Chapter Text
Saturday morning arrived like a gift for the family. The fog that had choked the valley for days had finally surrendered sometime before dawn, sitting back on the ridgelines like someone folding a blanket. When Satoru slid the garden door open at nine sharp, a wave of cool, resin-scented air rolled in, carrying the sweet rot of fallen momiji leaves. The maple trees lining the back fence blazed scarlet and molten orange. Every breath of wind sent a slow-motion rain of fire-colored leaves spiraling down onto the stone path, carpeting the garden in living embers. The sun hung low and honey-gold, the kind of late-autumn light that makes everything look dipped in syrup.
Tsumiki stepped outside first and gasped, small hands flying to her cheeks. “Papa, it’s like the mountain is burning, but pretty!”
Megumi followed, Kuro tucked under one arm, and for once didn’t bother hiding the way his eyes widened. The air was crisp enough that their breath came in little white puffs that dissolved almost instantly in the sunlight. Sixteen degrees, maybe seventeen; cold enough to feel alive, warm enough to forgive the world for everything that had happened in the dark.
Satoru leaned against the doorframe in an old university hoodie, cradling his second coffee of the morning. Steam curled up past his lashes. He watched the kids tumble down the three wooden steps into the garden like they’d been released from prison, and for a long minute he let himself believe this was all there was: an ordinary Saturday in late October, two children, and a sky so blue it hurt.
Megumi knelt on the warmest patch of stones, lining up the toys he and Satoru had rescued from a cardboard box two nights ago from the living room. Among them: a dented metal spaceship, a handful of plastic dinosaurs, and the star of the morning: a red friction car, paint chipped but cool, the one that whirred like a cicada when you pulled it backward and then shot forward with a satisfying vrrr-BAM and with a switch below that when flicked on had a cool melody. Megumi set Kuro upright as official referee, dragged the car back, released, watched it rocket into a pile of scarlet leaves and disappear in an explosion of color. He actually laughed surprised and delighted before he could stop himself.
Tsumiki flitted between worlds. One moment she was Megumi’s co-driver, making explosion noises that sent leaves flying and the next she was on her knees in the grass, weaving crimson maple leaves and tiny white chrysanthemums into a crown that kept falling apart and being rebuilt. The cold nipped at her ears and turned her cheeks cherry-bright, but it didn’t slow her down.
Satoru sipped his coffee and let the ordinary sounds soak into his bones like medicine: the whirr-click of the car, Tsumiki’s bright giggles, the soft papery rustle of leaves when the wind turned. Every pane of glass behind him reflected the garden in perfect miniature, and he refused to look at any of them for longer than a heartbeat. He felt the stare anyway, something that was watching. Eyes pressed against the back of his neck like a cold fingertip that never quite touched skin.
But today the sun was out, and he allowed himself a fragile thread of hope. At least the bargain seemed to hold.
The morning he’d woken Megumi, the child’s room hadn’t felt freezing like the days after Megumi had whispered, wide-eyed, that there was a monster under his bed. No more unexplained creaks from the window frame. Megumi’s bedroom felt warmer now, almost normal.
Instead, Satoru’s own room had grown subtly colder than usual, enough that he’d started leaving an extra blanket folded at the foot of his bed. A quiet displacement. A signal. Whatever it was, it was listening and it had chosen.
Megumi’s car shot too far, disappeared under the camellia bush. He crawled after it on hands and knees, leaves sticking to his hoodie. When he emerged triumphant, red petals in his dark hair like blood drops, he glanced up at Satoru.
“It’s faster on the stones,” he said, marveling.
“Physics,” Satoru answered, grinning. “You understand fast.”
Megumi’s mouth twitched, almost a smile, and he pulled the car again. Vrrr-BAM. Kuro toppled over from the wind of its passing. Megumi gently set the black wolf upright, patting its head once, the gesture unconscious and careful.
Satoru’s chest tightened. In his room, carefully wrapped in an old T-shirt to shield it from the children’s eyes, lay the tattered remains of Shiro. He’d sworn to himself he’d fix it today in secret, away from those small, trusting gazes.
Satoru drained his coffee, set the mug on the railing, and clapped once.
“Ten more minutes, then lunch. Miso pork and rice sounds good?”
Tsumiki raised her crooked crown of autumn leaves like a victory flag.
“Yes! And apples cut like bunnies!”
“Deal,” he laughed, and the sound felt real.
Lunch was calm and perfect: the kids had played all morning and were exhausted, clinking bowls, swinging legs under the table, sunlight pouring in sideways and painting warm rectangles across the tatami. When Tsumiki asked for seconds and Megumi actually said please without prompting, Satoru nearly dropped the serving spoon.
He waited until both kids were sprawled on the living-room rug, absorbed in cartoons and a picture book about a tanuki who stole the moon. Satoru took the opportunity and slipped upstairs. From the bottom drawer he retrieved the old t-shirt that held Shiro’s remains. The white wolf looked worse in daylight: stuffing clumped, white fur streaked with dust, the button eye still dangling. Satoru carried it downstairs like contraband and settled at the kitchen table.
Phone propped against the napkin holder, volume low, he opened YouTube: “How to stitch a plush toy for your kid, hand sew a stuffed animal repair DIY.” The man in the video had kind hands and endless patience. Satoru had neither. He followed along, squinting, tongue poking from the corner of his mouth in concentration.
Hands that were good at scribbling math problems and chalk equations at the lectures with Professor Yaga were completely atrocious with some simple crafts. The needle slipped twice and found the pad of his index finger, sharp and painful. He hissed and sucked at the bead of blood like a little child. He told himself it was better this kind of hurt than the one caused by the creature living in the house.
The thread tangled into a hopeless knot after the fourth stitch, but then he fell into a clumsy rhythm yet stubborn and determined. White thread pulling the fabric toward itself, closing whatever gaps he could manage. The scars would be obvious. Good. Some would look like battle scars.
The video man said “Slow and steady, love and patience,” but Satoru had never been patient for anything that didn’t involve a deadline. He flicked the thread, tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek, tugged the knot, trimmed with blunt scissors until Shiro's eye sat straight.
By the time the final knot was tied and the loose threads snipped, Shiro looked almost new. He had sewn from the inside out, hiding most stitches, the only obvious scar was on the belly: white stitches zigzagging like a lightning bolt. The other good job was one ear slightly crooked, but whole. Megumi would never notice unless someone pointed that out. Satoru turned the wolf over in his hands, thumb brushing the eye for inspection and making sure it would not fall off.
He paused the video, pocketed the phone, and finally congratulated himself quietly while looking at the kitchen window.
“See? You can do it… at least the small things.”
The window reflected him perfectly. Tall idiot in a hoodie, cradling the toy, talking to empty air. For one heartbeat the reflection lagged, his mouth moving a fraction after the words. Then it caught up.
Satoru didn’t blink. He slipped the repaired Shiro into the deep pocket of his hoodie, the wolf’s weight warm against his ribs, and walked back to his bedroom, placing the toy on his drawer. He’d tell Megumi he found Shiro soon. He knew that even if the boy wouldn’t jump for joy, he’d see gratefulness in those eyes.
With that thought, he returned to his kids, enjoying the remaining afternoon in laughter and peaceful moments, letting the day pass as the sun fell.
The nighttime routine went smoothly as always. Pajamas, teeth brushed, a kiss on each head.
After that, the house had gone completely still, the kind of quiet that makes your own breath sound like a trespass. No usual noises of wood cooling at night, only the refrigerator humming as proof that time was still moving.
Satoru ignored it and tried to read two pages of a book without understanding a single sentence, then surrendered to the throb behind his eyes and clicked off the lamp. The mattress received his weight with a tired sigh. He lay on his side, facing the open door that was left ajar as promised, watching the thin ribbon of hallway darkness. The bedside clock blinked a soft heartbeat of white.
3:28 a.m.
He began counting sheep, wanting and needing the sleep, yet something felt wrong.
He tried to focus on the emptiness, suddenly alert.
3:29 a.m.
A small creak of wood sounded in the hallway. Satoru’s instincts flared, listening. This time the silence was deeper than before.
3:30 a.m.
“PAPA!!”
Not a call. Not a cry. A full-bellied shriek that tore the night in half. Raw and sharp.
Satoru was standing before he knew he’d moved. Sheets tangled his shins, he kicked free and stumbled forward, shoulder clipping the doorframe. His body remembered this instinct better than his mind: run first, understand later.
Megumi’s room.
Megumi
The boy’s door gaped wide like a mouth, moonlight carving faint geometry across the floor. Satoru stumbled in, breath heaving, hand outstretched toward the small shape on the bed.
Megumi lay exactly as he’d fallen asleep. On his stomach, cheek pressed to the pillow, Kuro tucked under his arm. His brow smooth. Breathing slow. Entirely unbothered.
“Megumi,” Satoru whispered, fingers mapping for injury, first temple, then cheeks, shoulders. Warm. Whole. Alive.
“Megumi, wake up-”
The boy’s eyelids fluttered, sluggish and annoyed. “Mm…? What?” he mumbled, barely opening one eye.
“You… called me?” Satoru’s voice sounded wrong in his throat, too hollow. “You screamed my name…”
Megumi blinked at him. Then frowned, offended.
“No I didn’t.”
Before Satoru could process that, a second door cracked open across the hall.
Tsumiki peeked out, hair tangled. “Papa? Everything okay?” she whispered.
Satoru swallowed hard. The floor felt slightly uneven beneath his bare feet.
“Yeah, sweetheart,” he said, trapping the tremor in a soft laugh. “Just... I thought I heard something. False alarm. Back to bed…”
Megumi had already rolled over, turning his back with the exhausted disdain of a six year old done with adults. Tsumiki lingered, studying Satoru’s face.
There was an unconformable silence.
She began to whisper something to him.
Satoru was supposed to be listening, but his mind was repeating the event over and over. He hadn’t imagine it… it felt horrendous, his heart was still thundering from Megumi screaming for help.
The ringing of his ears halted to a silence.
Then there was a small wooden creak, like a knuckle flexing.
Satoru lifted his head.
At the lip of the staircase, where darkness was thickest, something leaned into view around the banister post, as casual as a neighbor peeking into a garden.
The same fucking creature.
Long, sharp nailed fingers curled over the stair’s lip as though savoring the grain of the wood. This time the mouth stretched wider into a smile, like the thing was laughing at him.
It didn’t move. It let him see it.
Satoru’s heart stopped. The realization a cold knot in his gut. The scream wasn’t Megumi. It was the house. Luring him out.
A trick. Just like the kettle. A false sound.
It was playing with him?
It had tested a day ago and then it just level it up?
The fucker… how dare he.
Fury rose hot beneath the fear. He clenched his fists, nails biting palms.
No. Not tonight. You think I’m falling for your trap, asshole?
He turned away, deliberate, defiant, and whispered to Tsumiki, “Let’s go, Tsumiki. Back to bed.”
But then…
A sound drifted up from below. Small. Mechanical.
vrrr–click—VRRR—
The friction of the little red car whirred to life, buzzing across the living room with cheerful, mechanical glee. Then its happy melody played... the one that only sounded when turned ON.
The sound pierced the quiet like a taunt.
Satoru’s jaw tightened and then his expression turned to surprise. Rustling came from Megumi’s room. The boy sat up, rubbing his eyes, swinging his legs over the bed’s edge.
“My car...” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep, small feet padding toward the door.
Satoru’s pulse spiked. No. No, no, no. That’s the trap.
The house hadn’t just wanted him, it wanted to draw the boy down into the dark, alone.
That’s how it started the last time... the lure, the bait, the pulling of things that should be still.
“No,” Satoru snapped, sharper than intended. Megumi froze. Satoru softened immediately, crouching to block the doorway. “Stay here, kiddo. Papa’s got it.”
Tsumiki looked between them, her small hand brushing the hallway wall like she needed something solid. “I can go…” she said with a brave voice but trembling. “I can take my flashlight… It’s just the toy.”
Satoru’s throat closed.
Why would she do that?
Sweet beautiful Tsumiki always risking herself but no. The monster had moved... or so he’d thought with its cold retreat last night. But here it was, breaking the bargain, dragging them into the game.
Fury boiled up, hot and reckless.
“No, both of you, back in bed. I’ll go.”
“But-” Tsumiki started.
“Now.”
The word reverberated. His voice hadn’t meant to be that loud.
The children obeyed, but watched with rapt attention.
Satoru stood, every nerve alight. He exhaled through his teeth and glared down the stairs.
Fine. Let’s play, motherfucker.
The car buzzed again downstairs, its wheels tapping the edge of something wooden and he prepared mentally.
He descended slowly and on alert, his eyes scanned every shadow with sharpened senses: all the corners he could see, any furniture that could hide something beneath. His eyes swept left and right refusing to let the dark hide.
There would not be surprises this time.
The first-floor air was wrong. The temperature had dropped, settling deep in bone. Like the house was waiting.
The living room opened dim and silver moon washed from the windows.
The car sat innocently on the coffee table, completely still, its annoying happy melody mocking him.
Satoru approached, steps measured, heart pounding in his ears. He snatched it up, fingers fumbling for the underside switch.
“Got you, you little-”
He felt breath on his nape, cold, sharp, real.
He spun, dropping the car with a clatter, fist swinging wild hoping to hit something.
Nothing. Just air.
But the chill lingered, raising gooseflesh along his arms.
“What the hell?” he snarled, breath fogging. “You think this is fucking funny?”
Silence.
Then the annoying melody sounded again but this time not from the living room, but faint and receding.
The sound was coming from the basement.
Satoru’s fury cracked into real fear.
He's still playing with me…
Something scraped behind the basement door. Wood on wood. Slow. Dragging. Measured.
A deliberate invitation.
Satoru clenched his jaw until it hurt.
From above: “Papa?” Megumi’s voice, muffled. “The car- can we get it?”
“No!” Satoru ordered, spinning toward the stairs. Two small faces pressed against the upper banister. “What did I say? Stay in your beds.”
Tsumiki’s lip trembled. “But it’s my fault… I left it out.”
Megumi nodded, inching toward the steps. “We can help.”
Satoru’s heart shattered. No, you brave, perfect idiots. The monster wanted him, but to achieve that it lured them. He couldn’t let it win.
“Stay there,” he ordered, fully knowing that they'll not obey until he was back. “Don’t come down. I mean it.”
He sent them a glare with his unnatural blue eyes. He knew how they looked in the night, hopefully enough deterrent for them to disobey.
Satoru turned to the basement door, fury still burning.
You want a fight? You’ve got one.
He grabbed a flashlight from the console, gripped it like a club. Fingers curled around the basement doorknob and yanked it open. The cold rushed up like a wave, damp, mineral, tasting of rust, completely different from the first time he’d come down with the vendors before buying the house.
The darkness down there wasn’t absence; it was presence. It spilled over the threshold like living ink, slow and thick, climbing one step before retreating, as if tasting whether he would follow.
He stepped in, ready to swing, ready to break whatever waited below.
He exhaled once, steady.
“…Alright,” he whispered. “Let’s finish this.”
He flicked the switch.
Click.
Two bare bulbs stuttered awake. The first buzzed to life and held steady. The second flickered once, twice, three times… and died with a soft pop, like someone blowing out a candle. In that final flicker Satoru caught movement, something shifting below, folding itself back into the left corner at the bottom of the stairs.
Ha…
Satoru tightened his grip and descended.
He stepped down one stair. The wood groaned beneath his bare feet like ancient bones.
Then another step. The air grew denser, colder.
And another. Darkness swelled like a living thing.
In his head he was already fighting.
I’ll kick this asshole, no matter if it’s not corporeal. I’ll find a way. If it is… I’ll break its fucking pointy teeth until it didn't smile any longer.
He reached the bottom.
The basement breathed.
Skin prickled. Breath fogged.
The basement should not have been that cold.
Knuckles blanching around the flashlight, heart hammering so hard it made his ribs ache.
Megumi and Tsumiki are upstairs. Waiting.
He repeated it like a tether. A mantra.
Everything was dark. His eyes adjusted to the dimness. Stacked boxes formed an impromptu corridor toward the back. Amid the clutter there were old toys crusted with dust, a rocking chair with faded cushions, a cracked porcelain doll staring blankly from a shelf.
Then he realized. These weren’t his things. They were relics from the previous owners, the elderly couple who’d sold the place. Forgotten. Left behind. Why?
Satoru’s pulse stumbled.
“I know you’re here,” he said, voice steadier than he felt. “Fucking face me.”
The basement answered with a soft creak from the far wall. Not floorboards. Not pipes. Something folding. Or unfolding.
A shape. Tall. Wrong.
It stood beside a small wooden door he had never noticed before, as if the house had quietly grown a new mouth while no one was looking.
The same creature, clearer now than the glimpses on the stairs, sharper than the folded shadow in the study, more deliberate than the mocking peek from the banister.
Nearly ceiling-height, spine curved forward in that permanent hunch he knew too well, shoulders sharp as broken hangers beneath skin stretched so tight it looked ready to split. Long black hair, matted and wet, impossibly long, hung in thick ropes over its face, swaying though there was no breeze. Something new. Something the half-shadows had hidden before.
The limbs hung too low, elbows and knees bending the wrong directions, ending in pale, delicate fingers tapered to bone-white points.
The head tilted to one side with a soft, wet click of vertebrae, just like the other times. Hair parted like curtains, revealing what he’d only glimpsed a few times.
No eyes. Only two black pits, deeper than shadow, drinking the light whole, the same endless hollows that had watched him from doorways and darkness.
The mouth opened slowly from ear to ear. A carved crescent of needle-thin teeth, glistening with thick black drool that steamed when it hit the floor. Another detail revealed tonight.
It didn’t breathe. It didn’t blink.
It simply watched him with those hollow sockets, smile widening, as if tasting the air between them.
Satoru’s stomach flipped, fear and raw anger flooding his veins.
So this is all of you. Finally.
The thing cocked its head the other way, too smooth.
Hunger radiated from it, raw and patient.
Satoru felt his own face responding with a smile of his own: slow, crooked, defiant.
“Finally decided to show your whole ugly face, huh?” he said, voice low and steady even though every instinct screamed run. “Took you long enough.”
The creature’s smile stretched impossibly wider, black pits flaring as if laughing.
Neither blinked.
The basement inhaled-
and the monster moved.
Instant.
One blink at the far wall.
The next, inches from Satoru’s face.
A cold blast as it lunged, jaws snapping where his throat had been. The snap of teeth echoing in his ears like gunshot.
Satoru dove sideways, shoulder slamming into boxes. They toppled in dust and forgotten belongings.
He rolled, coughing, ears ringing.
It came for him again. Claws raked across his left forearm as he blocked the strike aimed at his face.
Three shallow lines. Precise. Burning. Burning where the hoodie barely covered skin.
Blood welled, bright beads sliding down and dripping onto the concrete. The floor drank it, drops vanishing faster than any normal blood should.
Satoru hissed but swung the flashlight. Metal cracked into its jaw with a wet crunch. The head snapped aside... but the smile did not falter.
The creature reeled, low dry laugh rumbling deep in its chest like distant thunder wrapped in velvet. Threatening. Amused. Almost human.
“Of course,” Satoru hissed. “Why would anything be easy?”
It lashed out.
A cold invisible telekinetic force slammed his chest.
He flew into a wall. Air exploded from his lungs, ribs throbbing.
Stars burst behind his eyes as he slid down the concrete.
The creature advanced, limbs unfolding, fingers scraping the floor as it approached.
Satoru scrambled up, grabbing the broken lantern from the debris and swinging it with everything he had. It connected with the creature’s shoulder, a strip of pale skin peeled away like wet parchment, revealing sinew beneath.
The monster slammed him again.
He crashed into the rocking chair in the corner. A sharp gasp tore from his throat. Old wood splintering beneath him, but he rolled away before the jagged edges could bite deep.
The creature’s laugh rumbled again, gleeful.
That fueled Satoru.
No flashlight now. He launched himself at the creature, furiously, driving a clean fist into its face, then another, and then another. He took hits in return, cold knuckles to his ribs, his shoulder, but he ducked, kicked, poured everything into each blow until he finally felt the satisfying crunch of cartilage under his knuckles.
His fists bled, yet a wild glee sparked inside him. Finally.
The monster’s laugh cut off abruptly. Pissed.
It struck back with force a second time.
Satoru flew, crashing hard against the shelving unit near the base of the stairs.
Fuck… that hurt.
He collapsed, vision whiting out for a few seconds. Okay. Maybe charging in bare-handed hadn’t been the brightest idea. The thing reformed too fast, wounds closing like mist, already straightening, ready for more.
Get up. Get up, Satoru! His mind screamed. You can’t die here.
He forced himself upright, using the shelving unit for leverage. Pain flared, but he shoved it down.
Withdrawal. He eyed the stairs.
The monster saw it too.
Satoru bolted.
He reached the bottom step-
An enormous clawed hand wrapped his ankle like iron and yanked.
He fell forward, face smacking concrete. Blood flooded his mouth from a split lip.
The creature dragged him back. Those pale, pointed claws digging through the fabric of his sweatpants, perforating his calf in four precise spots so sharp like ice picks, sinking just deep enough to bite muscle.
Pain exploded up his leg, white-hot and breathtaking; a strangled grunt tore free from his throat as warm blood seeped in thin down to his ankle.
Satoru’s nails scraped concrete as he was dragged backward then he twisted, kicked wildly with his free foot. His heel connected with something solid, a solid crunch, and the grip loosened enough to slip away.
He lunged upward, scrambling the first steps on all fours, ignoring the fire in his calf.
The creature pursued after him, claws snapping at his heels.
Satoru shoved himself up the last steps, finally reaching the top and slammed the basement door shut just as a claw scraped the wood from the other side.
Deadbolt thrown.
He saw how the handle began to turn on its own slowly, mocking, then violently.
BOOM.
The door shook on its hinges. Another blow. Then another.
The entire hallway rattled.
Satoru braced his full weight against it, blood seeping, breath ragged.
“NO!” he growled. “Not tonight! You bastard!”
The banging intensified. The handle twisted violently, rattling like a trapped animal.
Satoru pushed harder, teeth bared, muscles screaming.
Then, abruptly, the assault stopped.
Silence.
The handle went totally still, as if nothing happened.
Satoru took a moment, making sure it would not move again. Nothing. He eased slowly back away from the door, chest heaving, and slumped against the opposite wall, eyes locked on the door.
One second.
Two.
Five.
Nothing.
He closed his eyes for a heartbeat.
And then he felt it.
Five slow, deliberate lines of cold dragging down his chest, from sternum to navel, as though invisible claws were caressing him through the shirt.
His eyes snapped open.
The basement's door in front of him was completely empty, but the sensation felt real. Cold. Sharp.
He looked down slowly.
At his right foot, perfectly placed, sat the red toy car, its wheels still spinning slowly, as if it had only just rolled to a stop and bowed in mocking presentation.
Satoru stared.
Raw clarity hit him.
He was a fool for thinking a door could contain it.
It had only been playing.
It had tasted him and let him go.
The house still felt wrong like a forest after a predator has fed and slipped back between the trees.
Satoru's body was still shaking from adrenaline, letting the pain settle with the reminders of the fight. Shallow claw marks on his forearm, four precise punctures in his calf, bruises blooming across his ribs. Every heartbeat sent a warm trickle under his clothes, but it was slowing.
He swallowed. His mouth tasted of copper and fear.
He didn’t look at the faint smears on the floor or the leaning shadows.
He thought about the little people on the second floor.
The kids were still awake.
He could hear them yet returning like this was out of the question.
So he decided, first things first: hide the evidence.
He picked up the car, glaring at the basement door one last time. He felt stupid… but at least he’d hurt it. He’d made contact. Yes, he’d bled, but now he knew he could fight back. There would be a next time, he wasn’t naive, but next time he’d have a better plan. A knife? A bat? Something.
He forced himself upright, sucking in a steadying breath. Vision wavered briefly, but he pushed through.
You cannot let them see fear.
You cannot let them see blood.
He moved quietly to the bathroom on the balls of his feet, careful not to let the children hear. The mirror stayed covered with its towel, he left it that way. Good. He didn’t want more reflections, not tonight.
He washed the scratches on his forearm quickly under cold water, fingers trembling but steady. Behind the mirror cabinet: spare toothbrushes, guest soap, a small bottle of iodine, and one rolled gauze. Nothing like the proper emergency kit in the kitchen, but it would do for now.
He dabbed iodine on the claw marks, they stung like fire along his arm, like a very annoyed cat had swiped him. Bit his lip silent. The punctures in his calf were sharper, deeper in sensation than in damage, he poured iodine straight over them through the fabric, hissing through his nose, then pressed the gauze over the worst spots and wrapped it snug.
The throb dulled to a steady pulse to something manageable. His dark blue pajamas (sweatpants and long-sleeved hoodie) hid everything perfectly. Fabric clung to damp skin and makeshift bandages, but from the outside he looked normal. Just a tired dad.
He wiped his split lip with the back of his hand, rinsed the red away in the sink. At least nothing the kids would notice, just a swollen lip and the dull ache in his ribs, souvenirs from a fight he’d never admit to losing.
Only then did he climb the stairs.
Two small silhouettes waited at the landing, exactly where he’d known they would be. Tsumiki’s flashlight trembled in her hand, Megumi stood half a step in front of her, hair mussed, eyes wide, fists clenched like he was ready to fight the dark itself.
Satoru summoned the grin he’d perfected years ago, the one that closed deals, charmed teachers, and now, apparently, lied to children.
“Hey, gremlins.” His voice came out steady, almost amused. “Told you I’d handle it.” He waved the little red car like a trophy.
“Papa, what was that?” Megumi whispered, it sounded a little accusatory.
“Hey… hey, it’s okay,” he murmured. “Told you I’d handle it, didn’t I?”
Tsumiki’s lip wobbled. “We heard banging.”
Megumi’s eyes flicked over him, searching, but finding nothing obvious in the dim light.
“You’re shaking,” he said quietly.
Satoru swallowed the flinch, “It was cold down there, and honestly? I tripped chasing the stupid thing.”
“But…” Tsumiki whispered, thinking.
Megumi didn’t look entirely convinced. Ok, time to improvise.
“There was a raccoon in the basement,” Satoru added, keeping his tone light. “Big one. Put up a fight to get it out.”
Megumi narrowed his eyes. “A raccoon?”
“Yeah! That’s why all the noise.” The lie was flimsy and so pathetic, but in the half-light, with no blood visible and no obvious limp, they let him keep it because it was the kind of lie children would accept when the truth feels too big.
He opened his arms, already done with the lies. “Come here.”
They immediately closed the distance, crashing into him. He absorbed the impact carefully, knees steady, folding them close. A spark of pain flared in his calf and ribs, but he didn’t let it show.
Tsumiki buried her face in his hoodie. Her hair smelled of green-apple shampoo. Megumi’s small hand fisted in near his side.
“You’re always shaking now,” Megumi muttered, worry threading with accusation.
Yes, Satoru thought. Because something downstairs has decided I’m its new favorite chew toy.
Aloud, he said, “Just cold,” Satoru said softly. “Basement’s freezing.”
They clutched him, believing because they had to.
He pulled back, brushing Tsumiki’s hair behind her ear. “Okay. New plan.”
Two sets of eyes lifted towards him.
“Emergency sleepover. My room.”
Tsumiki nodded too fast, like she’d been praying he’d say that.
Megumi looked at him before giving the smallest nod.
Satoru herded them down the hall, one arm around each shoulder, favoring his leg so subtly it could pass for tiredness.
In his bedroom, the nightlamp glowed faintly making the room feel softer, warmer, like a sanctuary.
He let them climb into the bed first. Tsumiki tucked the duvet open for Megumi, who slid in slowly, Kuro flanking him like a loyal shadow, claiming the middle stubbornly.
Satoru closed the door (not because he believed it would help now that he knew that there’s no force stopping that thing) but because leaving it open felt like an invitation.
He climbed onto the bed, propping himself beside the kids, groaning theatrically as if the mattress weighted a ton. “Move over, you two. You’re hogging all the space.”
“There’s plenty,” Megumi muttered, though he shifted enough for Satoru to fit.
The mattress dipped under their combined weight. Satoru pulled the blanket up to their chins, tucking it tight the way he used to do when they were smaller.
They curled into him without hesitation.
Megumi lay stiff for a full minute, stubborn even in exhaustion but then he slowly scooted closer until his forehead touched Satoru’s shoulder in his own version of hugging.
Tsumiki followed her brother, tucking her head beside Megumi’s head, yet her fingers grabbed a part of Satoru’s hoodie.
Satoru wrapped an arm around them.
He didn’t wince when Megumi’s elbow pressed directly into his rib. The pain settled into a steady rhythm, synchronized with his pulse. Every shift of fabric against the wounds sent sparks up his spine, but he didn’t move. He became the barricade: warm, breathing, unbreakable.
He just held them. Held them until the shaking in his muscles finally eased.
After several long minutes, Tsumiki whispered, “Papa?”
“Mhm?”
“…what if the raccoon comes back?”
Satoru exhaled slowly. Not tired nor pained. Just… hollow.
“It won’t,” he said softly. “Not tonight.”
Because it already had what it wanted.
Him.
Megumi’s hand tightened on his sleeve, warm and anchoring.
“Don’t go anywhere,” Megumi murmured.
Satoru blinked up at the ceiling.
“Promise?” Tsumiki added, looking at him.
He pressed a kiss to her hair, eyes stinging.
“I’m not going anywhere. Never” he whispered. “Now…sleep, babies.”
Eventually, their breathing slowed.
Tsumiki first, soft breaths. Megumi held out longer, guarding, until his head finally tipped into Satoru’s arm.
The house stayed still.
No creaks on wood. No more strange sounds.
Just three heartbeats, tangled together under a duvet, holding the dark at bay.
Satoru stayed awake long after both children surrendered to sleep. The children slept pressed against the father who would bleed again before he ever let the dark touch them.
Because in the end, he was still standing, they were safe… and that was enough for him.
The night held for once. Wrapped in the warmth of two small bodies, Satoru drifted in and out of shallow sleep. Pain in his ribs hummed, claw marks sting, but the children’s breathing anchors him.
Morning came muted, like a cautious visitor.
Sunday greeted them with something like normalcy. Cartoons hum in the background, the smell of reheated rice lingering from late breakfast, the sun slanting through shoji panels in lazy golden stripes while Tsumiki curls under a blanket on the couch, watching her favorite anime about a magical-girl, all sparkles, and friendship, mouthing the transformations lines with a faint smile she knows by heart. Megumi sits cross-legged on the tatami, Kuro tucked in his lap, munching toast with quiet intensity.
Satoru moved through the kitchen on autopilot, sleeves tugged down to the wrists, collar high. His body ached under the pretense: ribs bruised, arm with a little burning, his calf throbbed in time with his pulse. The marks were proof he fought something unfightable. He keeps his shirt buttoned high, sleeves rolled down so the kids don’t see too much.
He reheated miso, scrambled eggs for lunch and pretended the metallic taste in his mouth was just from biting his tongue.
The house didn't protest. It allowed them laughter and routine. He waited for anything when he reheats the kettle, anything like a false noise that could trick him, he listened to any floor that could creak. But nothing. Nada. For hours there's nothing, only cartoons, toast, and the quiet hum of normality.
It’s worse this way, he thought. Almost as if it’s waiting. Like an animal crouching in grass, tail twitching before the strike. Almost as if it wants him to relax before it asks for more.
His phone vibrated against the counter.
Unknown number.
The preview alone is enough.
[1:05 PM] Unknown:
Good afternoon, Gojo-sensei. This is Yamada, Vice-Principal, North Junior High.
I’m pleased to inform you that your paperwork has been finalized.
Please come in on Monday at 8:00 a.m. for orientation and a brief campus walkthrough.
We’re very much looking forward to having you join us as the 2nd-year mathematics instructor.
Satoru stared at the screen until the letters soften at the edges.
A normal life, dangling just out of reach.
A salary. A routine.
A reason to leave this house every morning and return pretending everything is fine.
He typed back:
[1:06 PM] Me:
Thank you very much for letting me know.
I’ll be there Monday at 8:00 a.m.
Then he turns the phone face-down.
The day stayed obedient for hours. They ate, watched a movie and four entire episodes of their favorite cartoons. Tsumiki even laughed, real and bright, when the cartoon cat turned into a bus. Megumi allowed himself half a smile. Satoru let the sound soak into his bones like medicine.
Then a single, deliberate thump overhead.
Then another.
Not the casual settling wood of a house.
A shift. A weight. A drag.
Soft patter, moving across the insulation.
Then something rustles, as if it has wings.
Megumi and Tsumiki snapped into attention, Tsumiki whispers, “What was that?”
Satoru tried to ignore it. “The house settling.”
Another creak.
"…a very unsettled house,” he muttered.
Tsumiki’s eyes widened. “Maybe it’s a bird!”
Megumi’s eyes narrowed at the ceiling. “Pigeons don’t do that?”
Satoru tipped his head back toward the ceiling, smile a little sharp, brittle, and reckless.
“Or maybe,” he said, loud enough for the house to hear, “it’s just some old and very ugly pale moth with a desperate need for attention.”
Both kids stared at him.
He blinked.
“What?”
“Moths don't sound like that” Megumi said.
“Since when are you an expert in moths and birds?”
“School” said Megumi, as if that explained everything.
Satoru smiled at that and let it go.
Another thud.
This fucking thing really wants his attention, huh? Can’t even wait until night?.
The quiet that follows isn’t bird-like.
Tsumiki gasped. “It is a bird!”
“It’s a construction problem,” Satoru countered, pointing upward like a man absolutely done with ghosts. “Wood expands in the heat. Physics. Totally explainable.”
Megumi tilted his head. “Then you should check.”
“No. I don’t think it's necessary, ” Satoru said instantly.
“Why not?” Asked Megumi, looking at him with genuine interest.
“But we have to make sure it’s not stuck,” Tsumiki insisted, voice trembling with real worry now, already standing up “What if it’s hurt?”
Satoru exhaled through his nose. Hard.
Because that was unfair. Tsumiki could weaponize empathy like no other.
He had no way to ignore this right? He understood know, the fucker is using his children to force him inyo traps.
He looked at the eyes of his children and sighs.
“…fine,” he muttered. “But you stay here. I’m the only one going upstairs”
He forced himself up, each movement sharp and gritty inside his body. His calf protested every step. He tried to stretch his shoulders and felt the pull of the half-closed wound along his forearm.
Perfect. Exactly the condition you want to be in when confronting attic poltergheists.
Instantly the kids were at his side, shaking their heads with a clear ‘NO’.
“We want to go with you!”
“What if it… beaks at you?”
Maybe they’re not so oblivious as he thought…
“You can trip and fall from the attic ladder. Stairs are always dangerous, kiddos.” he sighed, already climbing the stairs to the second floor with them trailing.
“You can watch from here, ok?”
The children nodded.
Satoru grabbed the flashlight from Tsumiki’s bedroom and strode to the hallway where the attic was located. He didn’t let himself glance at the hallway mirror, even now, he knew better. He stopped beneath the square hatch of the attic, a dangling chain swaying faintly as if stirred by breath. His fingers closed around it.
He should walk away.
He didn’t.
The chain rattles as he yanked. The hatch dropped open with a sigh, ladder creaking as it unfolds down toward him. The house exhaled too, cool draft carrying dust down like dirty snow that smelled like old paper and something different, like rotten lavender.
Above: silence. The little thuds had stopped.
“Typical,” he muttered, half to himself, half to whatever listened. “All noise, no bite. Going to let me climb up there and then… what? Jump me?” He bared his teeth in a grin with no humor. “Predictable.”
The children hovered beside the stairs watching him. Tsumiki clutched Kuro like an anchor. Megumi didn’t say a word, letting his sister hug his wolf, he only stared with that unblinking watchfulness Satoru hated because it was so much like his own.
“Stay there,” Satoru ordered, softer than he intended. He climbed the rungs, joints protesting, flashlight gripped tight.
He reached the top, head and shoulders just inside the attic and swept the beam in a slow arc.
Nothing.
Just rafters, pink insulation, a single cracked window letting in a blade of afternoon light. Three old and small chairs, a single old rag-brown doll in one of them, staring blankly with its button eyes.
He exhaled, tension bleeding from his shoulders. “All that drama for-”
He lowered the flashlight slightly, already climbing down, occupied thinking of how to calm the kids.
It was right there.
Crouched inches from his face, between him and the open hatch, smiling with every tooth it owned. The same ash-pale skin, the same eyeless hollows drinking the light, too wide grin dripping thick black drool.
It had been waiting behind him the entire time.
Satoru had one heartbeat to register it.
He jerked backward instinctively, breath catching in a sharp gasp.
His foot missed the next rung.
Balance gone.
His nape cracked hard against the sharp wooden rim of the square hatch, pain exploding white-hot behind his eyes. The flashlight flew from his hand, clattering down the ladder.
Gravity did the rest.
He tumbled backward through the opening, shoulder scraping wood, body twisting uselessly.
Impact.
His skull met the hallway floor with a hollow thud.
White bursts behind his eyes. Then red. Then nothing at all.
He came back to screaming.
Tsumiki’s voice cracking on his name. Megumi’s sharper, furious, terrified. Small hands grabbing his shoulders, his arms, trying to drag him away from the open hatch.
“PAPA!”
“Wake up!”
Satoru blinked, then tried to speak. The ceiling spun above him, and in the black square of the attic opening, pale fingers curled over the edge, claws dug grooves into the wood. The thing looked down at him, head tilted, smile stretching wider, pleased.
Then it withdrew slowly, melting back into shadow like it had never existed.
“Papa! Papa, please-”
He forced his eyes to stay open. Tsumiki’s face swam into view, tears cutting clean tracks through dust on her cheeks. Megumi’s hands trying to help but not knowing how to. His head throbbed viciously; when he pressed fingers to his nape, they came away warm, sticky. Blood slicking his skin.
“’m… okay,” he slurred, trying to sit up. The world tilted. Nausea surged. He collapsed again, vision tunneling.
“Stay down!” Megumi snapped, voice breaking. “Just- stay down!”
“I’m fine,” Satoru interrupted, “Just… give me a second….” He opened his arms to them and they immediately respond, panic still in their features, he pulls them both into his arms. Tsumiki sobbed into his shirt.
“You weren’t answering,” Megumi said tightly, worry hiding fear. “We thought-”
“I know…” he gathered them carefully, slowly breathing until the hallway stopped swaying “Help me stand up, please."
The kids immediately responded like following command. He used the attic ladder and their help to slowly stand up, every inch in agony. The attic hatch hung open above them like a hungry mouth. He reached up with shaking hands
He knew that thing was still there, He could feel its weight pressing down from above, patient, satisfied, enjoying his pain…
He slammed it shut, locking the ladder back into place. The click of the latch sounded obscenely loud.
He didn't look up again.
Tsumiki and Megumi half-carried, half-dragged him to his bedroom. He let them. The fight had gone out of him somewhere between the attic floor and the hallway drops of blood.
They laid him on the bed. Satoru lowered himself onto the mattress with a hiss of pain, clutching the pillow with one hand.
Tsumiki darted off for the first-aid kit and ice. Megumi fetched water and tissues, both fussing. They worked around him like a tiny, frantic medical team, dabbing his wound, fussing over him, whispering if he needed anything else.
He let them help him.
When Tsumiki pressed a cold pack to the back of his head, he exhaled shakily.
Megumi sat close beside him, Kuro curled in his lap, watching Satoru with dark, stormy eyes.
“You’re not going back up there,” Megumi said quietly. “Ever.”
“Nope,” Satoru replied. “Not even if the house is on fire.”
“Good,” Megumi muttered.
Satoru almost smiled.
But something cold lingered, he knew that this thing… He had watched him break. How much more would it take?
He shivered despite the blanket.
Megumi immediately placed a hand on his arm. “Are you cold?”
No.
Not cold.
Observed.
“…just tired,” Satoru murmured.
Tsumiki tucked another blanket over him. “Sleep, Papa. We’re here.”
He nodded weakly.
As he drifted, Megumi sat cross-legged like a guard dog and began to talk with Tsumiki. He heard their whispers, arguing softly about who should stay awake.
The room was dark except for the faint glow of the nightlight.
Yet he knew that thing was only waiting for the night… because the sensation of being watched stayed with them.
It was past midnight when the house finally settled into silence. The children have fallen asleep, one curled against his good side, the other wedged at the foot of the bed. Their breathing is the only real thing left in the world.
Their weight should comfort him. Instead, Satoru felt floating somewhere between exhaustion, dizziness, and that creeping, icy alertness threading through his nerves since he woke moments ago. The wound on his head throbbed with every heartbeat.
He should get up. Clean the blood, take painkillers, change the pillowcase. But he can’t move. Not because of pain. Because the room has shifted.
The temperature plummeted, sudden and sharp, like a freezer door cracked open inside his skull. Cold air slides across the back of his neck, raising every hair. A presence settled behind him, subtle at first, a thickness in the air, as if someone exhaled just behind him.
The mattress dipped. Slow. Measured. Like someone kneeling onto it like an imprint of intention rather than mass.
Satoru’s breath stuttered. He squeezed his eyes shut like a child, pressing his tongue to the roof of his mouth to steady himself.
I’m dreaming.
Cold settled over his shoulders, too precise then a touch brushes carefully his nape, cool and deliberate. Lips, or something shaped like them, press against the split skin. A kiss made of winter, aching and soothing at once, like snow packed against a bruise.
The touch lingered, almost tender, as if exploring the fragility it had caused earlier. Satoru whimpered faintly, body flinching. The presence didn't retreat. It slid closer, patient, something that has learned the shape of him, that has thrown him like a toy and spared the children.
Then it changes.
Pressure shifted forward and long clawed fingers close around the front of his throat, right over his trachea, sudden and unyielding claiming the space where breath passes.
Not squeezing. Not yet.
Just holding. Possessing.
Satoru’s lungs locked. Air refused to move. His chest strains, muscles firing uselessly… inhale, inhale …. but nothing happens. Panic blooms, instant and blinding.
I can’t breathe. It’s going to suffocate me.
His body screamed to thrash, to claw at the hand, to shield the children but nothing moves.
He’s having a sleep paralysis, and it grips him, heavier than fear, as if his limbs are pinned by an invisible frost.
And then… a tongue.
Ice-cold and wet, dragging from the wound at his nape down toward his throat. Over dried blood. Over the frantic pulse hammering beneath those fingers.
The lick was slow, savoring at first, like enjoying the taste of something newly claimed. But then it turns hungry, firmer, as if stripping warmth from his veins.
The sensation was obscene, wrong in a way his brain cannot explain away. Terror flooded him, pure and visceral, his vision sparking white at the edges.
No. This can’t be happening. I’m asleep. I’m asleep. I’m asleep-
The hand tightened, enough to remind him that in fact, that’s not a dream, that it can choke him and snap his neck any time. Then it kissed the wound! A kiss made of winter before it released abruptly.
Air rushed back in a silent, ragged gasp. The tongue withdrew, a cold breath ghosted across his throat, satisfied, almost affectionate.
The dip lifted. The mattress sighs back into place. The temperature creeps upward, sluggish and resentful.
Satoru didn't move for a long time, clinging shakily to the warmth of the children pressed against him, until exhaustion drags him under.
Sunlight pushed through the curtains, thin and muted. The kids were still asleep at his sides, small warm weights anchoring him to the bed. Everything looked normal, yet it felt like a lie.
Satoru lifted a hand to the back of his head, exploring the damage from the fall, wincing at the tender sting of the split skin. His fingers traced the wound carefully but then they brushed something else, and no. It wasn't just the lingering chill of the tongue that had pressed to the wound, he could still feel a numn, frostbitten, deliberate patch there.
But that's no it.
His pulse skipped.
No.
He pushed himself up slowly, carefully, heart already hammering as he slipped out of bed without waking the children. Bare feet silent on the cool floor, he hurried to the bathroom, panic creeping up his throat like ice water.
The mirror was still covered with towels, but not completely, there was one corner that hangs loose, revealing a narrow strip of glass.
He lifted it just enough, barely daring to look straight at his reflection because he knew he'd see messy white hair and a dried trickle of blood from the wound.
But he immediately angled his neck and there it was. Just beneath the hinge of his jaw... a dark, unmistakable bloom.
Round. Deep violet at the center, fading to bruised red at the edges. The exact size and shape of a mouth that had closed and sucked, slow and possessive.
A hickey.
But impossibly clean, no broken vessels in streaks, no swelling, no heat. Just color, sudden and perfect.
He stared at it in disbelief.
“When...?” he murmured, voice thin and shaking.
Trembling fingers rose to touch it.
It didn't hurt.
It felt… claimed.
Cool to the touch, like the chill from the nape had migrated there, marking a new spot. A spot he didn't remember being touched... yet he knew, with sickening certainty, that it was.
He squeezed his eyes shut.
There was no way.
He didn’t feel it being made.
That was the worst part.
“No. No no no. It’s from the fall. I… maybe I hit something else. Surely that.”
But he knew every bruise his body made.
The mark was too perfect. Too intentional.
He grabbed the counter, knuckles white, staring at his reflection as his pulse roared in his ears.
He forced a hollow laugh under his breath. That fucking thing had dared to claim him as its own.
"He left this..."
A chill rolled down his spine, involuntary and sharp.
This was something more complicated.
Something… worse. Something deeper.
A weight that whispers:
You’re mine and I don’t need your permission.
You’re mine.
And now you know it.