Chapter 8: Shadows in the Walls

SCARLETT

I don’t remember falling asleep.

One moment the anonymous warning glowed on my screen, the next I’m waking to the gray hush of early dawn, phone still in my hand and heart thudding like I’ve been running.

The message is still there. Stay away from him if you want the truth to stay buried.

Truth. Buried.

Words heavy enough to crush.

I shower quickly, the water too hot, as if I can steam the unease off my skin. It clings anyway.

Downstairs, the house feels different like it knows a secret and is waiting for me to notice. My mother isn’t up yet. A small mercy.

The front porch creaks.

I freeze, towel still around my shoulders.

Another soft creak.

I step to the window. Damien’s truck sits at the curb again, engine off, dark and silent.

I yank on jeans and a sweatshirt, pulse rising. Before my courage fades, I slipped outside.

He’s leaning against the driver’s door, hood up. His eyes are shadowed but alert.

“You shouldn’t be here,” I whispered.

“I could say the same to you.” His voice is low, and urgent. “Did someone text you?”

My breath catches. “You got one too?”

He pulls out his phone. The screen lights up with a message almost identical to mine. Tell her before it’s too late.

I grip the cold metal of the truck and asked. “Who’s sending these?”

“I don’t know.” His jaw tightens. “But they know enough to scare me.”

“About my mother?” I ask.

He hesitates. “About a lot of things.”

The silence between us is louder than any answer.

The sound of a door opening snaps us both around.

Maria stood on the porch in a robe, hair uncombed, eyes sharp even in half-light.

“What’s going on?”

Damien recovers first. “Checking on a job site. Needed a word with Scarlett about…tools.”

“Tools?” She narrows her gaze. “At six in the morning?”

I swallow hard. “He just needed to borrow something from the garage.”

Her eyes move between us like a blade. “Interesting.”

The moment stretches until she finally turns back inside. “Breakfast in twenty minutes,” she calls, the door clicking shut behind her.

Damien exhales. “She’s getting suspicious.”

“No kidding,” I whisper. “What aren’t you telling me?”

He looks at me as if weighing whether to break a vow. “There are things about your mother you don’t know. Things I should have told you before this got so—” He stops himself. “I’ll explain later. Not here.”

“Later when?” I demand.

“Tonight. I promise.”

His gaze holds mine a beat too long before he climbs into the truck and drives off, taillights fading like a warning.

Inside, the kitchen smells of coffee and tension.

Maria sets two plates on the table. “You’re up early,” she says without looking at me.

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“Funny. Neither could I.” She slides into a chair and finally meets my eyes. “Scarlett, is there something between you and Damien I should know?”

The question lands like a strike.

Every muscle in me stiffens. “What? No.”

Her stare doesn’t waver. “Then why does he keep showing up at odd hours?”

I force a laugh that sounds brittle even to me. “He’s just…helpful. Around the house.”

She leans back, studying me. “Helpful,” she repeats, voice soft but sharp.

Before I could answer, her phone buzzed. She glances at the screen, and her expression changes at first surprise, then something darker. She stands abruptly, chair scraping the tile.

“I need to go,” she says, already reaching for her keys.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“Work thing.” Her tone dares me to press further.

She’s out the door before I can say another word.

The house is suddenly too quiet.

I picked up my own phone and read the anonymous text again. The words feel heavier now that Maria’s received something too because that look on her face wasn’t about work.

I pace the living room, trying to think. Who would target all three of us?

A neighbor with sharp eyes? Someone from Damien’s past? One of my mother’s drinking buddies with a grudge?

Another vibration stops me cold.

Truth doesn’t stay buried forever.

No name. No number.

The message is identical to mine, but this time it’s accompanied by a photo attachment.

I open it with trembling fingers.

The image is dark and grainy, but unmistakably our house, taken from across the street. A silhouette stands in the foreground, camera in hand watching.

The rest of the day unravels like a frayed thread.

Maria never calls. Damien doesn’t answer when I text. I check the street every few minutes, half expecting that shadowed figure to return.

By evening the sky turns copper and bruised, and a storm begins to brew. Thunder grumbles in the distance, echoing the tightness in my chest.

Headlights flash in the driveway.

It’s not Damien.

It’s not my mother.

A dark sedan idles with its lights off, windows tinted so black they swallow the dusk.

I move to the window, heart in my throat.

The driver’s side door opens slowly. A figure steps out—tall, hooded, face hidden.

Lightning splits the sky, and for an instant the whole yard glows white.

When the light fades, the figure is gone.

I stand frozen, staring into the rain, the anonymous texts ringing in my ears.

Stay away from him if you want the truth to stay buried.

Truth doesn’t stay buried forever.

And for the first time, I wonder if the danger isn’t just between my mother, Damien, and me.

Maybe someone else has been inside our story all along.

Rain lashes the windows in sharp, frantic strokes.

I press my forehead to the cold glass, searching the yard for movement, but the sedan sits silent, dark, like a predator waiting for night to swallow it whole.

A flash of lightning white, blinding reveals nothing. No driver. No figure. Just the storm.

My phone vibrates in my pocket. I nearly dropped it.

My breath catches.

I scan the porch, the street, every shadow. The sedan’s taillights flare without warning and the car glides away, tires hissing on wet pavement until it disappears into the rain.

I backed away from the window, pulse hammering.

Whoever they are, they know where I live. They know I’m watching.

The house moans under the storm.

I moved from room to room, checking locks twice, then a third time. Each squeak of the floor sounds like a footstep following close behind.

By the time the clock edges toward midnight, exhaustion pulls at me, but I can’t stop listening. For thunder. For engines. For the unknown.

When my mother finally returns, headlights sweeping the living room walls, relief hits me like a sudden downpour. Yet dread follows just as fast.

She steps inside dripping rain, her hair clinging to her cheeks. “Why are all the curtains closed?” she asks, shaking out her umbrella.

“Storm,” I say too quickly. “Thought it would keep the draft out.”

Her eyes narrow. “Scarlett… has anyone come by?”

I hesitate a fraction too long. “No. Why?”

She sets down her bag. “Because I got a message tonight. No name. Just a photo of our house.”

My stomach twists. “What did it say?”

Her jaw tightens. “Nothing. Just the picture.”

I want to tell her about the texts, the car, the figure.

But the memory of Damien’s warning Not a word locks my throat.

Instead I mumble, “That’s creepy.”

Maria studies me, searching for something I’m not ready to give. Finally she exhales, weary. “Double-check the doors. I’m going to bed.”

She leaves a trail of rainwater down the hallway. I watch her bedroom door close and listen for the click of the lock.

Alone again, I curl into the corner of the couch, lights dimmed, phone in my hand.

Minutes blur into hours. Midnight slides toward one a.m.

Another buzz.

My heart stutters.

This time the message comes with an audio file. I tap it before I can think.

A low male voice, distorted but clear enough to chill me.

“Damien isn’t who you think he is. Ask your mother about June seventh. Midnight.”

The file ends with a faint metallic scrape, like a door opening.

June seventh. Midnight.

The date means nothing until I remembered it’s the night my father died.

I clutch the phone to my chest as thunder cracks overhead.

If this is a game, it’s one only a monster would play.

Sleep never comes.

By the time the storm fades, dawn bleeds pale and cold through the curtains. I sit unmoving, phone still in my grip, a single thought repeating like a drumbeat.

I need answers before the next message finds me first. What is Damien's true identity? Is he a serial killer? And what did June seventh the night I lost my father have to do? I asked myself in curiosity.