It’s nothing alarming. I’ve lived alone long enough to know houses shift. People forget small things. Ivy especially. She moves through spaces instinctively, not methodically.
As they continue trading insults over the cat, I walk into the kitchen and check the back door. The deadbolt is engaged, but the handle rattles faintly when I test it—looser than it should be.
I crouch, inspecting the latch. Old hardware. Humidity.Temperature changes. Any of those things could be affecting it.
I straighten and glance through the glass at the yard.
The hedge line is still. The trees stand motionless in the night air. No wind. No movement.
Stop looking for problems.
This is Hollow Creek. People leave doors unlocked. They wave. They gossip. They post Ring footage like it’s community theater.
I turn away from the window.
That’s when I notice the mat has shifted an inch or two.
My brows shoot up. I centered it with the doorframe when I moved in. I remember because things beingoffbothers me. And I always make sure it’s in its place every day.
I nudge it back into place with my shoe.
Enough nitpicking at things.
I wash my hands, dry them, and pour a glass of water.
But when Ivy and Drew come into the kitchen, Mr. Pickles follows them like he’s plotting more vengeance against my brother, and I forget all about it.
It’s latewhen I turn the movie off. Ivy is curled against my chest, fast asleep.
I gently scoop her up. Mr. Pickles lifts his head from the couch across from us, interest in his eyes. His sleep schedule is still erratic. He often comes to bed with us but wakes up a few hours later and begins terrorizing the house.
He follows behind me as I carry her to my bedroom, the bell on the new collar Ivy gave him jingling.
I tuck her in bed, then return to the living room to clean up.
I take one last look around, making sure everything is in its place, and then shut off the light.
My bare feet pad against the floor. The house is quiet. Drew went to bed hours ago, tired from the long drive home.
I’m in the hallway when I catch the faintest sound. I stop, cocking my head to listen.
But it’s silent.
I turn around, padding back to the patio doors. I locked them tonight, since Ivy’s here with me.
They’re still locked.
Shrugging, I head down the hallway. But the eerie feeling doesn’t leave.
The house feels… watched. Like someone standing just outside the circle of light.
I’m probably overreacting.
I stop in the doorway of my bedroom, watching Ivy sleep. Her breathing is slow and steady. Long lashes rest against her cheeks.
This is what happens when you let someone in. You start imagining threats where there are none.
I step inside, quietly closing the door.
