

 

Tom’s grip on the lamp tightened, his knuckles pale, his breath shallow. “You said your car broke down?” he asked, his voice gruff but unsteady, betraying the unease crawling up his spine. He stood firm in the doorway, blocking the entrance, but his broad shoulders seemed smaller against the vast, churning dark behind Gideon.

 

Gideon nodded, a slow, mechanical motion, his head tilting just a fraction too far. “Mile or so down the road. Engine quit. Storm’s a beast. Saw your light through the fields.” His voice was smooth, almost melodic, but it carried a weight, a resonance that seemed to vibrate in the bones of the house. Each word lingered, heavy, like a stone dropped into still water. “Hoping for shelter. Just till it passes.”

 

Ellen stood a step behind Tom, her arms crossed tight over her chest, her nails digging into her palms. Her heart thudded, loud enough that she swore Gideon could hear it. Something about him was wrong, not just his appearance but the way he existed, as if he were a tear in the fabric of the world. The wind howled, but his coat barely fluttered, and the rain seemed to slide around him, not through him, as if it feared to touch his skin. She wanted to grab Tom, to slam the door and bolt it, but her feet were rooted to the floor, her body betraying her with a primal, paralyzing dread.

 

“Ellen?” Tom said, glancing back, his eyes searching hers for permission, for reassurance. But her face was a mask of fear, her lips pressed into a thin line. She didn’t answer, couldn’t, her throat tight as if invisible fingers were squeezing it shut.

 

From the dining table, Lily’s voice broke the silence, sharp and brittle. “Dad, don’t let him in.” She was standing now, her chair pushed back, her hands clenched into fists. Her purple-streaked hair fell into her eyes, but she didn’t brush it away, her gaze locked on Gideon. Max huddled beside her, his small body pressed against the table’s edge, his eyes wide and unblinking. The candlelight flickered across their faces, making them look hollow, ghostly, as if they were already fading into the shadows.

 

Gideon’s head turned, slow and deliberate, toward Lily. His smile didn’t waver, but his eyes narrowed, glinting like polished obsidian. “Smart girl,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper that somehow carried over the storm’s roar. “But it’s cold out here. Awful cold.” The words were soft, almost pleading, but they dripped with something darker, a promise of things unsaid, things that waited in the dark beyond the porch.

 

Tom swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “We ain’t got much, but you can dry off. Wait out the storm.” He stepped aside, holding the door wider, the lamp’s light spilling onto the porch. Ellen’s hand shot out, grabbing his arm, her nails digging into his flannel sleeve.

 

“Tom, no,” she hissed, her voice barely audible, trembling with a fear she couldn’t name. But Tom shook her off, his jaw set, his stubborn pride overriding the warning in his gut.

 

“It’s just a man, Ellen. Christ’s sake, we can’t leave him out there to freeze.” He gestured for Gideon to enter, his hand shaking despite his words.

 

Gideon’s smile widened, and he stepped forward, crossing the threshold with a slow, deliberate grace. The floorboards didn’t creak under his weight, a silence that was louder than the storm. The air in the house shifted, growing colder, heavier, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath. The stench followed him, sharper now, a rancid mix of decay and something chemical, like formaldehyde. Ellen staggered back, her hand flying to her mouth, her eyes watering from the smell. Lily grabbed Max, pulling him behind her, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

 

Gideon stopped in the center of the living room, his coat dripping onto the faded rug, the water spreading in dark, uneven stains that looked too much like blood. He turned in a slow circle, his eyes scanning the room, taking in the sagging couch, the cracked coffee table, the family photos on the mantle. His gaze lingered on the photos, his smile twitching, as if he recognized the faces staring back from the frames. The lamp in Tom’s hand flickered again, the flame shrinking to a pinprick, and the shadows seemed to thicken, pooling around Gideon like ink.

 

“Cozy,” Gideon said, his voice a low purr, his eyes flicking to Ellen. “Been a long time since I was in a home like this.” He reached into his coat pocket, and Ellen flinched, expecting a weapon, but he pulled out a small, tarnished pocket watch, its face cracked, its hands frozen at midnight. He clicked it open, glanced at it, then snapped it shut, the sound sharp as a gunshot in the quiet room.

 

Tom set the lamp on the coffee table, its light barely reaching the corners of the room. “You, uh, want some coffee? Something to eat?” He was trying to sound normal, but his voice cracked, and he kept his body angled between Gideon and his family.

 

Gideon shook his head, water dripping from his hat onto his shoulders. “Kind of you. But I’m not hungry.” His eyes slid to Max, who whimpered, clutching Lily’s arm. “Not yet.”

 

The words hung in the air, heavy with menace, and Ellen’s stomach churned. She stepped forward, her fear giving way to a mother’s instinct to protect. “You can sit by the fire,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt, pointing to the small hearth where a weak flame sputtered. “Dry off. But you stay till the storm’s done, then you go.”

 

Gideon’s smile didn’t falter, but his eyes darkened, a storm of their own brewing behind them. “Grateful,” he said, moving toward the hearth with that same unnatural grace. As he passed the dining table, the candles flickered, their flames bending away from him, as if repelled by his presence. He sat in the armchair by the fire, his coat creaking, and the shadows around him seemed to writhe, stretching toward the walls, clawing at the edges of the light.

 

Lily pulled Max into the kitchen, her hands shaking as she whispered to him to stay quiet. Ellen followed, her eyes never leaving Gideon, who sat motionless, his hands folded in his lap, his watch ticking faintly despite its broken face. Tom stood by the door, his fists clenched, his face pale, as if he regretted his decision but didn’t know how to undo it.

 

The storm roared on, lightning flashing through the curtains, illuminating Gideon’s face in stark, fleeting moments. Each flash revealed something new: a flicker of too many teeth in his smile, a shadow behind his eyes that moved independently, a faint crack in his skin that pulsed with darkness. Ellen’s breath caught, her mind screaming that this wasn’t a man, wasn’t human, but she couldn’t look away, couldn’t move.

 

Gideon began to hum, a low, discordant tune that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, vibrating in the walls, the floor, the very air. The sound was wrong, a melody that twisted in on itself, like a lullaby sung by something that had never known sleep. Max clapped his hands over his ears, his face crumpling, and Lily hugged him tighter, her eyes darting to the door, calculating the distance, the impossibility of escape.

 

“Nice family,” Gideon said, his hum fading but lingering in the air like a bad dream. His eyes locked on Ellen, and for a moment, she saw herself reflected in them, not as she was but as something broken, hollow, her face a skull with empty sockets. She gasped, stumbling back, and the vision vanished, leaving only Gideon’s smile.

 

The house groaned, the wind slamming against it, and the shadows grew darker, thicker, as if feeding on the fear that filled the room. Gideon leaned forward, his coat rustling, and whispered, “You invited me in.” The words were soft, but they echoed in Ellen’s skull, a promise, a threat, a curse.

 

And outside, the storm laughed, its voice indistinguishable from the thing sitting by their fire.

 

 

Chapter 2: The Guest

 

The fire in the hearth sputtered, its meager flames licking at the logs with a desperation that mirrored the Carver family’s growing dread. Gideon sat in the armchair, his long, bony fingers steepled, his tarnished pocket watch now resting on the armrest, its faint ticking a relentless pulse in the oppressive quiet. The storm outside raged on, a howling beast that battered the farmhouse, but inside, the air was stifling, thick with the rancid stench of Gideon’s wet coat and something darker, something that clung to the back of the throat like ash. The shadows in the room seemed to pulse in time with the watch, stretching and contracting, as if the house itself were breathing.

 

Ellen stood in the kitchen doorway, her arms wrapped around herself, her eyes fixed on Gideon. Her skin prickled, every instinct screaming to grab her children and run, but the storm’s fury and Gideon’s presence rooted her in place. Tom lingered near the dining table, his hands flexing, his jaw clenched so tight the muscles bulged. Lily and Max huddled behind the kitchen counter, Max’s small frame trembling, Lily’s hand gripping his shoulder with white-knuckled intensity. The oil lamp on the coffee table flickered, its light barely reaching Gideon, as if the darkness around him swallowed it whole.

 

“Storm like this,” Gideon said, his voice smooth and low, cutting through the wind’s wail, “makes a man grateful for a roof. You folks are kind to take me in.” His smile was a slash of white, too wide, too sharp, and his eyes glinted, catching the firelight in a way that made them look like polished coins. He leaned back, the armchair creaking, and the sound was wrong, not wood under weight but something brittle, like bones snapping.

 

Tom cleared his throat, forcing himself to speak. “Yeah, well, it’s what folks do out here. Help each other.” His voice was strained, the words hollow, as if he were trying to convince himself more than Gideon. He glanced at Ellen, seeking her strength, but her face was pale, her lips pressed into a thin line.

 

Gideon’s gaze slid to Tom, slow and deliberate, like a predator sizing up prey. “Is it now?” he said, his tone almost playful, but laced with a venom that made Ellen’s stomach twist. He tilted his head, and for a moment, his shadow on the wall seemed to move independently, stretching toward the ceiling, its edges jagged and sharp. Lily gasped, her hand flying to her mouth, but when Ellen looked, the shadow was normal again, just a man’s outline cast by the fire.

 

“You got family?” Ellen asked, her voice sharper than she intended, a desperate attempt to anchor the moment in something human. She stepped forward, placing herself between Gideon and the kitchen, her body a frail barrier for her children.

 

Gideon’s smile twitched, and he looked at her, his eyes boring into hers with an intensity that made her feel exposed, flayed. “Family,” he repeated, as if tasting the word. “Had some, once. Long time ago. They’re… elsewhere now.” His fingers brushed the pocket watch, and the ticking grew louder, a staccato beat that seemed to sync with Ellen’s heartbeat. “But I find new folks to keep me company. Like you.”

 

Max whimpered, and Lily shushed him, her eyes darting to the back door in the kitchen, its glass panel rattling in the wind. Ellen’s heart sank at the thought of that door, so close yet so useless against the storm’s wrath and whatever Gideon was. She forced herself to hold his gaze, refusing to let him see her fear, though her hands trembled at her sides.

 

“Coffee’s on,” she said, turning to the stove, needing to move, to do something normal. The pot was cold, the power still out, but she lit the gas burner with a match, the hiss of the flame a small comfort. The act grounded her, if only for a moment, as she filled the kettle with water from a jug. “Won’t be great, but it’s hot.”

 

Gideon didn’t respond, his eyes now fixed on the family photos above the hearth. The frames were old, their glass smudged, capturing moments of the Carvers’ life: Lily’s first bike, Max’s fifth birthday, Tom and Ellen on their wedding day. Gideon’s lips moved, as if whispering to the pictures, and the air grew colder, the fire dimming despite the fresh log Tom had added. Ellen’s skin crawled, and she gripped the kettle’s handle tighter, the metal biting into her palm.

 

“Those your kids?” Gideon asked, his voice soft, almost tender, but it sent a shiver down Ellen’s spine. He pointed a long finger at the photo of Max, his nail yellowed and cracked. “Boy looks… familiar.”

 

Tom stepped forward, his fists clenched, his voice low. “You don’t need to be looking at our pictures. Just sit and dry off.” His protective instinct flared, but there was a tremor in his words, a crack in his bravado.

 

Gideon’s smile widened, and he raised his hands in mock surrender. “No harm meant. Just making conversation.” But his eyes lingered on the photo, and for a moment, Ellen thought she saw the glass ripple, the image of Max’s face distorting, his smile twisting into something hollow. She blinked, and it was gone, just a trick of the light, but her breath caught, her chest tight.

 

Lily whispered to Max, her voice barely audible. “Stay behind me, okay? Don’t look at him.” Max nodded, his eyes glassy with fear, his small hands clutching her sleeve. Ellen caught Lily’s eye, giving her a slight nod, a silent command to keep Max safe. Lily’s jaw tightened, her teenage defiance replaced by a fierce determination.

 

The kettle whistled, a shrill cry that made everyone flinch. Ellen poured the water into a chipped mug, the instant coffee dissolving into a murky swirl. She carried it to Gideon, her steps deliberate, her eyes never leaving his face. “Here,” she said, setting the mug on the table beside him. Her hand brushed the air near his coat, and a jolt of cold shot through her, sharp and electric, as if she’d touched a frozen rail in winter. She pulled back, her fingers tingling, and Gideon’s smile grew, as if he’d felt it too.

 

“Obliged,” he said, but he didn’t touch the mug. Instead, he leaned forward, his coat rustling, and began to hum again, that same discordant tune from before, low and guttural, like a chant from a forgotten tongue. The sound filled the room, seeping into the walls, the floor, the very air, and the shadows seemed to sway in time with it, growing darker, thicker. The fire flickered, its light shrinking, and the room felt smaller, as if the walls were closing in.

 

Max’s voice broke the spell, small and trembling. “Why’s his shadow moving?” He pointed, his finger shaking, and everyone turned. Gideon’s shadow, cast on the wall by the fire, was wrong. It was too tall, too thin, its limbs bent at unnatural angles, and it shifted, writhing like a thing alive, even as Gideon sat motionless. Ellen’s breath stopped, her mind scrambling for an explanation, but there was none. The shadow’s head turned, its eyeless face seeming to stare at Max, and a low, guttural chuckle came from nowhere, everywhere.

 

“Max, hush,” Lily snapped, pulling him closer, but her voice quavered, her eyes wide with panic. Tom stepped toward Gideon, his fists raised, but Ellen grabbed his arm, her nails digging in.

 

“Don’t,” she whispered, her voice urgent. She didn’t know what Gideon was, but she knew he was dangerous, a threat beyond fists or threats.

 

Gideon’s humming stopped, and he tilted his head, his eyes glinting with amusement. “Boy’s got sharp eyes,” he said, his voice a velvet blade. “Sees things others miss. Don’t you, Max?” He leaned forward, and the shadow on the wall lunged, its claws stretching toward the ceiling before snapping back to normal. Max screamed, a raw, piercing sound, and buried his face in Lily’s chest.

 

“Enough,” Tom roared, his voice shaking the room. He grabbed a poker from the hearth, its iron tip glowing faintly from the fire. “You’re scaring my kids. You sit there, you shut up, or you’re out in the storm, I don’t care.”

 

Gideon’s smile didn’t falter, but his eyes darkened, a storm brewing behind them. “No need for that,” he said, his voice calm, almost soothing, but it carried a weight that pressed against Ellen’s chest, making it hard to breathe. “I’ll be good. Promise.” He leaned back, his hands folded, but the watch’s ticking grew louder, faster, a countdown to something unspeakable.

 

The room fell silent, save for the storm’s roar and the watch’s relentless beat. The shadows clung to Gideon, wrapping him like a cloak, and the air grew colder, the fire’s warmth a distant memory. Ellen’s eyes darted to the family photos, and her heart stopped. In the flickering light, the faces seemed to shift, their smiles fading, their eyes hollowing, as if the pictures were rotting from within. She blinked, and they were normal again, but the image burned into her mind, a warning she couldn’t ignore.

 

Gideon’s voice broke the silence, soft and insidious. “You ever wonder,” he said, his eyes locked on Ellen, “what’s really out there in the dark? Waiting to be let in?” His smile grew, and the shadows danced, and the house groaned, as if answering his call.

 

 

The First Disturbance

 

The farmhouse was a tomb, its air heavy with the weight of Gideon’s presence. The storm outside clawed at the walls, a relentless beast, but inside, the silence was worse, broken only by the faint crackle of the dying fire and the incessant ticking of Gideon’s pocket watch. The shadows clung to the corners, thick and restless, as if they were waiting for something to happen. Ellen stood in the kitchen, her hands gripping the counter, her eyes darting to her children. Lily sat on the floor with Max, her arm around his trembling shoulders, whispering reassurances that sounded hollow even to her. Tom leaned against the dining table, the iron poker still in his hand, his knuckles white, his gaze fixed on Gideon, who sat by the hearth like a king on a throne of darkness.

 

Gideon hadn’t spoken since his cryptic question about the dark, but his silence was louder than words, a pressure that squeezed the room tighter with every passing second. His coat, still damp, glistened in the firelight, and the stench of decay lingered, sharper now, like a wound festering in the air. His eyes, half-lidded, seemed to see everything and nothing, glinting with a malevolence that made Ellen’s skin crawl. The mug of coffee sat untouched beside him, its surface rippling faintly, as if disturbed by an unseen force.

 

Ellen forced herself to move, to break the spell of his presence. She grabbed a dish towel and began wiping the counter, the motion mechanical, a desperate grasp at normalcy. “Kids, you should get to bed,” she said, her voice strained, barely above a whisper. “Storm’ll keep you up otherwise.”

 

Lily’s head snapped up, her eyes wide with disbelief. “Bed? With *him* here?” She jerked her chin toward Gideon, her voice low but fierce. Max clung to her, his face buried in her sleeve, his small body shaking.

 

“Lily, don’t argue,” Ellen said, her tone sharper than she meant. She glanced at Gideon, who hadn’t moved, but his smile twitched, as if he were savoring the tension. “It’s late. Go.”

 

Lily opened her mouth to protest, but Tom cut her off, his voice gruff. “Do what your mother says. Now.” He didn’t look at her, his eyes locked on Gideon, the poker trembling slightly in his grip.

 

Lily stood, pulling Max to his feet, her movements jerky, her jaw tight. She guided him toward the staircase, her hand on his back, but her eyes never left Gideon. As they passed the hearth, Gideon’s head turned, slow and deliberate, his gaze following them. Max whimpered, his steps faltering, and Lily tightened her grip, practically dragging him up the stairs. The creak of the steps echoed in the silent house, each one sounding like a scream.

 

Ellen watched them go, her heart pounding, a sickening certainty settling in her gut that sending them upstairs was a mistake. But she couldn’t keep them in the room with *him*, not with the way the air seemed to curdle around him, not with the way his shadow had moved, alive and hungry. She turned back to the counter, scrubbing harder, the towel fraying under her hands.

 

Tom shifted, the poker glinting in the firelight. “You need anything else?” he asked Gideon, his voice low, a challenge disguised as courtesy. “Blanket? Food?”

 

Gideon’s eyes flicked to Tom, and for a moment, the room seemed to darken, the fire’s glow shrinking to a pinprick. “I’m fine,” he said, his voice smooth, almost soothing, but it carried a weight that pressed against Ellen’s chest, making it hard to breathe. “Just need to wait out the storm. Won’t be long now.” His fingers brushed the pocket watch, and the ticking grew louder, faster, a heartbeat racing toward some unseen end.

 

Tom nodded, but his grip on the poker tightened, and he took a step closer to Ellen, his body a shield between her and Gideon. The silence stretched, taut as a wire, and the house groaned, the wind slamming against it, rattling the windows in their frames. Ellen’s eyes darted to the family photos on the mantle, and her breath caught. The glass was fogged, as if someone had breathed on it, and the faces seemed to shift again, their features blurring, their eyes hollowing. She blinked, and they were normal, but the image burned into her mind, a warning she couldn’t shake.

 

Upstairs, the floorboards creaked, and Ellen’s head snapped toward the sound. Lily and Max were in their rooms, or should be, but the creak was wrong, too heavy, too deliberate, like footsteps pacing in the dark. She froze, the towel slipping from her hands, her ears straining. Another creak, then a faint, rhythmic scratching, like nails dragging across wood, coming from the guest room at the end of the hall.

 

“Tom,” she whispered, her voice trembling, her eyes wide. “You hear that?”

 

Tom’s brow furrowed, and he tilted his head, listening. The scratching grew louder, insistent, a sound that burrowed into the mind, conjuring images of claws, of teeth, of things that should not be. Gideon’s smile widened, and he leaned forward, his coat rustling, the stench of decay rolling off him in waves.

 

“Old houses,” he said, his voice a velvet blade, “they talk at night. Tell all kinds of stories.” His eyes glinted, and the scratching stopped, replaced by a low, guttural hum, not unlike the tune he’d sung earlier, but deeper, more primal, like a growl from the earth itself.

 

Ellen’s heart pounded, her mouth dry. “That’s not the house,” she said, her voice barely audible, her hands shaking as she grabbed Tom’s arm. “That’s coming from the guest room.”

 

Tom’s face paled, but he straightened, the poker raised like a weapon. “Stay here,” he said, his voice low, and he moved toward the stairs, each step deliberate, his shadow stretching long and thin across the floor. Ellen wanted to stop him, to beg him to stay, but her voice was trapped in her throat, her body frozen by a fear that felt ancient, instinctual.

 

As Tom reached the staircase, a scream pierced the air, raw and terrified, shattering the silence. It was Max, his voice high and desperate, coming from upstairs. Ellen’s paralysis broke, and she bolted for the stairs, her socks slipping on the floor, her heart lurching into her throat. “Max!” she shouted, her voice cracking, as she took the steps two at a time, Tom right behind her.

 

The hallway was dark, the single candle on the landing flickering weakly, casting jagged shadows that seemed to writhe and twist. The scratching had stopped, but the hum lingered, vibrating in the walls, the floor, the very air. Max’s door was ajar, and Ellen burst through, her breath ragged, her eyes wild.

 

Max sat on his bed, his knees pulled to his chest, his face pale as bone, his eyes wide with terror. Lily stood beside him, her back to the wall, a baseball bat in her hands, her chest heaving. The room was freezing, the air heavy with the same rancid stench that clung to Gideon, and the window was shut tight, the storm’s roar muffled behind the glass.

 

“Mom,” Max whimpered, his voice small, his finger pointing to the wall. “He was there.”

 

Ellen followed his gaze, and her blood ran cold. The wall opposite the bed was covered in scratches, deep, jagged gouges that formed no pattern, no words, just chaos carved into the plaster. They hadn’t been there that morning, hadn’t been there ever, and the sight of them made her stomach churn, her mind reeling.

 

Lily’s voice shook, but her grip on the bat was steady. “I heard it first. Scratching, like… like something trying to get out. Then Max screamed, and I ran in, and he said he saw him.”

 

“Saw who?” Tom asked, his voice low, the poker raised, his eyes scanning the room.

 

Max’s lips trembled, and he pointed to the corner, where the shadows were thickest, pooling like ink. “Gideon. He was sitting there, on the chair, just… staring. But his mouth was moving, like he was talking to someone, and his eyes… they weren’t right. They were black.”

 

Ellen’s heart stopped, her gaze snapping to the chair in the corner, an old rocking chair that had belonged to her mother. It was empty now, but it swayed slightly, as if someone had just stood, and the air around it shimmered, like heat rising from pavement. She stepped closer, her breath shallow, and saw faint scratches on the floor beneath it, tiny, claw-like marks that hadn’t been there before.

 

“Gideon’s downstairs,” Tom said, his voice uncertain, his eyes darting to the door. “He hasn’t moved.”

 

Ellen shook her head, her voice barely a whisper. “Then who was here?”

 

The hum grew louder, a guttural drone that seemed to come from the walls themselves, and the candle on the landing flickered out, plunging the hallway into darkness. Max screamed again, and Lily dropped the bat, grabbing him, her own scream joining his. Tom spun, the poker raised, but there was nothing to fight, only the dark and the sound and the stench that filled the air.

 

Downstairs, Gideon’s voice floated up, soft and insidious, cutting through the chaos like a blade. “Told you,” he said, his words laced with amusement. “Old houses. Full of stories.”

 

The shadows in the room pulsed, and Ellen’s scream caught in her throat as the chair in the corner rocked once, twice, then stopped, its silence louder than the storm.

 

Chapter 3: Strange Signs

 

Morning broke, but it brought no relief. The storm clung to the Nebraska plains like a curse, its gray clouds churning, its wind shrieking through the cornfields with unrelenting malice. The farmhouse stood battered, its walls groaning under the assault, its windows rattling as if trying to flee their frames. Inside, the air was stale, heavy with the lingering stench of Gideon’s coat and the sharper, metallic tang of fear. The power remained dead, the oil lamp on the dining table now a guttering stub, its weak light barely holding back the shadows that seemed to grow bolder with each passing hour.

 

Ellen hadn’t slept. None of them had. She sat at the kitchen table, her hands wrapped around a cold mug of coffee, her eyes red-rimmed and hollow. Max curled in her lap, his small body pressed against her, his breath uneven, his fingers clutching the hem of her sweater. Lily slouched in a chair across from them, her purple-streaked hair tangled, her face pale, her baseball bat leaning against the table within reach. Tom paced the living room, the iron poker still in his hand, his steps heavy, his jaw set in a grim line. The scratches on Max’s wall haunted them all, a silent accusation carved into the house, and Gideon’s words—“Old houses. Full of stories”—echoed in their minds, a taunt they couldn’t shake.

 

Gideon remained by the hearth, his presence a wound in the room’s fabric. He hadn’t moved since the night before, his gaunt frame slumped in the armchair, his coat still damp, his pocket watch ticking with relentless precision. His eyes were closed, his breathing slow, but no one believed he was asleep. His smile, faint but ever-present, was a blade held to their throats, and the shadows around him pulsed, alive with a hunger that made the air feel thin, brittle.

 

Ellen’s gaze flicked to the window, where rain lashed the glass in relentless waves. The world outside was a blur, the fields swallowed by mist, the horizon erased. They were trapped, caged with this thing that called itself Gideon, and the storm showed no sign of breaking. She tightened her hold on Max, her heart pounding, her mind racing for a way out, but every thought circled back to the same truth: there was nowhere to go.

 

“Mom,” Max whispered, his voice small, his eyes fixed on the floor. “The mirror’s wrong.”

 

Ellen frowned, following his gaze to the small, cracked mirror hanging above the kitchen sink. It was an old thing, its silver backing peeling, its frame chipped, but it had always been reliable, reflecting the room’s dim light and their tired faces. Now, though, it was different. The glass was clouded, as if fogged by breath, and the reflections were… off. Ellen’s face was there, but her eyes were too wide, too dark, her mouth twisted into a grimace she didn’t feel. Max’s reflection was worse, his skin gray, his features blurred, like a photograph left in the sun too long.

 

She stood, Max sliding off her lap, and approached the mirror, her steps slow, her breath shallow. The closer she got, the colder the air became, a bone-deep chill that made her teeth ache. She reached out, her fingers trembling, and touched the glass. It was warm, unnaturally so, like skin, and it pulsed faintly under her touch, a heartbeat that wasn’t hers. She yanked her hand back, her gasp sharp, and the reflection flickered, her face replaced for a split second by something else—something eyeless, hollow, with a gaping mouth that stretched too wide.

 

“Tom!” she called, her voice cracking, her eyes locked on the mirror. The reflection was hers again, but the fog hadn’t cleared, and the glass seemed to ripple, as if something were trapped behind it.

 

Tom crossed the room in three strides, the poker raised, his face pale. “What is it?” he asked, his voice low, his eyes darting to Gideon, who hadn’t stirred.

 

“The mirror,” Ellen said, her voice trembling. “Look at it.”

 

Tom leaned closer, his breath fogging the glass, and his reflection stared back, but it was wrong, too. His eyes were sunken, his skin mottled, and for a moment, his reflection grinned, a sick, lopsided smile he didn’t make. He stumbled back, cursing under his breath, the poker trembling in his hand.

 

“What the hell is that?” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, his eyes wide with a fear he couldn’t hide.

 

Lily stood, her chair scraping the floor, and grabbed the bat. “It’s him,” she said, her voice fierce, her eyes blazing as she glared at Gideon. “He’s doing this. Whatever he is, he’s messing with us.”

 

Gideon’s eyes opened, slow and deliberate, and his smile widened, a crescent of teeth that gleamed in the dim light. “Mirrors,” he said, his voice soft, almost wistful, “show what’s true, sometimes. Things you don’t want to see.” His fingers brushed the pocket watch, and the ticking grew louder, a staccato beat that seemed to sync with the pulse in Ellen’s throat.

 

Max whimpered, backing away from the mirror, his eyes glassy with terror. “It’s not just the mirror,” he said, his voice small, his finger pointing to the radio on the counter. It was an old thing, its dials rusted, its speaker silent since the power died. But now, it hummed, a low, static buzz that grew louder, sharper, until it was a chorus of whispers, faint but unmistakable, like voices trapped in the wires.

 

Ellen’s heart stopped, her breath catching as she listened. The whispers were unintelligible, a cacophony of hisses and murmurs, but they carried a weight, a malice that made her skin crawl. And then, clear as a bell, a single word broke through: “Stay.”

 

She grabbed Max, pulling him behind her, her eyes darting to Tom, who was already moving toward the radio, the poker raised like a club. He smashed it down, the plastic cracking, the dials shattering, but the whispers didn’t stop. They grew louder, angrier, and now there were screams, faint but piercing, like nails on glass, clawing at the edges of sanity.

 

“Enough!” Tom roared, slamming the poker down again, the radio splintering into pieces. The whispers stopped, but the silence was worse, heavy with the promise of something worse to come. The air grew colder, the shadows thicker, and the ticking of Gideon’s watch filled the void, a relentless countdown.

 

Lily’s voice broke the silence, shrill and panicked. “The dog! Where’s Rusty?” She dropped the bat, her eyes wide, scanning the room. Rusty, their old mutt, hadn’t been seen since Gideon arrived, his usual spot by the hearth empty. Ellen’s stomach churned, a sickening realization settling in. Rusty had been at the door when Gideon knocked, growling low, his hackles raised, but after Gideon entered, the dog had vanished.

 

“Rusty?” Lily called, her voice trembling, as she moved toward the living room. Ellen grabbed her arm, pulling her back, her heart pounding.

 

“Don’t,” she said, her voice low, her eyes flicking to Gideon, who was watching them now, his smile unchanged, his eyes glinting with amusement.

 

But Lily shook her off, her fear giving way to desperation. “He’s my dog!” she said, her voice breaking, as she crossed the room, calling Rusty’s name. She reached the back door, its glass panel fogged with rain, and froze. Her breath hitched, her hand hovering over the knob, her eyes fixed on something outside.

 

“Lily, what is it?” Ellen asked, her voice sharp, as she moved toward her daughter, Max clinging to her side.

 

Lily didn’t answer, her face pale, her lips trembling. Ellen followed her gaze, and her blood ran cold. Through the glass, distorted by the rain, was Rusty, lying in the mud just beyond the porch. His fur was matted, his body still, and his eyes—his eyes were gone, replaced by dark, hollow sockets that seemed to stare into the house, into them. His mouth was open, frozen in a silent scream, and around him, the mud was marked with scratches, the same jagged gouges as on Max’s wall.

 

Ellen clapped a hand over her mouth, stifling a scream, her knees buckling. Max saw it too, and his wail shattered the silence, raw and heartbroken. Tom rushed to the door, the poker raised, but he stopped short, his face ashen, his breath ragged.

 

Gideon’s voice slithered through the room, soft and insidious. “Poor thing,” he said, his tone almost mournful, but his smile betrayed his glee. “Must’ve gotten lost in the storm. Happens, out here in the dark.”

 

Lily spun, her eyes blazing, tears streaming down her face. “You did this!” she screamed, grabbing the bat and advancing on Gideon, her hands shaking but her grip firm. “You killed him!”

 

Gideon didn’t flinch, his eyes locked on hers, his smile widening. “Me?” he said, his voice a velvet blade. “I’ve been right here, girl. You saw me.” His fingers brushed the watch, and the ticking grew louder, a heartbeat racing toward oblivion.

 

Ellen grabbed Lily, pulling her back, her own tears burning her eyes. “Stop,” she whispered, her voice breaking, as she held her daughter tight, Max sobbing against her leg. Tom stood frozen, the poker limp in his hand, his face a mask of horror and helplessness.

 

The shadows pulsed, the air grew colder, and the farmhouse groaned, as if mourning Rusty, as if mourning them all. Gideon leaned back, his coat rustling, and began to hum, that same discordant tune, low and guttural, a lullaby for the damned. The mirrors fogged, the radio’s broken pieces trembled, and outside, the storm laughed, its voice indistinguishable from the thing sitting by their fire.

 

The Confrontation

 

The farmhouse was a prison, its walls closing in under the storm’s relentless assault. The air was thick, choked with the rancid stench of Gideon’s coat and the raw, coppery tang of terror. The oil lamp on the dining table flickered, its flame a frail heartbeat against the shadows that writhed in the corners, growing bolder, hungrier. Ellen held Lily tightly, her daughter’s sobs muffled against her chest, the baseball bat forgotten on the floor. Max clung to her leg, his face streaked with tears, his small body trembling as he stared at the back door, where Rusty’s eyeless corpse lay in the mud, a grotesque monument to the nightmare unfolding within. Tom stood by the door, the iron poker in his hand, his face pale, his eyes burning with a mix of grief and rage. The radio’s shattered remains whispered faintly, a ghost of static that pulsed in time with Gideon’s pocket watch, its ticking a relentless countdown to something unspeakable.

 

Gideon sat by the hearth, his gaunt frame slouched in the armchair, his smile a razor’s edge. His eyes glinted in the firelight, sharp and unblinking, watching the Carvers with a predator’s patience. His coat, still slick with rain, seemed to absorb the light, and the shadows around him churned, alive with a malice that made the room feel smaller, tighter, as if the house were suffocating. The hum he’d started minutes ago lingered, a low, guttural drone that vibrated in the walls, the floor, the very bones of the family, twisting their grief into dread.

 

Ellen’s heart pounded, her throat raw from holding back screams. Rusty’s death was no accident, no trick of the storm. It was a message, a warning, carved in the dog’s hollow sockets and the scratches that marred the mud. She looked at Gideon, his smile unchanged, and felt a surge of fury, a mother’s instinct to protect her children overriding the fear that had paralyzed her. She released Lily, gently pushing her toward Max, and stepped forward, her hands clenched into fists, her voice trembling but steady.

 

“Who are you?” she demanded, her words cutting through the storm’s roar. “What do you want with us?”

 

Gideon’s head tilted, slow and deliberate, his eyes narrowing, as if savoring her defiance. “Just a traveler,” he said, his voice smooth, almost soothing, but laced with a venom that made her skin crawl. “Caught in a storm. You invited me in, Ellen. Kind of you.” His smile widened, and the ticking of his watch grew louder, a staccato beat that seemed to mock her.

 

“Don’t play games,” Tom snapped, his voice raw, the poker raised like a spear. He stepped beside Ellen, his broad frame tense, his eyes blazing. “You’re doing this. The mirrors, the radio, our dog. You’re no traveler. What the hell are you?”

 

Gideon’s smile didn’t falter, but his eyes darkened, a storm brewing behind them. He leaned forward, his coat rustling, the stench of decay rolling off him in waves. “Hell,” he repeated, as if tasting the word. “Funny choice of words, Tom. But you’re right. I’m… something else.” His fingers brushed the pocket watch, and the shadows on the wall lunged, stretching toward the ceiling, their edges jagged and sharp, before snapping back to normal.

 

Lily’s voice broke the silence, shrill and furious. “You killed Rusty!” She stood, her fists clenched, tears streaming down her face, Max huddling behind her. “You’re a monster! Get out of our house!”

 

Gideon’s gaze slid to Lily, and for a moment, the room seemed to darken, the fire’s glow shrinking to a pinprick. “Monster,” he said, his tone almost wistful, but his smile was a blade, sharp and cruel. “That’s a word for children’s stories, girl. I’m older than stories. Older than this house.” His eyes flicked to the family photos on the mantle, and the glass fogged, the faces within twisting, their smiles fading, their eyes hollowing.

 

Ellen’s stomach churned, her mind reeling. The mirrors, the radio, Rusty’s corpse, the scratches—they weren’t random. They were Gideon’s doing, his presence unraveling the fabric of their home, their reality. She took a step closer, her fear giving way to a desperate need to understand, to fight. “Why us?” she asked, her voice low, her eyes locked on his. “Why our family?”

 

Gideon’s smile twitched, and he stood, his movements slow, unnatural, like a puppet pulled by unseen strings. The floorboards didn’t creak under his weight, a silence that was louder than the storm. The shadows followed him, clinging to his coat, stretching across the walls, their edges clawing at the light. He towered over the room, his gaunt frame seeming to grow, his eyes burning with a light that wasn’t human.

 

“You invited me in,” he said, his voice a low growl, echoing with a chorus of others, countless voices layered beneath his own, whispering, screaming, weeping. “That’s how it works. A door opened, a bargain made. You gave me shelter, and I… take what’s offered.”

 

Tom lunged forward, the poker raised, his face contorted with rage. “Get out!” he roared, swinging the iron at Gideon’s chest. But Gideon moved, faster than he should have, his hand catching the poker mid-swing, his grip unyielding, his skin cold and slick, like something dead. The metal twisted in his hand, bending like clay, and Tom staggered back, his breath ragged, his eyes wide with disbelief.

 

“Tom,” Gideon said, his voice soft, almost tender, but it carried a weight that pressed against the room, making it hard to breathe. “You don’t want to do that.” He released the poker, now warped and useless, and it clattered to the floor, the sound swallowed by the storm’s howl.

 

Ellen grabbed Tom’s arm, pulling him back, her heart pounding, her mind screaming that they were outmatched, that Gideon was no man, no thing they could fight. Max’s sob broke through, small and desperate, and Lily pulled him closer, her eyes blazing with defiance, but her body trembling.

 

“What do you want?” Ellen asked again, her voice cracking, her hands shaking as she faced Gideon, her body a frail barrier between him and her children. “Take it and leave us.”

 

Gideon’s smile widened, and his skin seemed to crack, faint lines spreading across his face, revealing a darkness beneath, a void that pulsed with shadows. His voice was a chorus now, countless voices speaking as one, a cacophony of despair and hunger. “What I want,” he said, “is already here. You gave it to me when you opened the door.”

 

The shadows surged, flooding the room, and the fire died, plunging the house into darkness. The air grew colder, heavier, and the ticking of the watch stopped, replaced by a low, guttural hum, the same discordant tune Gideon had sung, now louder, more primal, like a chant from the earth’s core. The mirrors on the walls shattered, their glass exploding outward, shards glinting in the faint light of the storm’s lightning. The radio’s whispers returned, a chorus of screams that clawed at the mind, and the family photos fell from the mantle, their frames splintering, their faces burned black.

 

Ellen screamed, grabbing Max and Lily, pulling them toward the kitchen, toward the cellar door. Tom followed, his hands empty, his face ashen, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. They stumbled through the dark, the floorboards buckling beneath them, the walls groaning as if the house were collapsing in on itself.

 

The cellar door was heavy, its hinges rusted, but Tom yanked it open, the screech of metal drowned by the storm’s roar and Gideon’s hum. “Go!” he shouted, pushing Ellen and the kids inside, his voice raw, his eyes wild with panic. They tumbled down the steps, the air growing colder, damper, the smell of earth and mildew replacing Gideon’s stench.

 

Ellen slammed the door shut behind them, her hands fumbling with the bolt, her breath ragged. The cellar was pitch black, the only light coming from faint cracks in the floorboards above, where lightning flashed through the house. Max sobbed, clinging to her, and Lily pressed against the wall, her hands shaking, her eyes wide. Tom stood at the foot of the stairs, his fists clenched, his chest heaving, listening.

 

The hum followed them, seeping through the walls, the floor, the very air, and Gideon’s voice came next, soft and insidious, as if he were standing beside them. “You can’t run,” he said, his words a caress, a threat, a promise. “You invited me in.”

 

The cellar door rattled, a slow, deliberate knock echoing in the dark, and Ellen’s scream caught in her throat as the shadows above pulsed, alive and hungry, clawing at the cracks in the floor.

 

Chapter 4: The Hollow Truth

 

The cellar was a crypt, its air thick with the damp, earthy reek of mold and the faint, sour tang of fear-soaked sweat. The darkness was absolute, broken only by slivers of lightning that stabbed through the cracks in the floorboards above, casting jagged shadows that danced across the dirt floor. The storm’s roar was muffled here, a distant howl, but it was drowned by the relentless hum that seeped through the walls, Gideon’s discordant tune, now a guttural chant that pulsed in the Carvers’ bones, their blood, their minds. The cellar door rattled above, a slow, deliberate knock echoing in the confined space, each thud a hammer against Ellen’s heart. She pressed herself against the cold stone wall, Max clutched in her arms, his sobs muffled against her chest. Lily stood beside her, her back rigid, her breath shallow, her hands clenched into fists. Tom crouched at the foot of the stairs, his eyes fixed on the door, his body tense, his hands empty, the warped poker abandoned upstairs.

 

The bolt on the door held, but it groaned under the pressure of the knocks, the wood splintering faintly, as if Gideon’s presence alone could unravel it. Ellen’s mind raced, scrambling for a plan, a weapon, anything to protect her family, but the truth was a blade in her gut: they were trapped, caged in the bowels of their own home with a thing that wasn’t human, a thing they had invited in. The hum grew louder, vibrating in the air, and Gideon’s voice slithered through the cracks, soft and insidious, a lover’s whisper laced with venom. “No use hiding,” he said, his words curling around them like smoke. “You opened the door. You made the choice.”

 

Max whimpered, his small hands gripping Ellen’s sweater, his face buried in her chest. “Make him go away,” he whispered, his voice breaking, a plea that tore at her heart. Ellen tightened her hold, her lips brushing his hair, but her eyes were wide, searching the dark for answers, for hope that didn’t exist.

 

“Shut up!” Lily screamed, her voice raw, her fists pounding the wall behind her. The stone was unyielding, cold, but her blows echoed, a futile defiance against the thing upstairs. “Leave us alone!” Her tears glistened in the faint lightning, her defiance crumbling into despair.

 

Tom stood, his shoulders squared, his face pale but resolute. “Stay here,” he said, his voice low, trembling with a mix of fear and determination. He moved toward the stairs, his steps heavy, his hands flexing as if searching for a weapon that wasn’t there.

 

“Tom, no,” Ellen hissed, her voice sharp, her hand reaching for him. “You can’t fight him. He’s not… he’s not a man.”

 

Tom paused, his back to her, his head bowed. “I know,” he said, his voice barely audible, heavy with defeat. “But I can’t just sit here, Ellen. I have to try.” He took another step, but a new sound stopped him—a faint, scraping noise, not from the door but from the wall behind them.

 

Ellen’s breath caught, her eyes darting to the source. The wall was rough stone, its surface slick with moisture, but now it seemed to shift, the shadows pooling in a way that wasn’t natural. The scraping grew louder, deliberate, like fingers clawing through earth, and a loose brick near the floor wobbled, dust sifting from its edges. Lily froze, her fists dropping, her eyes wide. Max lifted his head, his sobs quieting, his gaze fixed on the brick.

 

“What is that?” Lily whispered, her voice trembling, her body tensing as she backed away.

 

Ellen set Max down, her hands shaking, and crouched by the wall, her fingers brushing the brick. It was warm, unnaturally so, like the mirror upstairs, and it pulsed faintly, a heartbeat that wasn’t hers. She hesitated, her mind screaming to leave it alone, but the scraping persisted, insistent, and something deep within her—instinct, desperation—urged her to act. She pried at the brick, her nails scraping stone, and it came free with a soft thud, revealing a hollow space behind.

 

Inside was a small, leather-bound journal, its cover cracked, its pages yellowed and curling. The air around it was colder, heavier, and the hum faltered, as if Gideon’s chant had stumbled. Ellen’s hands trembled as she lifted the journal, its weight unnatural, as if it carried more than paper and ink. She opened it, the pages brittle under her fingers, and squinted in the dim lightning to read the faded script.

 

The handwriting was tight, frantic, dated 1875, signed by a name she didn’t recognize: Ezekiel Ward. The words were a confession, a warning, scrawled in haste. “This house is cursed,” it began. “Built on a burial ground, older than the plains, older than time. The dead here do not rest. Every fifty years, the shadow caller comes, a hollow guest seeking shelter. Those who invite it in forfeit their souls, trapped in the house, reliving the night they opened the door. I write this as my family screams, as the shadows take them. If you read this, run. Do not invite it in.”

 

Ellen’s breath stopped, her heart lurching as the words sank in. She flipped the page, her hands shaking, and found a photograph, faded but clear, tucked between the pages. It showed a man standing in front of the farmhouse, his face gaunt, his eyes glinting, his smile a slash of white. It was Gideon, or something wearing his face, unchanged by time, standing on the same porch where he’d knocked the night before.

 

“Ellen,” Tom said, his voice urgent, his eyes on the journal. “What is it?”

 

She couldn’t speak, her throat tight, her mind reeling. The hum resumed, louder now, and the knocks on the cellar door grew heavier, the wood splintering, Gideon’s voice a chorus of whispers. “Time’s up,” he said, his words echoing with countless others, a cacophony of despair and hunger.

 

Lily grabbed the journal, her eyes scanning the page, her face paling. “This is him,” she said, her voice breaking, holding up the photograph. “He’s been here before. He’s… he’s not human.”

 

Max’s voice was small, trembling, as he pointed to the journal. “What’s a shadow caller?”

 

Ellen’s mind raced, the pieces falling into place, a truth too horrific to grasp. The mirrors, the radio, Rusty’s death, the scratches—they weren’t just Gideon’s doing. They were the house, the curse, the burial ground waking to claim them. And the final, shattering truth hit her like a blow: Gideon wasn’t the hollow guest. They were.

 

“Tom,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, her eyes wide with horror. “We’re already dead.”

 

Tom’s face contorted, confusion giving way to dread. “What are you talking about?”

 

Ellen’s hands shook as she gripped the journal, her voice trembling but certain. “We died. Years ago. The fire… the one we thought we escaped. It took us. We’ve been here, trapped, reliving this night, inviting him in over and over.”

 

Lily’s breath hitched, her eyes darting to the photograph, to the journal, to her mother. “No,” she said, her voice cracking, her hands shaking. “That’s not true. We’re here. We’re alive.”

 

But the truth was a weight, crushing, undeniable. Ellen remembered the fire, the smoke, the screams, but she’d pushed it away, convinced they’d survived, that they’d rebuilt. Now, the memories flooded back, jagged and raw: the flames, the heat, the darkness that swallowed them. They hadn’t escaped. They were ghosts, bound to the house, caught in the shadow caller’s cycle.

 

Max’s sob broke the silence, small and heartbroken. “I don’t want to be dead,” he whispered, his eyes glassy, his small hands clutching Ellen’s arm.

 

The cellar door splintered, a deafening crack, and Gideon’s hum became a roar, a primal chant that shook the walls. The shadows surged, flooding the cellar, and Ellen’s scream caught in her throat as the truth became a blade, cutting through the last of her hope. They weren’t fighting to survive. They were fighting to remember, to break the cycle they’d been trapped in for decades.

 

Above, Gideon laughed, a sound that wasn’t human, a chorus of countless voices, hungry and eternal. “You see it now,” he said, his voice seeping through the cracks, wrapping around them like chains. “You’ve always been mine.”

 

The journal slipped from Ellen’s hands, its pages fluttering, and the shadows closed in, their claws reaching, their hunger a living thing. The cellar was no sanctuary, only a deeper layer of the trap, and the hollow truth was clear: the Carvers were the shadow callers, and Gideon was their mirror, their judge, their end.

 

The Final Horror

 

The cellar was a void, a gaping maw of darkness that swallowed light, sound, hope. The air was thick with the stench of damp earth and the rancid, metallic tang of Gideon’s presence, now a suffocating weight that pressed against the Carvers’ skin, their souls. The storm outside roared, its fury a distant echo compared to the hum that filled the cellar, Gideon’s guttural chant, a primal dirge that shook the stone walls and burrowed into the family’s minds, unraveling what little sanity they clung to. The cellar door above splintered further, its bolt bending, wood cracking like bones under a hammer. Shadows poured through the gaps, liquid and alive, clawing at the air, reaching for the Carvers with a hunger older than time.

 

Ellen stood frozen, the journal at her feet, its pages splayed open, Ezekiel Ward’s warning a cruel epitaph for their fate. The truth was a blade in her heart: they were dead, ghosts trapped in the farmhouse, reliving the night they invited the shadow caller in, a cycle of torment spun by the cursed ground beneath their home. Max clung to her, his sobs muffled, his small hands digging into her arms, his eyes wide with a terror no child should know. Lily pressed against the wall, her breath ragged, her face pale, her defiance shattered by the photograph of Gideon, unchanged across decades, and the realization that they were the hollow guests, not him. Tom crouched by the stairs, his fists clenched, his face a mask of despair, his eyes fixed on the door as it buckled under the weight of something beyond human.

 

Gideon’s voice slithered through the cracks, a chorus of countless souls, whispering, screaming, laughing. “No more running,” he said, his words a caress, a curse, a promise. “You see it now. You belong to the house. To me.” The hum grew louder, a roar that shook the earth, and the shadows surged, flooding the cellar, their claws glinting in the faint lightning that stabbed through the floorboards above.

 

Ellen’s mind reeled, her heart pounding as she clutched Max tighter, her eyes darting to Lily, to Tom, to the journal that had stripped away the illusion of their lives. They weren’t fighting to survive; they were fighting to remember, to break the cycle that had bound them for decades. But the shadows were relentless, their touch cold, their hunger a living thing that tore at her memories, her identity, her soul. She saw flashes of the fire that killed them—smoke choking her lungs, flames licking her skin, Max’s screams, Lily’s cries, Tom’s desperate shouts—moments she’d buried, convinced they’d escaped. Now, they were raw, real, a truth she couldn’t deny.

 

“Mom,” Max whimpered, his voice small, his face buried in her chest. “I’m scared.”

 

“I know, baby,” Ellen whispered, her voice breaking, her tears falling into his hair. “I’m here. We’re together.” But the words were hollow, a lie against the darkness that closed in, the shadows that whispered their names in voices that weren’t theirs.

 

Lily’s voice cut through, sharp and desperate. “We have to do something!” She lunged for the journal, her hands shaking as she flipped through its pages, searching for a way out, a spell, a prayer, anything to stop Gideon. “There has to be a way to end this!”

 

Tom stood, his shoulders slumped, his eyes haunted. “There’s nothing, Lily,” he said, his voice raw, heavy with defeat. “We’re already gone. We’ve been gone for years.”

 

“No!” Lily screamed, slamming the journal shut, her tears streaming. “I’m not giving up! We’re still here, still fighting!” She grabbed a loose brick from the wall, her knuckles white, her eyes blazing with a defiance that flickered like a dying flame.

 

The cellar door exploded inward, wood shattering, splinters flying, and the shadows poured in, a tidal wave of darkness that swallowed the stairs. Ellen screamed, pulling Max behind her, her body a frail shield. Tom spun, his fists raised, but there was no Gideon, no gaunt figure in a tattered coat. Instead, the shadows coalesced, taking form, and the Carvers’ breath stopped as they saw themselves—Ellen, Tom, Lily, Max—standing at the foot of the stairs, their faces hollow, their eyes black voids, their mouths stretched in silent screams. The shadow versions moved, their limbs jerking like marionettes, their claws reaching, their presence a mirror of the family’s fear, their pain, their death.

 

Ellen’s scream died in her throat, her mind fracturing under the sight. These weren’t Gideon’s creations; they were the Carvers, their souls twisted, trapped in the house’s curse, the hollow guests who had invited the shadow caller in. The journal’s words burned in her mind: “Those who invite it in forfeit their souls, trapped in the house, reliving the night they opened the door.” They weren’t fighting Gideon. They were fighting themselves, their own guilt, their own failure to see the truth.

 

“Stay back!” Tom roared, lunging at the shadow Ellen, his fists swinging, but his hands passed through, the shadow laughing, its voice a distorted echo of his own. The shadow Tom grabbed him, its claws sinking into his shoulders, and he screamed, his body convulsing as memories of the fire flooded back—flames, smoke, the crushing weight of failure.

 

Lily swung the brick at the shadow Lily, her scream raw, but the brick shattered on impact, dust exploding, and the shadow laughed, its eyeless face inches from hers. “You can’t run,” it whispered, its voice hers, twisted and cruel. “You’re already here.”

 

Max’s shadow reached for him, its small hands clawing, and Ellen shoved him behind her, her own shadow looming, its hollow eyes boring into her soul. “You failed them,” it whispered, its voice hers, laced with venom. “You let the fire take them. You let me in.”

 

Ellen staggered, the words a blade, cutting through the last of her resolve. The shadows closed in, their claws tearing at her memories, her identity, her love for her family. She saw the fire again, felt the heat, heard the screams, and knew it was true: they had died, and she had opened the door, not just to Gideon but to the curse, to the cycle that bound them.

 

But a spark of defiance flared, a mother’s love stronger than fear, than death. She grabbed Max, pulled Lily close, and shouted to Tom, her voice raw but fierce. “We’re not yours!” she screamed, her eyes locked on the shadows, on the hollow truth of their fate. “We’re a family! You can’t have us!”

 

The shadows faltered, their forms flickering, and the hum stuttered, Gideon’s chant breaking for a moment. Ellen’s words, her love, her refusal to surrender, were a crack in the curse’s armor, a fleeting chance to fight. She lunged for the journal, its pages glowing faintly in the dark, and tore at them, her hands shaking, her voice rising in a desperate prayer. “We reject you! We close the door!”

 

The cellar shook, the walls cracking, the earth trembling as the shadows screamed, a cacophony of rage and despair. Tom broke free, grabbing Lily, pulling her to Ellen, and they huddled together, Max between them, their arms locked, their love a shield against the dark. The journal burned in Ellen’s hands, its pages crumbling to ash, and the shadows surged, their claws tearing, their voices a storm of fury.

 

And then, silence.

 

The cellar was gone. The farmhouse was gone. The world was darkness, a void without form, without time. The Carvers stood together, their hands clasped, their breaths synchronized, their love the only light in the endless black. The shadows were there, waiting, but they were weaker, their hunger dulled by the family’s defiance.

 

Outside, the storm cleared, the clouds parting to reveal a cold, pale dawn. A car drove away, its engine a low growl, its driver humming a discordant tune. Gideon’s smile was gone, his eyes dim, his coat tattered but dry. The farmhouse stood silent, its windows dark, its walls unscarred, as if the night had never happened. But the ground beneath it pulsed, the burial ground stirring, waiting for the next cycle, the next hollow guests to open the door.

 

In the void, Ellen whispered to her family, her voice soft but unbroken. “We’re together,” she said, her tears falling, her heart steady. “That’s enough.”

 

The shadows watched, silent, and the cycle paused, but not forever. The shadow caller would return, as it always did, but for now, the Carvers held fast, their love a fragile victory against the dark.