The Mistake Behind the White Door

"Lily, listen to me," Sarah said, grabbing her daughter's trembling shoulders. "Go into the bathroom. Get into the bathtub, pull the shower curtain shut, and cover your ears. Do not come out until I say so. Do you understand?"

Lily whimpered, tears cutting clean tracks through the dried blood on her cheeks, but she nodded. She scrambled off the bed and darted into the en-suite bathroom, locking the thin door behind her.

Sarah dropped the phone on the bed—the dispatcher's voice still echoing through the speaker—and scanned the room. She needed a weapon. Her eyes landed on the heavy, solid-brass lamp resting on the nightstand. She ripped the cord from the wall, the lampshade tumbling to the floor, and gripped the metal base like a baseball bat.

CRACK.

The door bowed inward. The top hinge popped, sending screws flying across the room like shrapnel. The dresser groaned, sliding another few inches across the floor.

"I know you're in there," David’s voice slithered through the widening gap in the wood.

Sarah stood her ground at the foot of the bed, her breathing ragged, her knuckles white around the brass base. She wasn't just a terrified woman anymore; she was a mother backed into a corner, and the primal instinct to protect her child had entirely overridden her fear.

With a final, deafening crash, the door splintered in half. The dresser was shoved aside violently, and David stepped into the room, stepping over the ruined wood. His knuckles were bruised, his chest heaving under his black shirt. He locked eyes with Sarah.