Mara turned off the porch light after the first night that they had appeared. She had seen them through the glass, coats too large for their frames, faces pale, eyes solid black from lid to lid, and she had not opened the door. She had sat in the kitchen until the bulb flickered and went dark.
In the morning a thin streak of blood marked the mat. She hosed it clean, changed the bulb, and left the door locked. Her sister arrived the following evening with groceries. They stood in the kitchen while the light outside faded. The front door rattled once. Her sister crossed to the entry and looked through the glass. The children stood where they had stood the night before. Their eyes caught the kitchen light and remained black. She unlocked the door and opened it a few inches. One of the children stepped forward and closed a hand around her wrist. Blood welled beneath the small fingers. She pulled back. The child held on.
Blood ran down her hand and dripped onto the threshold. Mara came around the corner and saw the children looking past her sister. Their mouths did not move. Her sister wrenched free and slammed the door. She locked it. Blood soaked the cuff of her sleeve. They sat at the table until the porch light died. Her sister left an hour later. Mara locked the door behind her and sat on the floor with her back against the wood.
The next morning her sister did not answer the phone. Mara drove to the house. The car sat in the drive. The door stood open. Inside the lights were on, her sister was not there. On the kitchen table a single small handprint marked the wood, blood had dried beneath it in a thin line, Mara walked through the rooms and found nothing. She locked the door and drove home. She kept the lights off.
That night the front door rattled once. She stayed on the floor. One of the children spoke. The voice was small and flat. It said her sister’s name. Mara did not answer. The door went still. In the morning there was no handprint. The mat was clean. She opened the door. The children were gone. She walked to the end of the drive and looked both ways, the street was empty, she went back inside and locked the door.
Three days later the police found her sister’s car in a ditch two miles from the house. The driver’s door hung open. The seat was empty. Blood marked the steering wheel in long thin streaks. They searched the woods and found nothing, Mara did not return to work. She kept the lights off and the door locked. She sat in the chair by the window and waited. The door did not rattle again that night. It did not rattle the night after.
On the third day she drove to her sister’s house. The car was gone. The door was still locked. She used the spare key and went inside. The handprint remained on the kitchen table. Blood had dried beneath it. She wiped it away. The wood stayed clean. She walked through the rooms and found nothing. She locked the door behind her and drove home. She kept the lights off.
That night the front door rattled once. She stayed on the floor. The children did not speak. The door went still. In the morning there was no handprint. She opened the door. The mat was clean. She walked to the end of the drive, the street was empty, she went back inside and locked the door. She sat in the chair and waited. The door did not rattle again. She did not leave the house. Her sister was never found.
On the seventh night the front door rattled once. This time it continued. One of the children spoke her name. Mara stayed on the floor. The door went still. In the morning the mat was dark. Blood had soaked into the fibers in two small patches. She hosed it off. The water ran red for a long time. She did not open the door. She sat in the chair and waited. The door rattled again the next night. It went still. The boards outside the door creaked once. She did not open it.
In the morning the mat was clean. She opened the door, the children were gone. She walked to the end of the drive. The street was empty. She went back inside and locked the door. She sat in the chair and waited. The door did not rattle again. She did not leave the house. Her sister was never found. The mat stayed clean. The door stayed locked. The children did not return.
On the ninth night the door rattled once. Mara stayed on the floor. One of the children spoke her sister’s name again. Mara did not answer. The door went still. In the morning the mat was dark. Blood had soaked into the fibers. She hosed it off. The water ran red. She did not open the door. She sat in the chair and waited. The door did not rattle again. She did not leave the house. Her sister was never found. The mat stayed clean. The door stayed locked. The children did not return.
