Lena Cross became an orphan overnight.

Before she had time to process what had happened—before the grief could even settle into something real—she was taken in by the Albright family. The decision was made quickly, almost like the world was in a hurry to forget her pain. 

Just like that, she was sitting stiffly on the edge of a twin bed in a room that wasn’t hers, surrounded by the comforting clutter of someone else’s childhood.

That someone was Benjamin Albright.

At twelve years old, Ben was lanky, a little awkward, and obsessed with sketching in the margins of his school books. But from the moment they met, he was kind. Not the loud, performative kind of kindness adults fumbled through when they didn’t know what to say—but quiet, patient, and real. He didn’t push her to talk, didn’t ask her questions she couldn’t answer.

Eventually, she told him about that night.

About the phenomenon. The impossible thing that had happened, like a ripple in reality itself. Something she couldn’t explain—couldn’t even describe without sounding crazy. 

Of course, Ben didn’t believe her. Not really. He listened, eyes wide, nodding slowly like he wanted to believe, but doubt was written all over his face.

“Maybe you were just… overwhelmed?” he had offered once, carefully. “Grief does weird things to your brain.”

Lena had wanted to snap at him. Instead, she nodded, quietly unsure herself. 

Years passed just like that. 

Doubt growing like a weed, tangled up with guilt and grief. Her classmates knew what had happened—even if they didn’t say it aloud—and their stares clung to her like dust in the corners of a forgotten room. 

Whispers. Sympathy. Isolation.

It wasn’t until she and Benjamin graduated high school in the summer of 2008 that everything began to change.

She started hearing things—weird things.

Old-timey music drifting through dead silence. Snatches of sobbing voices. Cries of desperation echoing from empty rooms. Once, she was in the library and heard a woman shrieking about her son’s overdose—when she turned, no one was there.

She tried to ignore it. God, she tried. Sleep didn’t help. Medication didn’t help. Pretending worked for a little while—until the pretending cracked under the weight of something real.

And then, one night, in her college dorm room, it happened.

A portal—a swirling ripple of dark shadow—unfolded in the corner of the room like a tear in the sheet of reality. Lena stood there frozen, her heart rattling in her chest. There was no sound. Just pulling. A quiet, inevitable pull.

And instead of running, she stepped through.

The hum of static and soft sniffles greeted her as the world reassembled around her.

A dim room. A box television flickering softly in the center of the room. Homeward Bound was playing—Lena remembered that movie. The golden retriever, Shadow, was struggling in a muddy pit, trying to climb out.

“No! Don’t give up, Shadow! Please!” a little girl cried, her tiny voice hoarse with emotion.

Lena turned to see a woman sitting with the child on a worn couch. The mother gently rubbed the girl’s back as they watched the screen, unaware of the stranger—of Lena—standing just feet away.

Her eyes drifted to the electric clock near the television. 8:30 p.m.

Lena smiled faintly. The little girl’s sincerity pulled something deep from her—a buried memory of a better time. But the peace shattered the moment she heard it:

A baby crying. In another room. 

Neither the woman nor the child moved a muscle at the noise.

Lena moved toward the sound. A hallway stretched before her, dimly lit by a nightlight plugged into the wall. Pictures hung in crooked rows—capturing moments of joy and warmth. 

The young girl was pictured, along with a man and the woman on the couch. A baby boy in a blue dinosaur onesie was held by the mother. A banner above them all read: Welcome home, Alan Watson!

Lena’s chest tightened. She paused in front of a door near the end of the hallway, what she presumed to be the baby's room, when a figure emerged behind her.

The father—Mark Watson—yawned as he rubbed his eyes, walked over to the room at the end of the hall and turned the doorknob, murmuring, “Shh, it’s okay, Al—”

He froze.

Lena watched with bated breath just as Mark’s voice rose in a furious panic. “Who the hell are you?! Put my son down right now before I call the cops on your ass!”

Lena rushed to the doorway and saw him—an intruder dressed in black, face hidden beneath a makeshift sock mask. He held the crying infant in his arms, backing away from the crib.

Mark lunged—but never made it to his son.

A second figure stepped out from the shadows—a woman, smaller in build, with wild energy in her stance. She raised the gun in her hand and slammed the butt into the back of Mark’s head with a sickening thud.

He crumpled to the ground, blood smearing into the carpet.

“Why’d you do that?! I could’ve handled him easily!” the man whined, voice cracking.

“With a baby in your arms? Yeah, sure,” the woman snapped. “Give him to me and get moving. Window. Now.”

The baby wailed harder as they moved towards the far window, reaching out for his father’s still form. Lena could only watch as they did so, heart pounding. She wanted to scream. To stop them. But she couldn’t.

She wasn’t really there.

To her left, footsteps.

The mother.

She stepped into the hallway, eyes wide as she noticed the door ajar. “Mark…?” she called hesitantly, walking toward it.

Her surprised gasp echoed when she reached the doorway.

The intruders were gone. The crib was empty. The window was ajar, letting in the cold night air. And her husband lay bleeding on the floor.

“Mommy, I’m sleepy…” came the soft voice of the girl, standing in the hallway by the living room, clutching a stuffed unicorn in her arms.

The mother turned, horror and instinct propelling her to move. “Angie! Sweetie—go to bed, okay? Just—just go to bed—”

She grabbed the flip phone, which was on charge, from the nightstand of the master bedroom, hands shaking as she entered 911. “Yes—yes, I need an ambulance—and the police—”

Lena’s vision blurred. The light in the hallway twisted into something colder. The warmth of the home vanished.

And then, before she knew it, she was somewhere else.

A bare, frigid home. Dusty air. No photos, no warmth. The front door clicked. It opened slowly, revealing them. 

The kidnappers.

They peeled off their masks—revealing pale faces. The man had short, spiky red hair, freckles, and uncertain eyes. The woman, by contrast, wore a triumphant smirk. Her long, straight black hair framed her sharp features as she cooed to the baby in her arms.

Alan.

The cuckoo clock on the wall struck midnight with a loud clunk and chime.

The baby screamed.

“Shh, shh… it’s okay, sweetie,” the woman said, voice suddenly syrupy. “Mommy will get you some yummy milk now, okay~?”

The man stayed quiet, locking the door with a heavy click.

Lena stood frozen at the base of the stairs, heart racing. She had no idea how she’d gotten here. But she had a sinking feeling this was only the beginning.

To be continued...