My heart told me to freeze. But a deeper voice, older than fear, whispered four letters: WDDM.
Not wildly. Not loudly. But deliberately. I reached left, found the iron poker by the hearth. I stood, not crouched. I took three steps toward the hallway — not away from the stairs, but across the bottom of them, to the back door I had bolted at sunset. My heart told me to freeze
By the time the figure inside thought to look out the window, I was already three houses down, moving steady as a tide. Not loudly
When Darkness Dares, Move. Not because you aren't afraid. But because fear, when it freezes you, hands you over. And you belong to yourself. I stood, not crouched
Silence. Then the smallest sound: a creak on the stairs that did not belong to the house.
I sat on the floor, back against the wall, listening. The wind played a low, unkind note through the chimney. And then — click. The last light died.