A crash thundered from somewhere down below, followed by an explosion of static in Leah’s ears. Blood trickled from each of their noses. Leah pressed a finger to her lips, guiding the kids to the far wall. “Stay there,” she mouthed. She moved in front of them, positioning herself between their small bodies and the attic hatch, gun raised and steady. The floor beneath her feet began to tremble. Something immense moved through the house below—eerily silent despite its size. In her mind she pictured pale shapes drifting through the kitchen, rifling drawers, flipping through DVDs, slipping their feet into borrowed shoes. The vibration intensified. The attic hatch shuddered, rattling in its frame as if unseen hands were testing it, pressing, prying, ready to tear it free. And then, impossible but unmistakable, she heard a voice inside her head. It was her father’s and David’s at once, braided together, speaking directly into her thoughts:
“Discipline will not save you.”