Friday arrived with the soft promise of rest, the kind that lingered in the air even before the weekend began.
"I can't wait for tomorrow," Anna said, her voice bright with anticipation as she leaned over the kitchen counter, watching her mother stir the pot. "The basketball competition is going to be amazing. All my friends will be there."
Rita smiled without looking up. It was exactly six in the evening—the hour when the MacAllister household always settled into itself. The kitchen was warm, filled with the comforting aroma of chicken broth simmering gently beside a tray of roasted chicken. Rice fluffed quietly in its pot, vegetables steamed to a familiar tenderness. It was the kind of meal that never changed, not because it lacked imagination, but because tradition had given it meaning.
Friday dinners were sacred.
No phones. No distractions. Just the four of them around the table, unraveling the week thread by thread. It was a time when laughter flowed easily, when school troubles were aired without fear, and—most importantly—when the children were allowed to speak freely, even about the ways their parents had disappointed them. Rita and her husband had always believed that honesty, though uncomfortable, was safer than silence.
"Daddy will soon be here!" Dave announced suddenly, bouncing on his toes.
At six years old, Dave's excitement was rarely subtle. His joy had less to do with dinner and more to do with what usually followed his father's arrival: the daily home-coming goodies—candies, little toys, or sometimes nothing more than a knowing wink and a playful ruffle of his hair. To Dave, it was always enough.
Rita glanced at the clock instinctively. "It's six," she said, more to herself than to anyone else. "Yes, Daddy should be home any minute."
She turned toward Anna. "Set the table, please. I'll finish up here."
Anna obeyed, humming softly as she laid out the plates. Dave, meanwhile, planted himself near the door, his eyes fixed on it with unwavering devotion, as though staring hard enough might summon his father faster.
The clock ticked.
6:05 p.m.
The doorbell rang.
Dave gasped. "That's him!"
"Anna, get the door," Rita said, wiping her hands on a towel.
Anna didn't hesitate. She skipped toward the door, her mind already forming the smile she would wear when she saw her father standing there. But when she opened it, the night stared back at her—empty and silent.
No footsteps. No familiar car engine humming down the road. Just the cold stillness of early winter dusk.
Confused, Anna stepped outside, scanning the compound. The shadows had grown longer than she expected, stretching and clinging to corners. A strange unease crept into her chest.
"Who could that be?" she murmured.
Assuming it was a prank— maybe a neighbor's idea of humor—she turned back toward the door.
That was when something moved.
Before she could scream, before she could even fully understand what she was seeing, an unseen force seized her from behind. It was not quite solid, not quite visible—just a distortion in the air, like a shadow that did not belong to the ground.
Anna screamed.
The sound tore through the evening, sharp and desperate.
Rita dropped everything.
She ran outside, her heart pounding violently against her ribs as she called her daughter's name over and over. The sky seemed to darken too quickly, the familiar compound suddenly foreign, hostile. There was no sign of Anna—no footsteps, no movement, no answer.
"Anna!" she cried again, her voice cracking.
Fear flooded her thoughts, thick and paralyzing. She backed toward the door, panic sharpening her instincts.
"Dave," she called, straining her neck to see inside. "Do not come out. Don't open the door. Only listen for my voice. Do you hear me?"
Inside, Dave stood frozen, confusion giving way to fear.
Outside, Rita's mind raced with a single, terrifying certainty:
Her daughter was in danger.
And whatever had taken Anna might not be finished yet.
Rita followed the sound of her daughter's scream, her heart hammering so violently it drowned out her own footsteps. The voice had not stopped—not yet—but it had thinned, frayed at the edges, as though fear itself were exhausting her lungs.
Before moving farther into the compound, Rita veered toward the garage.
Her hands shook as she grabbed the first thing she could find—a thick wooden stick, splintered at one end, heavy enough to hurt someone if it had to. She gripped it with both hands, steadying herself, forcing air into her chest. Mothers don't think. They move.
The screaming grew fainter, but it was still there. Close. Too close.
She passed the old dog's pen—empty now, rusted at the hinges, the name tag still nailed crookedly to the wood. The sound was coming from just beyond it.
Rita slowed.
The back of the house had always felt wrong to her. It sat at the edge of the compound like an afterthought, poorly lit and permanently cold. A single naked bulb hung above a makeshift shed, its weak yellow glow barely pushing back the darkness. That area was used for forgotten things—abandoned cushions, boxes of old toys, clothes neatly folded and stacked for donation but never quite given away. Objects waiting for another life.
She edged closer, her breath shallow, the stick raised instinctively.
Then she peeped inside.
Her breath caught so sharply it hurt.
Ryan was there.
Her husband stood rigid, one knee pressed into the back of a man lying face down on the ground. The man was not moving. His trousers were pulled down awkwardly, one leg tangled in fabric. Anna stood just beside her father, frozen, her small hands clenched into fists so tight her knuckles were white.
For half a second, Rita's mind refused to connect the scene.
Then it did.
Her grip on the stick loosened. It slipped from her fingers and hit the ground with a dull thud.
She rushed forward, dropping to her knees and pulling Anna into her arms. "Baby... baby, are you okay?" she whispered frantically, checking her daughter's face, her hair, her hands—anywhere she could reach.
Anna didn't cry.
She didn't speak.
She only shook—her entire body trembling as if the cold had finally found her.
Anna had always been a quiet child. She internalized fear, swallowed discomfort whole. Even when she was younger, she cried without sound, as if making noise would somehow make things worse.
And yet—
Anna had spoken about him.
More than once.
She had complained about a boy at school who watched her too closely, who always seemed to be standing where he shouldn't be, who somehow knew where she would be before she got there. Rita remembered brushing it off at first—teenage exaggeration, harmless attention. Later, when Anna insisted, Rita had told her she would speak to the school.
The boy's name had come up.
Alex.
They attended the same school.
Rita felt the memory hit her like a delayed blow.
Rita held her tighter, rocking slightly, whispering reassurances she wasn't sure she believed herself.
Only then did she look up at Ryan.
"When did you get here?" she asked, her voice breaking. "Are you—are you okay?"
She stood and wrapped her arms around him, pressing her face into his chest. The embrace was desperate, grateful, wordless. Thank you for being here.
Thank you for saving her.
Ryan didn't respond immediately. His body was stiff, his breathing uneven.
The three of them stayed like that for a long time—Anna clinging to her mother, Rita holding both child and husband, Ryan staring into the darkness ahead.
The silence was unbearable.
No sirens. No shouting. Just crickets chirping, oblivious, persistent.
Finally, Ryan pulled away.
"We need to see his face," he said quietly.
Rita opened her mouth to protest, then closed it. She nodded once.
Ryan walked toward the man slowly, as if afraid sudden movement might undo whatever fragile control remained. He knelt, hesitated, then turned the body over.
The face caught the light.
Rita felt her knees weaken.
He wasn't a stranger.
He wasn't just any man.
It was Alex—the Municipal Mayor's son.
The three of them stood there, frozen beneath the dim bulb, the weight of the truth crashing down all at once.
No one spoke.
No one moved.
The shock hung over them like a sentence already passed.
And in that moment, they all knew—
nothing would ever be simple again.