Chapter 3: The Man in the Yard

Chapter 3: The Man in the Yard

Trixie’s frantic barks were the only sound in a world that had gone completely silent. They were sharp, panicked shards of noise tearing at the oppressive quiet of the house. Shai stood frozen, his hand still on the switch for the back porch light. The illuminated patch of lawn was a lonely stage, perfectly lit and utterly empty. Yet the dog continued her desperate assault on the glass, a tiny, terrified soldier fighting an invisible enemy.

“It’s okay, girl,” Shai whispered, his voice a dry rasp. “There’s nothing there.”

But he was lying to himself as much as to the dog. He could feel it. The cold, focused attention from the night before had returned, a tangible pressure against the walls of his house. It was a predator’s stillness, the patient, suffocating presence of something waiting just beyond the edge of the light.

And then, a shape detached itself from the deeper darkness of the back fence line.

It moved without a sound, a silhouette gliding over the damp grass until it stepped into the cone of light. It was him. Rodney. The blood in Shai’s veins turned to ice. Collen’s casual dismissal echoed in his mind—Just block the number and forget about him. How could he forget something that was now standing in his backyard?

Rodney’s face was a grotesque mask of tragedy. Tears streamed down his cheeks, catching the light like tiny diamonds, but his face was slack, his muscles unresponsive. It was a performance of sorrow, not the feeling of it. And his eyes—those terrible, brilliant emerald eyes—were devoid of any sadness. They burned with a cold, possessive rage that was utterly at odds with the fake tears. The same eyes that had seemed to be looking out from a cheap mask in his bedroom were now staring at him from the yard, windows to a furious, alien soul.

Shai fumbled with the lock on the sliding door, making sure it was secure. His heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs.

“Get the hell off my property!” he shouted, his voice cracking. The sound was thin and useless against the glass. “I’m calling the cops!”

Rodney took another step forward, stopping just short of the patio. He pressed his hands and then his face against the glass, his breath instantly fogging a small circle. He wasn't looking at Shai anymore; he was looking into him, as if trying to find a way inside his very being. His lips moved, and a low, desperate whisper seeped through the thick pane.

“Please, don’t do this to me. To us.”

“There is no ‘us’!” Shai yelled back, grabbing his phone from the counter. “Leave now, or I swear to God—”

Rodney’s tear-streaked face contorted, not in anger, but in a pained, pleading grimace that was terrifyingly false. He leaned in closer, his whisper gaining an impossible intimacy, a chilling familiarity that bypassed the glass and slid directly into Shai’s ear.

“Don’t do this, Shy-Shy,” the man whispered. “You can’t just throw us away.”

The world tilted on its axis.

Shy-Shy.

A stupid, private nickname. A name Tom had used, and only Tom. He’d used it when he was being affectionate, and more often, when he was being manipulative, a verbal tool to disarm Shai and make him feel guilty. Shai hadn’t heard it in months. It was a ghost from a life he was trying to bury.

And this stranger, this monster with the mismatched eyes, had just spoken it aloud.

The logical part of Shai’s brain screamed. It’s a coincidence. A fluke. He heard it somewhere. But a deeper, more primal part of him knew the truth. This wasn’t a coincidence. This wasn’t Rodney. Shai didn’t know what this thing was, but it had Tom’s memories. It was wearing them like a skin.

The realization shattered his fear and replaced it with a pure, survivalist terror. He was no longer dealing with a human stalker. He was dealing with the impossible.

The creature’s performance of sorrow vanished. The tears stopped as if a faucet had been turned off. The pleading look on its face went blank, replaced by the cold, reptilian focus of its eyes. It pulled back from the glass and, with a sudden, brutal movement, slammed its shoulder against the door. The frame rattled violently in its track.

Shai stumbled back, a strangled cry escaping his lips. He spun around, his panicked gaze sweeping the room for a weapon. A heavy lamp. A cast-iron skillet on the stove. Trixie was cowering behind his legs now, her barks reduced to terrified whimpers.

The thing at the door slammed against it again, harder this time. A spiderweb of cracks appeared in the corner of the glass. It wasn't going to hold.

The front door. It was solid wood, with a deadbolt. Safer.

He scooped up Trixie, tucked her under his arm like a football, and sprinted for the front of the house. He could hear the thing outside moving, a preternaturally fast rustle of feet on the side path. As he reached the foyer, a thunderous bang erupted from the front door. He was already there.

Shai’s mind went white with panic. He was trapped. He fumbled with his phone, his thumb smearing across the screen as he tried to dial 911.

The handle of the front door twisted violently, rattling in its socket.

Adrenaline surged through him, hot and sharp. He wasn’t going to die here. Not like this. An insane, desperate idea took root. He dropped his phone, his fingers closing around the cold metal of the deadbolt. He took a deep breath, Trixie trembling against his side.

He twisted the lock.

With a raw scream, he yanked the door open a few inches—just enough to create a gap—and a hand shot through the opening like a striking snake. The fingers were long and pale, grasping for him, for the door, for anything.

On pure instinct, Shai threw his entire body weight into the door, slamming it shut.

The sound was not the clean, solid thud of wood meeting frame. It was a sickening, wet CRUNCH. A sound of splintering bone and pulped flesh. A high, unearthly shriek of either pain or pure rage echoed from the other side, cut short as the door clicked fully into place.

Shai leaned against the wood, his body trembling uncontrollably, his breath coming in ragged, painful sobs. He could feel the faint, rhythmic thumping against the door stop. He risked a look through the peephole.

The porch was empty. The hand was gone. There was no blood, no sign of the gruesome injury he had just inflicted. It was as if it had never happened.

But he knew it had. The sound would be seared into his memory forever.

He couldn't stay here. This house wasn't a sanctuary; it was a target.

Scrabbling for his phone, he finally managed to dial 911, his voice a broken, babbling mess as he reported an intruder, a man trying to break in. He gave his address but didn’t wait for a response. He hung up, grabbing his keys from the bowl by the door.

He couldn't use the front. He ran back to the cracked sliding door, slid it open just enough to squeeze through with Trixie, and bolted. He didn't look back. He ran across the dark, wet lawn, the cold air burning his lungs, expecting at any moment to feel a hand clamp down on his shoulder.

He vaulted the low fence into his neighbor’s yard, sprinted down their driveway to the street where his car was parked. His hands shook so badly it took him three tries to get the key in the lock. He threw Trixie into the passenger seat and dove in after her, slamming the door and locking it.

The engine roared to life. He peeled out, tires squealing on the asphalt, not daring to look in the rearview mirror. Streetlights blurred past in watery streaks. He was just driving, anywhere, away.

Where was safe? Where could this thing not find him?

An image surfaced in his mind: his sister Sarah’s house in the suburbs. A place of family dinners, holiday gatherings, impenetrable normalcy. A place where monsters with emerald eyes and stolen memories couldn't possibly exist.

It was the only safe harbor he could think of. He pointed the car in that direction, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. He could hear the distant wail of sirens growing closer to his abandoned house. The police were coming. They would find the man, arrest him. It would be over.

A shaky, hysterical laugh escaped his lips. It was over. He had fought back, and he had escaped. The nightmare was over.