Chapter 4 - The Mark on the Mattress
Sarah’s fingers found the lock mechanism. She twisted it with frantic, skin-tearing force until the deadbolt finally yielded with a loud pop. Throwing the heavy white door wide open, she stumbled into the brightly lit hallway, carrying Toby who was shaking violently against her chest. She did not stop. She rushed back into the nursery under the bright glare of the hallway lights, reached into the crib, and scooped the wailing infant into her other arm.
Brendan’s cheeks were flushed red, his tiny fists flailing in blind distress. Sarah retreated backwards out of the nursery, kicking the door completely closed and retreating down the hall to the master bedroom. She slammed that door too, turning the heavy brass thumb-turn and leaning her entire back against the wood, gasping for air.
""It's okay, you're safe. We're safe,"" she chanted, as much for herself as for the children. She set Toby down on the king-sized bed and laid Brendan beside him, quickly wrapping the crying baby in the duvet. Her hands were shaking so hard she could barely unbutton Brendan's onesie to inspect him.
When she peeled back the cotton fabric over his chest, her breath caught in her throat.
Above Brendan’s fragile sternum, right over where his irregular heart beat furiously beneath thin ribs, was a pale, circular bruise. It wasn't a random mark; it was the distinct imprint of five fingertips—long, skeletal, and spaced wide, as if a large hand had pressed firmly downward to feel the pulse. The skin around the impression was cold to the touch and dusted with a microscopic layer of fine, dark soil.
Toby sat cross-legged on the duvet, watching his mother’s face with unsettling composure. The raw panic from earlier seemed to have settled into a strange, defeated resignation. ""She touched him while you were at the door,"" he stated simply. ""She said his heart is fluttering like a moth. She wants to take it before the doctors cut him open.""
Brendan was scheduled for corrective surgery at Seattle Children's Hospital in two weeks. Evelyn had vehemently opposed the procedure before her death, insisting that family blood was too sacred for foreign scalpels and machines.
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""Did she... did she say anything else to you, Toby?"" Sarah asked, pulling her robe tighter around her body, unable to stop her teeth from chattering. The master bedroom felt temporarily safe, but the shadows in the far corners of the ceiling seemed to shift whenever she blinked.
""She said she left something for you,"" Toby replied, his gaze drifting toward the antique vanity mirror against the wall. ""In her sewing basket in the basement. She said you wouldn't believe her until you read what she wrote the night she died.""
