Cold sweat drenched my skin once the door clicked shut, panic erupting violently as dread propelled me toward the hallway, where silence thickened into something oppressive, unnatural, profoundly suffocating.
Below, a man sat reading a newspaper.
“Dad?” I whispered cautiously, desperation colliding with fragile hope that reality might yet reveal benign explanation dissolving my mounting terror.
He turned.
Horror flooded my veins instantly, because the face staring upward belonged to a stranger devoid of William Turner’s reassuring familiarity, despite the voice emerging perfectly replicated with my father’s unmistakable tone.
“Abigail?” he answered calmly.
Fear paralyzed my body completely, yet survival demanded performance, forcing a brittle smile and trembling reassurance past lips struggling against rising panic threatening emotional collapse.
“Nothing, Dad,” I replied shakily.
Footsteps approached behind me.
“I thought you were resting, dear,” the woman purred smoothly, parental concern now layered with something predatory lurking beneath flawless vocal mimicry that tightened dread mercilessly around my chest.