The next day, I woke up early to get ready for school.
I didn't sleep again after Mom came in, but I pretended to. The exhaustion made my body feel heavy, but my mind was racing. It knew Mia's name. It knew I had told her. My fear wasn't about the darkness anymore; it was about the threat to my sister. Mia was miles away at college, but somehow, the thing in my house knew her name and was angry that I had broken my silence.
I checked under my pillow. The black feather was still there, cold and rigid. My parents were convinced my screams were just a terrible nightmare—the kind seven-year-olds have. They hadn't heard the hissing voice, felt the bone-chilling cold, or seen the door close itself.
I ate breakfast in silence, my mind churning through the problem. I couldn't call Mia again. If the thing heard my name, maybe it could hear her voice, too. And if it knew the contents of our conversation last night, it could easily listen to another one. I needed a way to talk to her—a silent way.
I went up to my room to pack my school backpack. I opened my desk drawer and pulled out a fresh sheet of drawing paper and my set of colored markers. I chose the darkest one I had: the black marker.
I sat on the floor, using the smooth wooden floorboards as my desk, and started drawing. I didn't draw a picture, not exactly. I drew a map.
First, I drew a large square representing the house. Then, I drew smaller squares for the kitchen, the living room, and the hall. I marked a little 'X' in the hall where I heard the first whisper, and I drew the knocked-over chairs in the kitchen. I drew the grandfather clock and the little stick-figure toy soldier beside it, his mouth etched into that terrible, ugly grin.
Finally, I drew my bedroom upstairs. Right in the middle of my bed, I drew a small circle. Next to the circle, I carefully drew a tiny, thick black feather.
Underneath the drawing, I wrote one single, urgent sentence: "It knows your name. Check the feather."
I folded the drawing as small as I could, tucking it inside a sealed envelope. On the outside, I wrote Mia's full name and dorm address in big, blocky letters.
I knew Mom wouldn't ask what I was mailing to Mia; she was used to me sending goofy drawings and letters to my sister. But I couldn't risk leaving the package on the counter, just in case the thing could read, too.
I waited until I heard Mom's car keys jingle, signaling it was time to leave for school. I dashed downstairs, mail in hand.
"Ready, Leo?" she asked, handing me my lunchbox.
"Yep!" I said brightly. "Can we put this in the mailbox right now? It's for Mia."
"Sure thing, sweetheart."
As Mom unlocked the front door, I slipped the envelope into the heavy, metal mailbox on the front porch. The door clanged shut, a final, reassuring sound. The secret was sealed and on its way.
I got into the car, feeling a strange mixture of relief and renewed fear. The proof was gone from the house, but the fear of what was coming next was only just beginning.
I had sent Mia the map, the feather, and the warning. Now all I could do was wait for her reply.
In the meantime, I need to take my mind off of everything. Once we got to school, I got out of the car.
"Bye mom, I love you."
School was supposed to be a distraction, a safe, sunlit place where the cold and the whispers couldn't reach me. But as I walked across the noisy playground, nothing felt normal. The loud shouts of other children sounded muted and distant, like I was listening through a pane of glass.
I made it to my classroom and sat at my small wooden desk. Our teacher, Mrs. Gable, was talking about ancient civilizations, but all I could think about was the ancient, angry thing in my own house.
I reached into my pocket and touched the outline of the tiny, black feather I had slipped there before I left home. I couldn't leave it under my pillow again. I had to keep it close.
It was during recess that the tension finally broke. I was sitting alone beneath the big, old oak tree at the edge of the playground, watching my classmates play tag. I was trying to focus on my sandwich, but it tasted like dust.
Suddenly, a gust of wind—a surprisingly cold gust for a sunny afternoon—whipped past me. The hair on my arms stood up.
A small, folded piece of paper fluttered down from the branches above and landed right in my lap.
I froze, heart pounding. I looked up into the dense leaves of the oak tree. There was nothing there—no bird, no kid climbing, no sign of what had dropped the note.
Hesitantly, I unfolded the paper. It wasn't a school note; it was a rough, simple drawing done in pencil. The picture was of a toy soldier with a horribly grinning face.
But next to the soldier, a new detail was drawn: a large, dark circle with two tiny stick figures inside. They were drawn holding hands, and a single, bold line was slashed right through them.
Under the drawing, written in a cramped, shaky handwriting that I didn't recognize, was a message that made the blood drain from my face:
"Mia is not safe."
My breath hitched. It couldn't be. The thing was here. It had followed me, or maybe, it had found the drawing I sent to Mia and was communicating with me right now. But how? And who was writing on its behalf?
I crushed the paper in my hand, scrambling up from the ground. I had to get home. I had to call Mia, even if it risked everything. The silent, non-verbal war I thought I was fighting had just become very, very loud.