We were locked inside.

The baby’s crying grew louder, echoing from somewhere deep within the walls.

I pulled myself to my feet, my heart pounding in my throat.

“I’m here, Dad!” I called out, reaching into the dark.

A small light suddenly flickered at the top of the stairs.

It was a single candle, held by a figure in a white robe.

Patricia stood there, looking down at us with a calm, terrifying smile.

In her other arm, she held a bundle wrapped in a striped blanket.

“Welcome home, Hannah,” she said softly.

“I told you I always win.”

She turned and walked back into the darkness, the candle flame disappearing from view.

The crying suddenly stopped.

“No!” I screamed, rushing toward the stairs.

My father’s hand caught my shoulder, holding me back.

“Wait,” he whispered, his voice tense.

“There’s something else in here with us.”

A low, metallic scraping sound began from the dark corner of the living room.

We turned slowly, my father’s gun flashlight clicking on, casting a narrow beam of white light across the room.