Chapter 2

The Predator in Plain Sight (Hell's Lullaby)

The door stood open, waiting.
 
Clara hesitated on the porch, her breath shallow. Daniel never left his door open. The air outside was crisp, scented with pine and damp leaves, but inside, the air was thick, weighted by an aroma she couldn’t place,earthy, burnt, metallic.
 
She stepped inside.
 
The house was dim, not with the natural glow of an evening settling in, but with something heavier. Shadows draped over the furniture, stretched long along the floor.
 
Then she saw them.
 
Candles.
 
Lining the coffee table, the mantel, the floor, placed with precision. Thick white pillars, tall black tapers. Some had burned low, wax dripping down their sides in perfect rivulets. The flames burned steady, undisturbed.
 
At the center of it all lay an object.
 
Small. Dark. Carved.
 
It wasn’t the size or the shape that made her pause, but the way it held her attention, as if every edge carried a story not meant to be told. The surface was worn but not smooth, as though hands had handled it too many times, yet never enough to tame it.
 
She stepped forward.
 
A floorboard groaned beneath her foot.
 
The sound seemed too loud, breaking the unnatural silence.
 
She reached out
 
"Don’t touch that."
 
The words cut the air.
 
Clara turned sharply.
 
Daniel stood in the hallway, watching her.
 
The candlelight cast shadows across his face, deepening the angles, making his eyes appear darker than they should have. His usual smirk was absent.
 
"You left your door open," Clara said, her voice steady.
 
Daniel tilted his head slightly.
 
“Did I?”
 
He stepped forward, unhurried, his movements deliberate.
 
Clara didn’t move.
 
“What is all this?” She gestured to the candles, the object.
 
Daniel crouched beside the table, eyes never leaving her. He reached for one of the thick candles, pinching the flame between his fingers.
 
The fire vanished instantly.
 
He didn’t react. No burn. No pain.
 
Clara forced herself to keep her breathing even.
 
“Just an old tradition,” he said.
 
She studied him, the weight of the moment pressing into her. "Since when?"
 
Daniel’s lips lifted at the corners, but there was no amusement in it.
 
“Maybe you just never noticed.”
 
She glanced back at the carved object. “And that?”
 
A pause.
 
Then, a shrug.
 
“Just a gift.”
 
"From who?"
 
His expression changed for the briefest moment. A flicker, too fast to catch if she hadn’t been watching.
 
Then it was gone. The easy stance, the relaxed shoulders returned. He reached for his jacket, slipping into it as though the conversation had already passed.
 
“You worry too much, Clara.”
 
She should have let it end there.
 
Should have walked away, told herself it didn’t matter.
 
But the room felt different. The air too still. The candles burned in unnatural formation.
 
And Daniel
 
For the first time in years, she realized she might not know him at all.

Clara’s footsteps were too loud.

The weight of the house pressed around her, thick and unmoving. She stepped through the doorway, needing the night air, but her pulse hadn’t settled. Each breath came measured, slow, as though she could force her nerves into quiet submission.

Daniel’s voice still sat at the back of her mind.

"You worry too much, Clara."

The way he had said it. Not dismissive. Not amused. It had been a statement. A quiet, unwavering truth, as though he knew exactly what would come next.

She stepped onto the porch, her fingers tightening at her sides. The trees whispered with the night breeze, their branches stretching toward the sky. A single porch light flickered overhead, casting a weak yellow glow against the wooden steps. Beyond that, darkness spread between the houses, consuming the space where the streetlights didn’t reach.

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She didn’t look back.

Her steps carried her down the road, past the empty sidewalks, past the rows of quiet homes. The silence of Ravens Hollow had never felt unsettling before. It was a town built on stillness, on space,miles of thick woodland pressing against civilization, the kind of place where people left their doors unlocked because no one ever came.

Tonight, the silence felt different.

Clara reached her house, moving up the porch with deliberate steps. The key turned smoothly in the lock. The hinges didn’t creak. The house welcomed her inside with the scent of lavender and old wood, the warmth of a place that had known her for years.

Yet something felt off.

She exhaled, closing the door behind her.

The baby monitor sat on the counter, its small green light blinking steadily. No sound. The house was quiet. But Clara’s unease didn’t fade.

She moved toward the nursery, slow, each step deliberate. The hallway stretched longer than usual, shadows deeper than they should have been. The dim glow of the nightlight spilled through the half-open door, soft and inviting.

She hesitated.

Then, pushing forward, she stepped inside.

Ivy lay still beneath her blanket, her stuffed rabbit tucked beneath her chin. The rhythmic rise and fall of her small chest should have eased Clara’s nerves. But it didn’t.

She knelt beside the crib, brushing a hand over Ivy’s golden curls. The child stirred slightly, a quiet breath escaping her lips.

Then, without warning, Ivy’s eyes opened.

Clara’s breath hitched.

The dim light cast her features in soft shadows, but her eyes—those familiar blue eyes,held something unfamiliar.

Awake.

Aware.

Watching.

The air in the room thickened, a pressure settling over Clara’s shoulders. She swallowed, forcing herself to breathe, to move, to do something.

“Ivy?” Her own voice sounded distant.

The child blinked slowly, as if considering the question.

Then, as if nothing had happened, her eyes drifted shut again.

Clara exhaled, standing too quickly. The movement felt unnatural, unsteady.

Her fingers gripped the edge of the crib, heartbeat pounding in her ears.

Nothing happened.

Ivy slept. The house remained still. The monitor on the counter blinked its steady green light.

Everything was normal.

Yet Clara’s instincts screamed otherwise.

She stepped back, her feet moving before she had made the conscious decision to leave. The nursery door closed with the softest click. She stood there for a moment, the hallway stretching in both directions, empty yet suffocating.

The night outside pressed against the windows, unseen but present.

Clara wasn’t sure what had unsettled her more.

Daniel’s house.

Or the way Ivy had looked at her, just for a moment, as though she were meeting a stranger.

Clara didn’t go straight to bed.

Instead, she stood in the hallway, hands at her sides, staring at the closed nursery door. The house creaked softly, the kind of settling sound she had heard a thousand times before. It should have been comforting. But tonight, each shift of the wood, each faint groan of the walls, felt deliberate.

Like the house wasn’t just settling.

Like it was listening.

She shook herself, turning toward the kitchen. The weight in her chest hadn’t eased, and no amount of rationalizing would explain it away. Her hands trembled slightly as she filled a glass of water, the cold seeped through the glass, grounding her.

You’re exhausted. That’s all.

She lifted the glass to her lips.

Then

A faint creak.

Her fingers tightened around the glass.

It had come from the hallway. Near the nursery.

Clara didn’t move.

The silence stretched, thick and unmoving. She forced herself to take a slow breath, setting the glass down on the counter. Her legs felt unsteady as she stepped toward the hallway, her mind racing ahead of her feet.

Had Ivy gotten up?

She reached the nursery door, fingers hesitating on the knob before she pushed it open.

The nightlight bathed the room in its soft glow.

Ivy still lay in her crib, exactly as Clara had left her.

But the closet door was open.

Not wide. Just a few inches.

Clara’s breath caught. Had it been open before? She tried to remember, tried to replay every detail of when she had left the room.

She stepped forward, the wood beneath her feet cool, unwelcoming.

The closet was dark, the air within it undisturbed. Her pulse hammered as she reached out, pressing her palm against the door and pushing it shut. The latch clicked softly into place.

She turned back toward Ivy.

The child was still. Breathing evenly.

Sleeping.

But Clara felt it again, that awareness, lingering in the room.

She backed away slowly, forcing herself to leave, to let the moment go.

To pretend this was all in her head.

But as she reached the hallway, stepping into the dim light of the house beyond, she couldn’t shake the feeling that when Ivy had opened her eyes earlier

It hadn’t been Ivy looking at her.