I didn’t open the door that night. Instead, I ran to the shed, grabbed a shovel, and stumbled into the woods. The oak tree still stood, gnarled and ancient, its roots twisting through the earth like veins. I started digging, frantic, clawing at the dirt where we’d buried our offerings.

The whispers followed me, circling like vultures. “You can’t stop it, Danny. You promised.”

My hands bled as I tore through the soil, and there they were—the lock of Timmy’s hair, now brittle and gray; Sarah’s braid, matted with mold; Matt’s bottle cap, rusted to dust; my quarter, tarnished but intact.

I held them up, shaking. “Take it back!” I screamed into the dark. “I didn’t mean it!”

The ground trembled. The whispers turned to laughter—low, guttural, not theirs anymore. Something else was listening.

“You fed us,” it said, a voice from the earth itself. “And we kept them. Now we’re hungry for more.”

The tree’s roots shifted, curling toward me. I dropped the offerings and ran, but the woods stretched endlessly, looping me back to the house. The door was open now, the locks shattered.

They were waiting inside.

“We don’t want to hurt you,” Timmy said, his voice soft, pleading. “We just want to be whole again.”

Sarah stepped closer, her hand outstretched. “It’s not so bad, Danny. It’s quiet. It’s together.”

Matt’s hollow eyes locked on mine. “Say yes. Finish it.”

The knife slipped from my hand. The air grew heavy, and I felt it—the hunger, theirs and mine, pulling me toward them.