the bed beside her, straddling her small body with his heavy frame—not pinning her down violently, but positioning himself in a way that completely engulfed her, cutting off any possibility of movement.
Emma stirred, letting out a faint, distressed whimper in her sleep, trying to turn her head away.
Evan didn’t soothe her. He leaned down, pressed his lips directly against her ear, and began to whisper.
Even without audio amplification, I could read his lips from the camera angle with terrifying clarity. He wasn’t whispering words of comfort. He wasn’t telling her she was safe from the monsters under the bed.
He was reciting something. A list.
“…the red house on Maple Street… the blue bicycle with the flat front tire… the locker behind the gym… the girl with the silver ribbon in her hair…”
