Chapter 3
I asked, "So that's why you came to my room to sleep last night?"
Leo nodded, his eyes red as he replied, "Yeah. I'm afraid, Mom, I'm really afraid.
"I'm afraid he'll hurt me, and I'm even more afraid he'll go to your room.
"I figured if we stayed together, maybe he wouldn't come here... We'd feel safer."
But he still came.
Not only did he come, but he also stood at the door.
Those feet... I recognized them instantly. Those pairs of cloth shoes that I was very familiar with, which belong to Dylan.
Why?
Dylan, why did he have to come back?
Why was he tormenting Leo like this?
My mind was in total mess. And it seemed that my heart was gripped by fear and sadness.
What should we do?
Call the police? No way they'd believe us.
Moving to another place? We couldn't even afford it.
Just then, the soft sound of wood scraping echoed from the direction of the study.
Leo and I both froze at the same time.
We looked at each other, and we both saw the terror reflected in each other's gaze.
It was broad daylight.
The sun was blazing overhead.
How could he still dare to appear?
In the silent living room, the sound was especially piercing.
Then, a slow, repetitive scratching noise, like fingernails dragging back and forth across wood, came from the study.
The sound was very light.
Yet every scratching noise gnawed at Leo and my nerves like a dull knife, dragging out the torment with each slow stroke.
Leo's face instantly turned pale.
He subconsciously shielded me behind him, staring fixedly at the closed door of the study.
Leo said, "Mom, don't be afraid."
His voice was shaking, but he was still trying to reassure me.
I was touched and also sore as I clung to his arm, my knuckles turning white.
"Leo, we..." I said, my voice shaky.
What should we do?
But I couldn't say it out loud.
The scratching sound continued, steady and full of a strange rhythm.
It felt like it was inviting us.
Inviting us to come and have a look.
"We can't let him stay inside all the time," Leo said. He gritted his teeth, his voice trembling with fear and resolve.
Daring to come out during the day would only get worse at night.
We couldn't evade anymore.
Leo continued, "I'll go get something."
He turned around and rushed into the kitchen. Soon, he had a kitchen knife in his hand.
He shoved the knife into my hand.
He said, "Mom, take it. Just for protection."
Then he ran back to his room and grabbed a baseball bat from behind the door.
He'd bought it in high school when he was in the baseball club.
He gripped it so tightly his knuckles turned white, veins standing out on his arms.
At that moment, Leo, just eighteen, was all I had to depend on.
We moved step by step towards the study.
Every step felt like we were treading on clouds, our legs weak and unsteady.
The distance between us and the door felt like a lifetime to cross.
The scratching noise suddenly stopped.
Without the slightest warning, it ended abruptly.
We stood at the study door, our hearts pounding wildly.
Inside, it was strangely quiet.
Leo took a deep breath, raised his baseball bat, and gave me a signal with his eyes.
I nodded and clenched the kitchen knife in my hand.
He reached out his hand suddenly and twisted the doorknob.
The door opened.
A wave of cold, dusty air with a clammy, musty chill hit us in the face.
In the study, the curtains were drawn, shrouding the room in shadows.
But it was clear. There was no one inside.
The desk, chair, and bookshelf were all in their usual spots.
Nothing strange.
Our hearts finally eased up a bit.
But the tension only got worse.
If it wasn't Dylan, then what the hell made that noise?
Leo went in first, scanning the room carefully.
He said, "Mom, it's okay."
I followed him coming in.
Everything in the room was exactly as I remembered it.
Except... The things on the desk.
An old family photo frame was lying on the table.
It was supposed to be standing upright.
My heart skipped a beat as I walked forward and propped the frame back up.
It was a photo of me, Dylan, and little Leo, bundled up as a baby.
In the picture, Dylan was smiling softly, looking gentle and completely content.
But now, there was a deep scratch on his face.
It cut straight down from his forehead to his chin.
It was as if it had been scratched by something sharp.
The glass cover was untouched.
The scratch was on the photo itself, not on the glass.
It was as if someone had opened the frame, scratched the photo, and put it back on.