Chapter 3: The Siege of Red Silk

Chapter 3: The Siege of Red Silk

The horns were the last real thing she saw. Two cruel, black hooks silhouetted against the crimson silk, a pagan god born in the window frame of a modernist mansion. For a full, frozen second, Jennifer could only stare, her mind refusing to process the impossible shape. Jimmy’s words crashed through her terror: It doesn't have a face, Jen. It's just... horns.

Her desire was to run, to scream, to un-exist. The obstacle was the creature, right there, separated by a thin pane of glass.

Then, the world exploded.

But it wasn't the window with the silk that broke.

With a deafening roar, the massive glass door behind her—the one Jimmy had hammered on—disintegrated inward. A shockwave of sound and crystalline shrapnel tore through the living room. The pristine white furniture was peppered with glittering fragments as the cold night air, carrying the scent of pine and something else, something metallic and old, flooded the house.

The creature had used a decoy. It had drawn her attention to the side window, only to obliterate her main escape route.

Jennifer’s paralysis shattered along with the glass. Her action was pure, unthinking flight. She scrambled away from the gaping hole where the door had been, her bare feet crunching on the debris. She didn't look back. Jimmy's one, absolute rule was a frantic prayer in her head: Don't look, don't look, don't ever look.

She heard a sound behind her, a heavy, deliberate clop... clop... on the polished hardwood floor. The sound of hooves. Not the delicate clicking of a deer, but the solid, weighty tread of something massive trying to walk on two legs. It was inside. It was in the house.

The stairs were her only option. She lunged for them, slipping on an expensive runner rug, her hands catching the smooth banister to haul herself up. She took the stairs two, three at a time, a ragged sob tearing from her throat. Behind her, the rhythmic clopping stopped. The silence that replaced it was somehow worse, filled with the promise of a predator’s patience.

At the top of the stairs, a long hallway stretched before her, lined with closed doors. Master bedroom, guest room, office. She gambled on the master bedroom at the far end, praying it had a solid lock. Her hand closed around the cold, brass handle, and she threw herself inside, slamming the heavy oak door shut.

Her fingers found the lock on the knob and twisted it. Then she saw the deadbolt above it. A thick, reassuring cylinder of steel. She shot it home with a satisfying thunk. For a moment, she sagged against the door, her lungs burning, her body trembling with a violent, uncontrollable tremor.

Then, the house fell silent.

Not just quiet. The absolute, profound silence she had noticed when she first arrived, but magnified a hundred times. There were no more hooves on the floor, no more screams from the woods. It was as if the creature, the shattered door, the entire nightmarish sequence had been a hallucination.

But the slivers of glass digging into the soles of her feet told her it was real.

This was the turning point. The physical assault was over. Now, a new, more insidious siege was beginning. The creature wasn't gone. It was playing with her.

She scanned the master bedroom, a cavern of beige and cream lit only by the ambient glow of a digital alarm clock on the bedside table. A king-sized bed, a walk-in closet, an en-suite bathroom. A smaller cage, but a cage nonetheless. Her eyes darted to the large window overlooking the back lawn. The curtains were drawn, thick and heavy. A small mercy.

She needed a weapon. Anything. She limped over to a heavy glass lamp on a dresser, her hand wrapping around its base. It was clumsy, but it was solid. She held it like a club, her back to the wall, her eyes glued to the door. Waiting.

The minutes stretched into an eternity. The only sound was her own ragged breathing and the frantic drumming of her heart. The silence was a form of torture, winding her nerves tighter and tighter until she felt she would snap.

And then, a click.

The small bedside clock radio turned on.

Static hissed from the tiny speakers, and Jennifer jumped, nearly dropping the lamp. The static cleared, replaced by the tinny, cheerful music of a children’s show. A plinking xylophone and a bouncy, saccharine melody.

A man's voice, sickeningly jovial, sang, "Who's that hiding in the flowers? Who's that smiling in the sun? It's Mr. Grin's Goodtime Garden Gang, bringing fun for everyone!"

The jingle looped, playing over and over. It was a maddening, cheerful dirge in the silent, terrifying house. It imitates things. It had learned the 911 operator's voice from a single phone call. What else had it learned? What had it heard from the Ellisons' lives in this house?

The jingle cut off abruptly. More static. Then, a new voice crackled through the speaker. A woman’s voice.

"Jen-Jen? Honey, is that you?"

Jennifer’s blood froze in her veins. She knew that voice better than her own. It was her mother. The specific, loving cadence, the nickname she hadn't heard in years. It was perfect.

"Mom?" she whispered, the name a painful, hopeful shard in her throat.

"You sound scared, sweetie," the voice from the radio said, warm with concern. "What's wrong? Why are you hiding in there? Open the door. I'm right here."

It was a flawless imitation. Almost. But beneath the warmth, there was that little digital hiccup, the barest metallic echo she'd heard on the 911 call. A soulless, perfect mimicry. This was the creature's true weapon: not claws or teeth, but her own memories, her own love, twisted into a lure.

"You're not my mother," Jennifer choked out, tears of rage and terror streaming down her face.

The radio hissed. The warm voice was gone, replaced by a low, guttural sound, like the bleat of a goat being distorted through a cheap speaker. Baaaaaaa. The same mocking call from the woods.

The radio clicked off.

Silence returned, heavier and more menacing than before. The game was over. It knew she wouldn't fall for its tricks.

She stood there for an eternity, gripping the lamp, her knuckles white. The adrenaline was starting to fade, leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion and a hollow, aching dread. Maybe it had given up. Maybe it had left.

Click.

It wasn't the radio this time. It was a soft, metallic sound from the door.

Jennifer’s head whipped around. Her eyes widened in horror.

The deadbolt. The thick, steel cylinder she had locked herself.

It was turning.

Slowly. Impossibly. On its own.

The steel slid back with a final, definitive thud, retreating into the doorframe. Then came another click as the lock in the doorknob followed suit.

The door, her only barrier, was now unlocked.

A thin black line appeared as it began to swing inward, a silent, inexorable creep. It opened without a sound, swinging into the darkened room as if pushed by an unseen hand. The deeper black of the hallway beyond was a gaping maw.

Jennifer didn't breathe. She didn't move. She was a statue carved from fear. The lamp felt like a child's toy in her hand.

She saw nothing in the doorway. Heard nothing.

Then she felt it.

A wave of hot, foul breath washed over the back of her neck, smelling of damp earth and rot.