As soon as Edgar stepped out and the door clicked halfway shut, Nicole jumped up and locked it.

The deadbolt slid into place with a quiet, merciful thunk.

She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, then laughed—soft and nervous.
“Thank god he wants to sleep in different rooms,” she whispered. “Like I’m getting any sleep tonight.”

Her hands were shaking.
She pressed her palms hard against her thighs.
Like pressure could force the fear back in.
It didn’t.

This was a horror show.
Fear.
Panic.
Dread blooming behind her ribs like black mold.
She could feel tears rising.
Thick behind her eyes. Crawling up her throat.
No.
No. I can’t right now.
Get out of this.
Then cry.

She turned to the window.
Painted shut.
Not just stuck.
Sealed.
She jiggled it once—softly, desperately.
Nothing. No give. No sound. Just resistance.
Her forehead thudded gently against the glass.
Cold. Smooth. Unforgiving.
“Why am I in a freaking psycho movie?” she whispered. “This can’t be happening. This can’t be real.”

Outside, the trees swayed.
Soft and slow.
Like they didn’t know she was trapped.

  • Cold wind.
  • Black woods.
  • No neighbors.
  • No lights.
  • No help.

She stepped back and took stock.

  • No car.
  • No cell signal.
  • No Wi-Fi.
  • In the middle of nowhere.

With a man who talks to his dead parents like it’s Tuesday.

At least the door locks.

She laughed again, this time lower, almost to herself.

“Right. Because when there’s a lock, the homeowner definitely doesn’t have the key.”

It was so stupid. So futile. She felt like a fly politely closing the lid of the jar it was stuck in.

And even if she did make it out…
It was below freezing.
She’d probably die in the woods.
Hypothermia or homicide.
Freeze to death or wind up the next prop at family dinner.
Take your pick.

She almost laughed.
Real-life Norman Bates.
Of course.
Of course she had to fall for the quiet guy with corpse parents.

She sat on the bed and buried her face in her hands.
How the hell had she missed the signs?

  • The too-perfect parents.
  • The lack of any photos except that one hidden album.
  • The way they’d “just gone to bed” the last time she visited.
  • The obsessive cleanliness. The flip phone. The ritualistic politeness.
  • All… those… signs.

Her throat tightened.

Okay. No more denial. She needed a plan.

The computer. Edgar said there was one in the study. If it had a working connection—dial-up, broadband, carrier pigeon, whatever—she could send someone a message. Anything.

She cracked the door open slowly and peeked into the hall.
Empty.
Quiet.

She moved carefully—bare feet against the hardwood, one step at a time.
When she reached the top of the stairs, she froze.

The kitchen light was still on.

She peered through the banister.

Edgar stood at the sink, washing plates and humming.
He was talking. To his parents. Cheerfully.

“…I thought it went really well,” he was saying. “She was a little nervous, but I think she liked you guys.”

Nicole’s stomach turned.

She watched, barely breathing, until he turned away toward the fridge.
Then she slipped past the kitchen, past the corpses still seated, still posed, now lit in eerie golden overhead light.

She kept her eyes straight ahead.

The study door creaked faintly. She winced and waited—nothing.
She slid inside and left the lights off.

The room was lined with old paperbacks and framed quotes in faded script. The desk lamp was dark.
A post-it note was stuck to the monitor:

Password: ilovemom

Of course it was.

She sat, typed, waited.
The machine was slow, humming like it needed to wake up.
The browser opened—Internet Explorer. Ancient. But it loaded.
She opened Gmail. Logged in.

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard.

Who do I even write to?
What do I even say?

She started typing:

HELP. I’m in a house with a man named Edgar—

And then—click.

The overhead light blinked on.

Nicole jumped.

“Sweetie,” Edgar said gently, standing in the doorway. “You forgot to turn on the light.”

He was smiling.