Kayla’s stomach dropped. These weren’t the random creaks of an old house. They weren’t Tommy’s light little footsteps. They weren’t the sound of anything falling. These were intentional, like someone moving carefully from one spot to another — pausing, listening, adjusting. Her pulse pounded so loudly she almost couldn’t hear the next footstep. Almost. That was enough.
She reached for her phone with trembling hands, already dialing Mark before she could talk herself out of it. He answered on the first ring. “Mark?” she whispered, voice cracking. “There’s someone upstairs again. I heard footsteps — real footsteps. I’m not imagining things, I swear.” There was a small pause. Not confusion. Not disbelief. Something heavier.