Chapter 4: A Hollow Death

Chapter 4: A Hollow Death

The house smelled of cinnamon and floor polish. It was the scent of impenetrable suburban safety, a world away from the cold, damp terror of his own backyard. Shai sat huddled on his sister Sarah’s pristine beige sofa, a thick afghan wrapped around his shoulders, a mug of rapidly cooling tea untouched on the coffee table beside him. Trixie, a trembling ball of fur, was wedged into the small space between his hip and the sofa cushion, refusing to move.

He had arrived on Sarah’s doorstep an hour ago, a babbling, incoherent wreck. She had taken him in without question, her face a mask of sisterly concern, fussing over him and ushering him inside while he stammered about a man, a stalker, the police. Now, they were just waiting. Waiting for the call that would confirm it was all over.

The doorbell chimed, a gentle, melodic sound that made Shai jolt so violently he sloshed tea onto the saucer.

“It’s okay, honey,” Sarah said, patting his arm. Her touch was warm, grounding. “It’s just the police. You’re safe now.”

She opened the door to a man in a rumpled suit, his face etched with a weary professionalism. He introduced himself as Detective Miller, his eyes lingering on Shai’s pale, haunted face.

“Mr. Alenko?” the detective asked, his voice a low, gravelly baritone. “I’m here about the 911 call you made from your residence.”

“Did you get him?” Shai asked, his voice thin and reedy. “The man, Rodney? He was trying to break in.” He unconsciously rubbed his shoulder, remembering the sickening crunch of bone as he’d slammed the door on the man’s hand. “You should check his hand, it has to be broken. I… I slammed the door on it.”

Detective Miller’s expression didn’t change. He took out a small notepad. “Can you describe the man for me, sir?”

Shai recounted the night’s events, the words spilling out in a disjointed, frantic stream. He described the man from the club, the aggressive driving, the terrifying appearance in his yard. He talked about the impossible things—Trixie’s strange behavior, the way Rodney had known his name, the chilling use of a private nickname. He left out the part about the eyes. It was too insane. It would make them think he was crazy, not a victim.

“And you’re certain the man you saw was named Rodney,” Miller said, not a question but a confirmation. “Rodney Vickers?”

“Yes! That’s him. So you found him? Is he in custody?” A wave of dizzying relief washed over Shai. It was real. He wasn’t losing his mind. There was a man, a real, physical man named Rodney Vickers, and the police had him.

Detective Miller closed his notepad with a soft snap. He looked from Shai to Sarah, his gaze softening with something that looked unnervingly like pity.

“Mr. Alenko,” he said slowly, choosing his words with care. “We found Mr. Vickers. But not at your house.”

“Then where?”

“We found him at his own apartment across town. An uninvolved neighbor called in a wellness check this morning.” The detective took a breath. “Sir, Rodney Vickers was found dead. The coroner’s preliminary estimate places his time of death at around six p.m. yesterday evening. The cause appears to have been a sudden, massive brain aneurysm.”

The words didn't compute. They were just sounds, disconnected from reality. Sarah let out a soft gasp, her hand flying to her mouth.

“No,” Shai whispered. “That’s… that’s impossible. He was in my yard an hour ago. I saw him. I fought him.”

“There were no signs of a break-in at your property, Mr. Alenko,” the detective continued gently. “No footprints in the damp soil other than your own. The only thing out of place was a crack in the glass of your sliding door.”

The relief that had buoyed Shai just moments before evaporated, plunging him into a cold, terrifying abyss of confusion. If Rodney was already dead—had been dead for hours before he even came to the club—then what was the thing in his yard? What was the thing he had let into his house?

Suddenly, the pieces of the puzzle began to slam into place, forming a picture of such monstrous, unbelievable horror that his mind buckled under the weight of it.

The eyes. They weren't just a strange color. They hadn't fit his face because they weren't his. They were just a lens for something else looking through. A mask.

Trixie. She hadn’t been submissive to Rodney. She had been submissive to the power behind Rodney. But when the thing dropped its act in the backyard, she had recognized the monster for what it was. Animals know.

“Shy-Shy.” A memory stolen from Tom. This creature didn't just mimic people; it consumed their knowledge, their intimacies.

The crushed hand. The sickening crunch. The unearthly shriek. And then… nothing. No blood. No broken fingers left behind. Because it hadn’t been a real hand. It was a puppet’s limb, and the thing pulling the strings felt no real pain, left no real evidence.

It was a parasite. A parasite that wore people like clothes. It had worn Tom, amplifying his jealousy into a suffocating obsession. When Shai had escaped him, it had found a new host—Rodney—a temporary vessel to continue its hunt. And when that vessel had broken, it hadn't mattered. The thing inside was unharmed. It had just… moved on.

“Shai?” Sarah’s voice cut through his spiraling thoughts. Detective Miller was watching him with a look of deep concern, probably deciding if he needed a psychiatrist more than a police officer.

“I’m… I’m okay,” Shai mumbled, pushing himself off the sofa. “I just need a minute.”

He walked on unsteady legs toward the brightly lit kitchen, needing to splash water on his face, to ground himself in the sterile, normal reality of his sister's home. The detective was wrong. The police couldn’t help him. He was being hunted by a ghost, a puppeteer that could be anyone. He was completely, utterly alone.

No. Not alone. He had Sarah. His kind, sensible, loving sister. The one constant, safe person in his life. He turned back toward the living room, a torrent of impossible words bubbling up in his throat, ready to confess the entire insane truth to the one person he knew would believe him, would help him.

“Sarah, you have to listen to me,” he began, his voice trembling. “It’s not a man. It’s something… something else. It was in Tom, and now it’s—”

He stopped.

Sarah was looking at him, a gentle, comforting smile on her face. The kind of smile she’d given him his whole life. But the smile didn't reach her eyes. It was a rictus of affection painted on a face of stone.

And her eyes.

Her warm, familiar, chocolate-brown eyes were gone.

Staring back at him from his sister’s beloved face were two brilliant, furious emeralds. They pulsed with a cold, possessive light, burning with the triumphant rage of a predator that had finally, finally cornered its prey.

The cinnamon-scented air of the safe house turned to poison in his lungs. This wasn't a sanctuary. It was the center of the web. He hadn't fled to safety; he had run directly into the trap.