The rain that evening came without warning — a thick, unrelenting curtain that blurred the world outside into shades of gray. Inside a modest little house at the end of Maple Lane, a woman named Hannah sat at her kitchen table, patching her son’s torn school shirt under the flickering light. The rhythmic sound of the needle moving through fabric mixed with the distant drumming of rain against the windows.
Her four children — Ava, Jacob, Lily, and Ben — were crowded around a single candle on the table, finishing their homework. They were good kids, quiet when they knew their mother was tired, and tonight, Hannah looked exhausted. Her husband, Matthew, had passed away two years earlier in a construction accident, leaving her with four children and a mortgage that felt heavier than the roof it secured.
When the thunder cracked close enough to shake the windowpanes, Ben jumped and nearly knocked over the candle. “It’s okay, sweetheart,” Hannah murmured, steadying the flame. “It’s just the storm. It’ll pass soon.”
But the storm didn’t pass. It only grew stronger.
Around 8:30, there came a faint knocking on the front door. It was so soft that Hannah thought she’d imagined it. The second knock, however, was louder — insistent, even desperate. She glanced toward the door, brows furrowing. Few people ever came out this far during good weather, let alone in a storm like this.
“Mom?” Ava whispered, clutching her little sister’s hand. “Who could that be?”
“I don’t know,” Hannah said, rising from her chair. “Stay here.”
She took the candle and walked slowly to the door, her bare feet making soft sounds on the worn floorboards. When she opened it, a blast of cold wind swept in, nearly snuffing out the flame.