Chapter 3 - Shadows in the Hallway
The interior of the house smelled faintly of burnt coffee and copper—the unmistakable, sharp tang of fresh blood. I paused just inside the shattered sliding door, my eyes scanning the dimly lit kitchen. Countertops were pristine, but a ceramic mug lay shattered on the linoleum floor, dark brown liquid pooling around the broken pieces like a dark stain.
“Ethan?” I whispered, keeping my voice low, pitched at a frequency only my son would recognize if he were close.
No answer, just the steady, rhythmic sound of a child’s muffled breathing coming from down the short hallway leading to the bedrooms.
I gripped the heavy metal flashlight like a club, stepping over the threshold of the kitchen and into the central corridor. The walls of the hallway were lined with framed family photos—Melissa, Ethan at his third birthday party, and, strangely enough, several recent portraits of Chad smiling beside Melissa. But as my eyes adjusted to the gloomy interior light, I noticed something deeply disturbing.
Every single picture featuring Chad had been violently scratched out with a sharp instrument. His face was gouged away in every frame, leaving blank, jagged holes where his eyes and smile used to be.
Who did this? I thought. Melissa? Or Marcus?
A sudden scuff of a shoe on hardwood flooring echoed from the master bedroom at the far end of the hallway.
“Stay back!” a voice hissed from the darkness. It was a man’s voice, rough, exhausted, and laced with panic. It wasn’t Marcus. It sounded like Chad.
“Chad?” I called out, my grip tightening on the flashlight. “Where is my son? Where is Ryan?”
“Jake?” The doorway of the master bedroom darkened as a tall, broad-shouldered figure stepped out into the hallway. It was Chad, but he looked unrecognizable. His face was bruised, his nose swollen and crusted with dried blood, and his shirt was torn down the front, revealing deep purple contusions across his chest. He wasn’t holding a baseball bat. Instead, he was clutching a heavy cast-iron skillet, his knuckles white with tension.
“Don’t move another inch, Jake,” Chad warned, panting heavily. “I’m warning you. He’s out of his mind.”
“Who? Marcus?” I demanded, taking a step forward despite his warning. “Where is Ethan, Chad? What did you do to him?”
“Me?” Chad let out a harsh, bitter laugh that ended in a wince of pain. “I didn’t touch the kid! I walked into the living room ten minutes ago and found Marcus holding him at gunpoint. Marcus locked me in the guest bathroom, beat the hell out of me when I tried to break out, and then... God, Jake, I don't know what he's planning, but he's got your brother too.”
“Where is Ryan?” My voice rose, cutting through the tense silence of the house.
“In the basement,” Chad muttered, lowering the skillet slightly as he looked toward the cellar door near the kitchen. “Marcus dragged him down there after your brother tackled him in the living room.”
My mind raced. Ryan had tackled someone. That explained the crash he heard over the phone before the line disconnected. But if Ryan was in the basement and Chad was locked in the bathroom, who was standing with Ethan in the photograph Melissa had sent?
Wait—Melissa hadn't sent the photograph. Ryan had texted it to me right before things went south. Or had he?
I pulled Ryan’s phone out of my pocket and unlocked it using his standard pattern. I opened the message history with my contact. The photo of Ethan holding the bat with Melissa unconscious on the floor wasn't sent by Ryan at all. The sender ID at the top of the chat thread had switched.
It was coming from an external number masked by a spoofing app.
“It’s a trap,” I muttered aloud, looking up at Chad. “The photo wasn’t from Ryan. Someone else sent it to lure me here.”
Chad’s eyes widened in horror. Before he could speak, a sharp, metallic click echoed from the end of the hallway behind him.
The heavy oak door of the master bedroom swung slowly open, creaking on its hinges.
Standing in the doorway, barefoot and wearing an oversized green dinosaur pajama shirt, was Ethan.
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And in his small, trembling hands, he wasn't holding a toy. He was dragging the heavy aluminum baseball bat across the floor, its metal tip scraping a harsh, screeching line against the wood.
“Daddy?” Ethan whispered, his large, tear-filled eyes locking onto mine. “You came.”
