Chapter 8: No Place to Run

Chapter 8: No Place to Run

The decision to flee was a chemical reaction, not a thought. Adrenaline dumped into David’s system, a primal scream that propelled him back into the darkness of the hall. He moved on silent, bare feet, every nerve fiber vibrating with a singular purpose. He didn't look back at the yellow glow of the kitchen, at the polite, monstrous tea party unfolding within. To look back was to be lost.

He crept upstairs, forcing his breathing to be even, feigning a return to bed for the benefit of any unseen ears. He slipped into his room, the sanctuary that had become a minefield, and began to pack. His movements were frantic but quiet, a panicked choreography of survival. He grabbed a duffel bag from the closet and threw in clothes without looking—jeans, t-shirts, socks. He snatched his wallet and keys from the dresser. His fingers brushed against the frayed bracelet his wife had made, and he paused for a fraction of a second, his terror momentarily pierced by a shard of grief. He was leaving the last place he had shared with her, abandoning it to the thing that had possibly stalked her in her final days. The thought spurred him on. He had to save their daughter. He had to.

The hardest part was going into her room. The air was still cold, still thick with the lingering presence he’d felt behind him. He half-expected to see the collection box sitting on her pillow, a silent accusation. But the room was empty and still. Maisyn was asleep in her bed, her breathing deep and even. She looked so small, so innocent, curled under her pink comforter. For a heart-stopping moment, he saw only his daughter, and a wave of protective love washed over him.

He gently scooped her up. She was a dead weight in his arms, her head lolling onto his shoulder, not stirring in the slightest. An unnerving stillness. He wrapped her in her comforter, creating a cocoon against the night, and carried her out of the room, out of the house, leaving the door unlocked behind him. He didn't care. Let the monster have the house. He just wanted his daughter back.

The three-hour drive to his brother Jake’s house was a journey through a personal hell. David drove with the windows down, the cold night air a desperate attempt to keep himself awake and stave off the encroaching madness. Maisyn slept soundly in the passenger seat, a placid, unnerving stillness about her. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel. Every pair of headlights in his rearview mirror was a potential pursuer. Every rustle of leaves in the wind-tossed trees lining the highway sounded like a thousand tiny needles scraping together.

He replayed the horrors of the last few weeks in a repeating loop: the impossible knowledge of Savannah's "grey days," the chilling sight of the children’s silent gathering, the creak of the empty chair at his kitchen table. He was fleeing a ghost, an idea, a feeling. How could he explain this to Jake? His older brother was a contractor, a man who believed in blueprints, load-bearing walls, and problems you could solve with a hammer. He would think David had finally cracked under the strain of grief. Maybe he had.

The sun was just beginning to paint the eastern sky in bruised shades of purple and orange when he pulled into Jake’s driveway. The house was a sturdy, sensible two-story colonial in a quiet suburban cul-de-sac. It was a fortress of normalcy, of clean gutters and a neatly mowed lawn. Relief, potent and dizzying, washed over David. The sun was up. They were two hundred miles away. The air here felt clean, light. Maybe, just maybe, he had outrun it.

Jake met him at the door, his face etched with sleepy concern. "Davey? What the hell? I got your text. Is everything okay?"

"Just… needed to get away," David mumbled, hoisting the still-sleeping Maisyn higher in his arms. "Bad gas leak at the house. They said it could be days." The lie tasted like ash in his mouth.

Jake’s concern softened into sympathy. "Jesus. Okay, okay, get in. I’ll put some coffee on. You look like you've been through a war."

You have no idea, David thought.

He carried Maisyn to the guest room, a spare, clean space that smelled of fresh linen and cedar. He tucked her into bed, pulling the covers up to her chin. She didn't stir. He watched her for a long moment, a fragile hope fluttering in his chest. A new location. A broken connection. Please, God, let it be that simple.

He went back downstairs to find Jake holding two steaming mugs of coffee. For an hour, David dodged questions, weaving a flimsy narrative of stress and home repairs. He felt Jake’s skeptical gaze on him but was too exhausted to craft a more believable lie.

Just after 9 AM, Maisyn padded down the stairs, rubbing her eyes. She looked like his little girl again, her face soft with sleep, her hair a messy tangle.

"Daddy? Where are we?" she asked, her voice small and childish.

"We're at Uncle Jake's house, sweet pea," David said, his heart soaring with hope. "We're going to stay here for a little while."

She walked past him, toward the large picture window that looked out onto Jake's pristine front yard. She pressed her nose against the glass, looking out at the empty street, the quiet houses. A slow, happy smile spread across her face.

David's fragile hope shattered into a million pieces.

"Oh, good!" she chirped, her voice bright and cheerful. She lifted a small hand and gave a little wave to the empty, sun-drenched lawn.

Her next words were a death sentence to his relief.

"Mr. Pins followed us."

David’s blood ran cold. He shot a panicked glance at Jake, who was looking from Maisyn to him with a confused frown.

"Honey, don't say that," David said quickly, his voice tight. "You're just playing. He's an imaginary friend, remember? He stays at our house."

Maisyn turned from the window, her eyes holding that serene, unsettling knowledge once more. "No, he's not imaginary. And he doesn't live in the house, Daddy. He lives with the lonely people. He said he likes Uncle Jake's house. It's very quiet."

The rest of the day was a waking nightmare. David tried to maintain a facade of normalcy for Jake’s sake, but the dread was a living thing in his chest. He was a carrier of a plague, and he had brought it into his brother's home, endangering the one person he thought he could run to. Every creak of the floor, every shadow in a corner, sent a jolt of terror through him.

Night fell. David put Maisyn to bed, her earlier pronouncement hanging between them like a shroud. He insisted on leaving her door open, the hallway light on. Downstairs, he and Jake sat in a strained silence, the television droning on ignored.

Around midnight, Jake stood up. "Look, man, I'm beat. We can talk more in the morning. Try and get some sleep. You look like you're about to fall over."

David just nodded, unable to form words. He heard his brother's footsteps go up the stairs, the sound of his bedroom door closing. David remained on the couch, convinced he would not sleep again for the rest of his life.

An hour later, footsteps thudded on the stairs again, urgent and heavy. Jake appeared in the living room doorway. His face was stark white, his eyes wide with a terror David recognized intimately. He looked like he’d seen a ghost.

In his outstretched hand, trembling violently, he held a single, small, silver safety pin.

"David," Jake whispered, his voice a ragged, terrified rasp. "What the hell is going on? I just… I just found this on my pillow."