Author’s Note (Chapter 1 & Chapter 14):
For clarity, the father in this story is named Mark, and his wife is named Elizabeth. These names are used to help readers connect with the characters, though they may not appear in every chapter.

Chapter 14 – The Thing Inside the Quiet

The house stayed frozen after the last violent twist of the door handle. No one spoke. No one moved. The air felt wrong—thick, cold, heavy enough to feel against their skin. Abby clung to Melvin’s hand, feeling his fingers tremble. Carl pressed into Mark’s side, pale and sweating. Elizabeth stood stiff at the foot of the stairs, her eyes wide. The room filled with a silence so heavy it pinned them in place.

Then, from the other side of the door, something scraped downward—slow, long, deliberate. The sound followed the frame from top to bottom, like nails gliding through every grain of the wood. Not rushing. Not clawing. Exploring. Testing. Abby felt the hair on her neck rise. It didn’t sound like something trying to get in. It sounded like something trying to understand the door. The scraping stopped.

Suddenly, a sharp THUMP came from the window in the front room—hard enough to rattle the glass. Everyone jerked toward the noise. Something outside was pressing against the window, as if trying to lift it open.

Mark whispered, voice shaking, “Are the windows locked?”

Elizabeth shook her head slowly, sweat beading along her hairline. She hadn’t checked them. None of them had.

Heavy steps moved along the outside of the house—slow, dragging, circling. Each footfall vibrated faintly through the floorboards beneath their feet.

No one wanted to stay near the door or the windows any longer.

Mark finally spoke, barely above a whisper. “We… we go to the drawing room. Now. Stay together.”

Nobody argued. They moved as one, stepping back into the deeper dark of the house. They locked themselves in the room.

Suddenly, a sharp wind blew against the house. The lights flickered. Carl looked out through the window, but even with the moon's illumination, he couldn’t see anything through the thick fog.

The fog had lifted. Sunlight stretched across the porch, and birds called from the treetops—but none of it eased the tension inside the family. Everyone moved through the morning as if something heavy still clung to their backs. Mark stepped outside first. He hadn’t slept; his eyes were red, his jaw tight. After a long moment of pacing on the porch, he went to find Mr. Han and asked if he could come over to check the house.

Abby and Melvin sat on the porch steps, watching. Both looked drained, their faces pale, and eyes shadowed from the events of the night before. Carl circled the yard on his bicycle, pedaling in slow, uneven loops, his mind replaying the horrors from yesterday.

At Mr. Han’s door, Mark knocked firmly. The door opened, and Han’s calm, observant eyes met him. “Something happened last night,” Mark said without preamble. “I need you to come and inspect the house. Something… it’s not right.”

Han nodded and stepped outside, following him down the narrow, winding path from his own house toward theirs. A chill wind brushed through the trees, making branches scrape softly against one another, whispering in the quiet. Han’s fingers brushed over surfaces along the way—the rough bark of a fence post, the splintered edge of a gate—testing for anything out of place. He listened, too, for subtle noises: the distant hum of the forest. As they approached the house, Mark pointed to the places where he had heard the sounds—scratched doors, rattling windows, the front entry. “I heard it here,” he said, “And here… and here.”

Han leaned closer, inspecting the marks. “It could be a person—someone playing a joke—” he suggested cautiously.

Mark’s expression hardened, eyes blazing. “I am not crazy!” he shouted, the anger snapping sharply from his lips. Han flinched slightly at the intensity, surprised at the raw ferocity in the voice.

Mark’s shoulders sagged slightly, and he exhaled shakily. “I… I’m sorry,” he admitted. “I got angry. It’s just… last night… seeing the children so terrified… I couldn’t control myself.”

From the porch, Abby and Melvin watched silently, their hands gripping the railing, tension coiling in their chests. Carl had stopped cycling, mid-loop, watching the exchange unfold. Elizabeth stood behind them at a distance, hand pressed to her chest, other hand trembling at her mouth, eyes wide with worry.

After a long pause, Mark looked to Han, his voice steadier. “I need your help. Please. I don’t know what else to do.”

Han turned slowly, his gaze falling on Abby and Melvin. The fear in their eyes was unmistakable, the shadow of last night still lingering on their small faces. He exhaled and nodded. “I’ll come. Let’s find out what’s going on.”

As they approached the house, Han spoke quietly, “Whatever it was last night… it wanted to scare you. If it had intended to harm you, it would have crushed the windows, torn through the doors, or worse.”

The words, calm and measured, carried a strange reassurance. Even with that, the house felt heavier than the morning air outside. They explained everything to Mr. Han, recounting each sound, each scratch, each unnerving detail from the previous night. The conversation stretched on, unraveling until noon, their voices low, the weight of fear lingering over every word.

When noon arrived, they invited Mr. Han to stay for lunch. They called out for the children, expecting them to gather in the dining room—but Carl was nowhere to be found. Panic clawed at Mark’s chest as he rushed through the house, calling Carl’s name, checking every room, every corner, every shadowed hallway.