The old man fell backward, one hand clamped over his mouth.

The phone was still pressed against his ear.

The voice whispered,

“Don’t scream.”

His eyes filled with tears.

“What is that?”

The voice went quiet for one second.

Then said,

“It’s how he watches you.”

The old man stopped breathing.

Downstairs, a door opened.

A familiar voice called gently,

“Dad? Are you home?”

His son-in-law.

The old man’s lips trembled.

“He said you died,” he whispered into the phone. “He said my daughter died with you.”

The voice broke.

“No, Dad.”

The old man’s face collapsed.

It was not a man’s voice.

It was his daughter, trying to stay quiet through a broken signal.

“He locked me in the room behind your attic.”

The red eye blinked again through the crack.

Then the son-in-law’s footsteps started climbing the stairs.

Slow.

Patient.

The old man backed against the wall, shaking.

His daughter whispered,

“Dad… if he opens the door, pretend you didn’t hear me.”

The attic handle began to turn.

And from behind the wall, his daughter breathed,

“He’s not coming for you.”

A pause.

“He’s coming to see if I’m still alive.”