How did it end like this? 

“Shal…” He drags the “a” in my name out in a sing-song voice that reverberates throughout the room. The floor creaks from the weight of his footsteps, a taunting sign that he’s growing closer to the stack of totes I’ve positioned myself behind. With every groan, the bones of the home seem to shake, terrified of the monster walking from room to room. His footsteps grow closer, and I squeeze my eyes closed so tightly my nose scrunches. A childlike response to innate fear — if I can’t see you, you can’t see me. 

“Oh… Shal… Come out, come out wherever you are. I just want to play. You’ve been hiding long enough, don’t you think?” I swallow the lump in my throat and slap my palm across my mouth, squeezing my nose between my thumb and forefinger. “Oh, come on. I thought you were a fierce warrior. A survivor. Yet, here you are, hiding like a,” his voice changes from a low taunt as he finishes his sentence, “coward!” His scream is so loud that the volume swallows the normal echo of the partially filled, partitioned attic. “What would Harlynn think of you hiding like a little bitch? I’ll bet you Harlynn would come out and face me. She’s brave like her old man.” 

At the mention of my daughter’s name, the memories cascade over me like blunt bricks — sitting underneath his weight on the floor of my home, begging for the safety of my child, realizing that part of me was missing, both internally and externally, finding Alina lifeless in her bathtub, fleeing from my home and leaving behind every trace of the woman who remained. The dimming fire within me rekindles and surges as I remove my hand from my mouth and shove myself off the floor. My knees are weak, and my legs are shaking from blood loss. But I persevere, taking step after wobbly step toward the attic door, silently thanking the universe that Harlynn stayed with her friends for the late-night showing at the movies. 

He may have known the Shal who existed before, but he doesn’t know me now. I am a fucking warrior. I am a survivor. “I’ll show you ‘little bitch,’” I mumble as I wait for him to round the partition that divides the room in half. Moving as swiftly as my body allows, I bolt from behind the stack of tote boxes and stumble toward the exit, spilling a trail of blood along the way. As soon as I clear the threshold, I swivel on my unsteady heels, closing the attic door and locking it behind me. Seconds after comes a cracking thud. 

The detective in me always thought the deadbolt locks on the outside of a room were a sign of ill intention, of a crime waiting to happen or a crime that had already occurred. But life has taught me that such things could just be a method of survival. 

“Open this goddamn door, Shal.” His tone is bitter, dissociated, calculating. I reluctantly moved into this 19th-century home after being transplanted from Mares to Eerie Point as part of witness protection. It’s beautiful with a show of quality craftsmanship that’s virtually nonexistent today, but old houses always come with worsening issues — mold, rotted subflooring, bad plumbing, and likely, a few ghosts. But at this moment, I’ll take all those issues in exchange for the quality of materials used in building this home. It will take him a while to burst through that solid wooden door secured with iron hinges, and I need the time that those materials afford me. 

Fist after fist, he pounds against the door, each stroke more furious than the last. I wobble down the staircase, every move further ripping my wounds. Blood flows in endless streams between my fingers, dropping onto the hardwood floor like tiny red flakes of confetti. 

“I swear to God, when I get my fucking hands on you, I’m going to make you beg for your life, for Harlynn’s life, for the very air you breathe!” His words pang against me like arrows against armor as I steel myself, attempting to keep my blood pressure down to avoid bleeding out. When I reach the garage door, his words fade into indecipherable mumbles. I had so many plans for this space. A playroom for Harlynn when she was younger, which subsequently morphed into the hopes of making it a “hip hangout” for her as years quickly passed, a potential reading nook in which to lose myself, an adult den for whenever I decided I’d healed enough to share myself with others. But, like all other parts of my life that I meant to do more with, it remains barren — only the necessities lining the white, unfinished walls. 

I barely keep my balance as I bend forward to grab the handle of the partially filled gas can. An upward-moving fire always moves quicker than a downward-moving fire. Just like humans, if you’re looking to destroy, it’s always better to start at the base, compromising the structure. If you pull the right strings, damage or remove the right pillars or footers, the structure itself will do the work of implosion. But I’m not looking to destroy the building. I’m looking to destroy the menace trapped inside. I pour a trail of accelerant up the stairs, concentrating on the levels around the attic entrance. There are only two ways in and out of that room: the door that’s now soaked with gasoline and the painted-over window that hasn’t opened in decades. He has stopped pounding his fists against the door, which means he’s likely trying and failing to pry the window open. But more than that, the silence means he’s given up on the easiest escape and will soon find that his efforts are futile. And if there’s anything I know, it’s that there’s nothing worse than the moment you lose all hope. The split second you realize there’s nothing left to try. 

I smile, feeling the blood coat my teeth, as I pull the pack of matches that I grabbed from the kitchen drawer on the way back from the garage. Pushing back the imposing, swirling darkness, I take the stairs back to the ground floor, grip the wooden banister with my slippery hands, and quickly flip my wrist, dropping the lit match onto the trail of accelerant, and stumble toward the front door. The edges of my vision keep creeping closer to each other, swirling an inky darkness into reality. 

Just a few more steps. 

Almost there. 

The black cloud grows in my vision like an accelerated thunderhead, ever growing and relentless. What remaining sight I have melds into the blackness, and every item left in my dwindling vision multiplies threefold. My hand reaches the cold metal knob that has yet to absorb the heat of the now spreading fire, and I squeeze as hard as my exhausted and blood-deprived muscles will allow and twist. Freedom. That’s what waits on the other side of this door. Whether it’s freedom from Rathire or freedom from my plagued mind, or both, it’s freedom. 

As I pull the door open, I let out a slight, raspy giggle as triumph washes over me, but it’s premature. My slow stumble halts as Rathire’s black eyes meet mine. 

“Game over, bitch.” He plunges his knife into my chest. Blood surges up my throat, clogging my airway and painting my teeth scarlet. Rivulets trickle down my face and over my body as he holds my gaze. Amusement dances in his eyes as he smiles at me in a way that only he can and pulls the dagger from my chest. Somehow, I remain on my feet, but that is short-lived as he gently pushes me backward. I fall like the last domino in a long string, and the darkness that once stalked the perimeter of my vision pounces like a hungry lion, taking my vision by storm. My vision fades in and out as blood spews from my chest wound. He plants his feet on each side of me and leans over my motionless body. 

“Poor Shal…We always knew it would end this way. Didn’t we?” I’m unable to mumble a word in response as I gurgle and choke on the blood pooling in my throat. “Come on, Shal. You didn’t really think you’d win, did you?” Before my vision fades to black, I watch Rathire’s smile disappear behind the front door. The raging fire shines like glowing amber in my cloaked vision. The heat reaches me, and I succumb to it, knowing that the comforting radiation will soon swallow me whole. 

“Is there anything I can get for you?” A familiar voice asks Harlynn as they lower the casket into the ground — an unfitting and unsatisfying end. Her small build and short stature show her youth, and the fire that once blazed within her seems dull, smoldering as she mourns. If I’d drafted a last will and testament, I’d have mandated cremation. I’m convinced funerals are not for those closest to the victims. Rather, it’s closure for people who were barely around the deceased to begin with — a public display of affection they never truly possessed. 

“No, thank you.” She doesn’t recognize him, and even if she did, I’m not sure she’d really show it. I know this look. Her tone is far away, like her eyes — she’s present only physically. 

“Run, Harlynn! Run and don’t look back!” I yell, but her rigid body stands stiff against the cutting December wind, and my words are silent, drowned by the sorrow in the air. 

“I’m sorry to hear about the loss of your mother. She was a great woman.” His comment takes her by surprise. So many people are here who barely know her or, even better, don’t know her at all, so they’ve kept a distance from the family and huddled together in cliques. Someone having the audacity to approach her and reminisce suggests familiarity. 

“Did you know her?” He nods. 

“We worked together for a while. She was a hell of a detective,” he adds, leaving just enough space in the conversation for Harlynn to fall into his intricately crafted trap. He shoves his hands into his pockets and slants his shoulder, looking less menacing than the monster he cages when luring his prey. “Funerals are hard, aren’t they?” 

“They’re the worst. I didn’t even want to come, but then again, what kind of daughter would I be if I just didn’t show up to my mother’s funeral?” 

“The human kind. It’s normal to shrink away from big emotions like this. You’re brave.” 

She wipes a lonely tear from her face. “I don’t feel brave.” 

“The mightiest of warriors never do… Listen, a bunch of us from the precinct were going to her favorite coffee shop to honor her and chat about our memories and good times. Do you wanna come along?” His familiar dark eyes dance as Harlynn appears to consider her options, glancing back and forth between my mother, whom she should be with at this very moment, and the somehow familiar stranger extending a way out of this parade of mourning. 

“Mom! Mom! Pay a-fucking-ttention! Mom!” I shout over and over. Harlynn, after a few beats of silence, shakes her head. 

“Yeah, okay. Sure. Anywhere has to be better than here.” 

“Great. My car is just around the corner.” He steps to the side and gestures for her to lead the way. 

“I should probably tell my Nana.” She hesitates for a brief second. 

“No need. I already asked for her permission. We are good to go.” 

“Cool,” she shrugs and begins the short walk to his car. 

He turns around to face the hole in which my casket has just been lowered, and as the backhoe covers the casket with dirt, he smiles devilishly. “Checkmate.”