A stranger comes to your door.
He’s soaked to the skin. Rain glues his dark hair to his forehead. Droplets cling to his eyebrows and drip from his nose, collecting in small rivulets that run down his collar. He looks young—mid-twenties maybe—but the way he hunches, clutching his arms, makes him look smaller. His fingers twitch like something inside him is trying to claw its way out.
“I’m sorry,” he says quickly, eyes wide. “I know it’s late, I just—I’ve been walking for hours. My car slid off the road back there, past the woods. There’s no reception. I just need to use a phone. Please.”
He shifts on the porch, trying to stay beneath the flickering light. His boots squish as he moves, soaked through.
You don’t answer right away. You’re barefoot in a threadbare flannel robe, staring through the crack of the door like someone who’s just woken from a long, broken dream. Behind you, the hall stretches into shadow. Beyond that: silence, then a soft thump. Then another.
He glances past you, into the house. Then his eyes lower—to your hands.
You follow his gaze. Your left hand is wrapped in gauze. A thin red stain blooms through the white, fresh. Higher up, near your collar, an older bandage clings just beneath your throat. There are pale, irregular scars across your forearm, some faint, some fresh. He sees them.
“You okay?” he asks.
You hesitate. Just for a second.
“Yeah,” you say, too quickly. “Clumsy with a hunting knife. Cut myself trying to clean game.”
He gives a slow nod. You can see the question behind his eyes, but he doesn’t press. He’s cold, wet, desperate. Manners matter less than survival.
You step back.
“Come in,” you say.
“Thank you,” he breathes. “God, thank you.”
He peels off his jacket and drapes it over the coat hook. His hands hover awkwardly at his sides as he stands in the entryway. You lead him toward the kitchen.
The floor creaks beneath your steps. You’re painfully aware of everything—the hum of the old refrigerator, the flickering overhead bulb, the soft groan from upstairs.
She’s awake.
“Tea?” you ask.
He pauses, surprised. “Yeah, sure. That’d be great.”
You move around the kitchen on instinct. The kettle squeals faintly as it warms. The knife block sits at the edge of the counter, and you glance at it too long. You shift it back, out of sight.
He watches you. He’s trying to be polite, but he keeps glancing at your hands.
“I live here with my daughter,” you say, not looking at him. “She’s… not well.”
He nods again. That word—unwell—is a social excuse. A deflection. It asks not to be unpacked. He honors that. Sips the tea you hand him and smiles, though his fingers are still trembling.
“She sleeping?” he asks.
You freeze for a beat. Your eyes lift toward the ceiling.
“No,” you say. “Not lately.”
There’s another sound from above. A dragging noise. Followed by a dull thud.
He goes quiet.
“She’s been sick a long time,” you continue, voice flat. “It started with nightmares. Then sleepwalking. Then… hunger. She hasn’t eaten in days. Not real food, anyway.”
You see the question forming again on his lips. You don’t let it come.
“She says she’s dying,” you say. “And I believe her.”
His cup clinks softly against the table.
You can see him now, really see him. He’s the kind of person who returns shopping carts, who holds the door open for strangers. There’s decency in him. That old-fashioned, almost naive kind.
And that’s why you’re going to kill him.
She asked again tonight. Her voice wasn’t hers anymore. It was deeper, distorted. She sat on her bed, knees to her chest, eyes shining with something ancient.
“If you love me,” she whispered, “you’ll feed me. Just once more. Someone warm. Someone clean.”
She promised it would be the last time.
You want to believe her. You need to.
The knife waits on the counter. Wooden handle. Dull edge. You used it last week to open your leg and offer her strips of your thigh. That wasn’t enough. She’s starving.
He finishes his tea. Sets the mug down with care.
“I think I’ll wait here, if that’s okay,” he says. “Until someone comes.”
You nod. Smile again. Lead him to the living room.
The fire’s long dead. The old couch sags beneath him. He leans back, hands outstretched toward the weak heat of a space heater you barely keep running. He doesn’t see you pick the knife up. Doesn’t hear you approach.
One breath. Two.
You raise the blade.
He turns at the last second. Sees your face—something in it. Not hate. Not rage. Something worse. Regret.
“Wait—” he says.
You stab.
The blade catches his side, shallow but messy. He yells, grabs your wrist. The mug crashes to the floor. You try again, but he’s already on his feet, blood smearing down his shirt.
“What the hell are you doing?!”
You don’t answer. You swing again.
He runs.
You follow, limping from old injuries, shouting her name without realizing it. He veers left—wrong way—and takes the stairs two at a time.
“No! Don’t go up there!”
But he’s already at the top. Knife still in his hand. Your daughter’s room is open.
And she’s waiting.
She stands in the doorway, bones pressing against paper-thin skin, mouth stretched in an almost-smile. Her eyes shine with fever. Her tongue flicks across her teeth.
The boy freezes.
“What… what is that?”
She lunges.
He stabs instinctively. The blade catches her shoulder. She howls—no, not a howl, something deeper. The walls shake. She claws at him, opens his cheek from eye to chin. Blood flies.
You reach the landing just in time to see them crash into the dresser. He stabs again—her thigh this time—but she doesn’t stop. She climbs over him, screeching, teeth gnashing.
He brings the knife up one more time.
It finds her neck.
She stiffens. Chokes. Her mouth opens to scream but nothing comes out. She slumps forward, face blank.
Dead.
You stop moving.
He shoves her off. Staggers to his feet, covered in blood—hers, his, yours.
You drop the second knife you didn’t know you were holding.
She’s gone.
Your knees hit the floor. You make no sound.
He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t demand an explanation. He just runs. Past you. Down the stairs. Through the front door.
Gone.
You crawl forward and pull her into your lap. Her eyes are still open, staring at something you’ll never see. Her body is light now. Too light.
She was your everything.
And now she’s gone.
The silence is unbearable. But you stay there. Long after the rain stops. Long after the lights flicker out.
She isn’t screaming anymore.
And that’s either a mercy.
Or a curse.
React
