I knocked urgently on the bedroom door of my daughter in law, Vanessa Reynolds, who had moved in after Logan’s death because she claimed she could not bear to stay in the house they once shared.
“Vanessa, wake up, please open the door,” I called through the wood while my voice shook.
She opened the door with irritation in her eyes and said, “What is it now,” as she pushed her dark hair away from her face.
I grabbed her wrist and said, “Logan just called me, and he said he is at the door and that he is cold.”
She stared at me as if I had lost my grip on reality and replied, “You must have been dreaming, Patricia, you need to go back to bed.”
Before I could answer, the doorbell rang downstairs in a long, insistent tone that echoed through the house and made both of us freeze.
Vanessa’s face drained of color and she whispered, “That is not possible,” before rushing down the stairs with me close behind her.
She pressed her eye to the peephole and suddenly screamed, “Go away, do not come back,” in a voice filled with panic.