At 2:03 a.m., the kind of silence that usually belongs to deep sleep was shattered by a sound so violent it felt like the house itself might give way. The pounding on the front door wasn’t just loud—it was urgent, chaotic, and insistent in a way that immediately signaled something was wrong. At first, half-awake and disoriented, I tried to rationalize it as part of the storm outside. The wind had been strong all night, pushing rain against the windows in uneven bursts, and every now and then, loose branches scraped against surfaces with unsettling force.

For a brief moment, I told myself it was just that—nature behaving unpredictably. But then I heard my name. Not carried by wind, not imagined through sleep, but clearly spoken through the door in a voice I recognized instantly. That recognition changed everything in an instant. Fear replaced confusion, and instinct replaced hesitation as I ran barefoot down the hallway, the cold floor snapping me fully awake before I even reached the door. When I opened it, I found my sister collapsed against the porch railing, barely holding herself upright. The sight alone was enough to disrupt any sense of normality.