“It’s too dark. The road’s bad. Go in the morning.”
Exhausted from the drive, he agreed—but unease settled in his chest.
The next morning, he didn’t wait.
Ashley tried to stop him again, but this time he ignored her and walked straight to his mother’s house.
What he saw made his blood run cold.
Boarded windows. A chained door. Silence. And the dog—barely alive.
He stepped closer and listened.
Nothing… then—
“Mom?” he whispered.
“My son…” came a weak, barely audible voice.
Something inside him snapped.
He ran back to his truck, grabbed a metal bar, and smashed the chain again and again until it broke. The door creaked open, and the smell hit him first—rot, waste, neglect.
Inside, in the dim light, he saw her.
Margaret was unrecognizable. Skin stretched over bone, her face hollow, her body frail beyond belief.
“My son… is it really you?” she whispered.
Ethan collapsed to his knees, pulling her into his arms, crying in a way he hadn’t since he was a child.
“I’m here, Mom. I’m here.”
The room told the rest of the story.
A hole cut into the door. Old food scattered on the floor. A bucket used as a toilet. Scratches covering the walls—marks counting days, weeks, months.