I unbolted the door in one slow motion, stepped into the rain, and pulled it shut behind me. The cold was a sharp blessing. The dark outside was vast, but it was honest dark — sky and storm, not the small, waiting dark of a closed room.
The creak paused, as if confused.
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.
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.
By the time the figure inside thought to look out the window, I was already three houses down, moving steady as a tide.
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.
My heart told me to freeze. But a deeper voice, older than fear, whispered four letters: WDDM.