Chapter 4 - The Visitor at the Glass
Mark scrambled up, placing himself between the front door and his family. The living room curtains were half-drawn, allowing only slivers of gray afternoon light to slice through the gloom. The brass doorknob jiggled again, more forcefully this time, before stopping.
Through the frosted glass panel beside the door, a silhouette loomed. It was tall, broad-shouldered, and completely motionless. Mark picked up a heavy bronze bookend from the shelf, his jaw set.
""Get away from the door!"" Mark yelled, his voice cracking with adrenaline. ""I’m armed! The police are on their way!""
The figure didn't retreat. Instead, a hand pressed against the glass. It wasn't the hand of an intruder wearing a glove; the fingers were pale, impossibly long, and blackened at the nails, as if stained by soot or turned necrotic. A gentle tapping sound followed—three slow knocks on the pane.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Inside the house, Toby didn't flinch. The toddler stood quietly by Clara’s legs, watching the silhouette with an expression of grim understanding. He raised his little finger to his mouth once more.
""Shh,"" Toby whispered to Mark. ""He’s listening for you.""
Mark backed away from the entrance, feeling an irrational dread sink into the pit of his stomach. A standard home invader would kick the door or run away when threatened. This entity stood patient, observing, testing the threshold.
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Suddenly, the house’s electrical panel in the hallway sparked violently, plunging the living room into near-total darkness as the gloomy storm clouds outside thickened. In the sudden pitch-blackness, the grandfather clock stopped ticking.
In the complete silence, the unmistakable sound of wood splintering came not from the front door, but from directly beneath the floorboards under the rug where Mark stood.
