It happened around two in the morning in a historic mansion on the outskirts of Charleston, South Carolina. The house, with its white pillars and broad wraparound porch, had been silent until that moment. Then a scream erupted with such agony that it rattled the glass panes of the tall windows.
Inside the lavender painted bedroom of Milo Harrington, a six year old boy, something unseen and uneven was unfolding. The shadows pooled in the corners like liquid night, but the terror was not imaginary. The terror was sharp. Real. Made of something that left marks.
His father, Preston Harrington, an entrepreneur worn thin by long months of business travel and sleepless nights, was crouched over the little boy. His face was pale from fatigue and irritation. His patience had evaporated hours ago.
“Stop it. Enough. You need to sleep. I have meetings in the morning. I cannot deal with this nonsense anymore,” he barked, voice cracking with exhaustion.