The storm hit like a physical blow, a sudden, violent downpour that turned the world to a blur of gray. Rain lashed against the windshield, a relentless drumming that drowned out the radio. I gripped the steering wheel, my knuckles white, the familiar streetlights of my Dawsonville neighborhood barely visible through the torrential cascade. Pulling into the driveway, the house, a place that had always been a warm sanctuary, was now a hollow, blackened silhouette against the churning sky.
Then I saw them.
Three small, huddled figures on the porch. The sight hit me with a jolt of ice-cold dread. My triplet daughters—Jasmine, Jade, and Joy—were soaked to the bone, their tiny bodies shaking, not just from the cold, but from something far deeper.
“Daddy! Daddy!” they screamed, their voices thin and reedy against the roar of the wind.
I killed the engine and scrambled out, the rain instantly plastering my clothes to my skin. “What are you doing out here? Where’s Laura?” Panic clawed at my throat.
Jasmine, the eldest, looked up, her face pale, her eyes wide with a terror I’d never seen before. “Daddy, there’s a man inside! Laura told us to stay out here and not come back until he left.”