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It has been a little over a week, and the neighbours daughter remained inconsolable.
Could you blame her? No, certainly not. The world was ending, but for her it had ended twice. The charred remains of her home remain standing, and despite her uncertain words that her daddy had died before her – you hoped that every knock at the door since had been him.
But as time continues to pass, that small dream of hope started to die. You never shared that hope with her, couldn't give her a false promise, but you wished for something to ease her pain.
She would speak briefly, tearful and wailing for her father. Her story had begun to change, from death to a certainty she saw him moving about. Alive? Now a visitor? Or perhaps a fracturing young mind desperately creating fantasies to ease itself.
"Your dad might not be coming for you. I don’t know what happened to him." You had told her. Your own awkward and too blunt words make you wince in hindsight, and she had of course not taken it well.
"I'm sorry about your dad. He was a good man. Too kind for this world." The words hadn't been as consoling as you'd hoped. But what could you do? There were no comforts left in this dying world, and she needed to accept the reality of the situation before it consumed her.
But you're not without empathy; she's only a child. She sits clinging to the chair her father would frequent, refusing to leave it lest the last link to her daddy vanished when she turned her back.
Then yesterday she had tearfully asked.
"Could you check? A-and… if he really is…" Dead. You saw the thought physically pain her as she scrunched her eyes shut. "Co-could you bring me s-something of his?"
It was a tall order. FEMA had been upping their patrols, and the gruesome signs of death had been steadily increasing, and the pale visitor… the unspoken truce of company and a wooden door was all that was keeping you safe. You didn't want to think about him.
She had noticed your hesitation, and the tears had started up again.
"P-please." She had begged. She had looked at you desperately; you know you won't find her father, but maybe her pain could be eased with a trinket, or his coat.
So now you sit. 2am in the morning, on the floor with your back against the corridor wall as you watch the front door. Your shotgun held in the crook of your arm, it's small weight against your shoulder a small comfort. You'd spent the whole night consumed with the thoughts of her pleading; you had promised her nothing but a consideration of her ask, but if it would ease her suffering... perhaps it would be worth the risk.
Assuming you make it back alive.
Besides the young girl, your only other occupants were a stoner, a cat, and a ballerina you were certain was a visitor. Neither made a good substitute for babysitter if something were to happen to you, but regardless, you had spoken to the stoner about the possibility of you heading out tonight. Just incase.
You had turned away all the knocks on your door tonight. You couldn't risk the chance of letting in a visitor just before you, possibly, make a daring trip for a damn trinket.
You contemplated lying to her. Weaving a story of your scouting only to find everything charred, and no sign of her father.
But for all your bravado, you're a terrible liar. Your voice shakes and your hands twitch with every lie, and the child is more perceptive than she appears.
So you're going. The night was quiet, FEMAs patrols seem less intensive, but what seals your decision is that the pale visitor hadn't come knocking tonight. Every hour had you checking each window, fearful you'd see that far too wide grin, yet he never appeared.
Good. You pray he's preoccupied tonight.
You're on your feet before you can question yourself, unlocking the door and stepping out into the humid night air with your shotgun firmly in hand. It's the click of the door closing behind you that makes you pause.
A wooden door and walls were enough to lull you into a false sense of security, but stepping out into this damned world for the first time since it went to hell makes you feel uneasy. Your muscles seize up as if in protest to your minds wants, and the distant sounds of radios and screaming make you itch to flee back inside.
But you had made a promise. Not to the girl, not quite to yourself either, but to her father; to look after her. You force yourself to move, as silently as you can bring yourself to be, to walk around the edge of your house so you can see the burned house more clearly.
The land between you and your destination is unobstructed, and devoid of life of any kind. You know FEMA could be upon you within a moments notice, and you know he could creep up on you even quicker than the agents.
You push out a breath you hadn't realised you'd been holding, willing yourself to relax. It was dark, the remaining city lights the only points of light; you hadn't wanted to bring light lest it drew attention to you. And darkness meant you could dodge the FEMA agents, a singular pin prick of hope even if it wasn't them you were concerned about.
A bullet wouldn't stop him, you know that instinctively. If a meeting were to happen, you are certain it would lead to your death – you can only hope it's quick.
You were losing time standing around, so you will yourself to move again. Down the path, refusing to look at the grisly display of a helmeted head on a stick, and out into the open field.
You make a run for it, your legs stiff with the lack of exercise and your jumper uncomfortably warm, but the dying land soon passes you by and you find yourself at the door of your neighbours vacant property.
Well you hope it's vacant. You fearfully realise potential squatters hadn't been on your risk assessment. You pause, frozen and holding your breath, listening for signs of life both inside the house and out in the world around.
The house seems quiet, there's no light coming from the windows or the doorway that's been left open. Still, you reach out a trembling fist, and knock. No one needed to knock in this dying world, but it's as if tradition had arose, and you can't bring yourself to break it now you're on the opposite side of a door.
No answer comes, and no signs of life shuffle deeper in the house. The door creaks further open at your banging, and you move to step inside, one foot over the threshold but an overwhelming feeling of being watched makes you freeze.
You keep your eyes locked onto the dark hallway ahead of you, though the feeling of a heavy gaze settles on your back. Like a rabbit caught in the sight of a fox, the instinctual prey drive to not move as if that would help you to be un-seen keeps you rooted to the spot. Terror settles down your spine like ice, and yet nothing behind you moves.
It's quiet. Not a rustle of footsteps – though you know he's capable of being deathly silent, and no sounds of breath or even that eerily smooth voice ringing out.
A silent stand off. You won't run, that's what he'd want, but you will face him. You gather up the last dregs of your courage, and in a speed you hadn't realised you were capable of, you whip around to face the dark land.
There's no one.
You let out a shaking breath as you squint into the darkness. The feeling of being watched had lifted the moment you turned, and besides the approaching lights of torches held by FEMA agents, you were alone.
You're exhausted, you shakily soothe yourself. You'd psyched yourself out to be confronted, and now you're imagining things.
FEMA we're approaching, far enough not to be a problem just yet, but you needed to be quick. You turn back around and storm into the house, shotgun clutched tightly in both hands.
To call the place a mess would be an understatement. The fire had charred everything. If it weren't for the graver threats present, you'd worry about the stability of the foundations of this place.
You don't look too hard at blackened masses on the floor, fearful of finding the remains of the once happy family. You should speak, call out just incase someone is hiding, but you can't bring your voice to work.
There's not alot that's left intact. A teddy bear, but it's mattered and charred fur is not comforting under your finger tips, so you leave it be. Anything fabric seems to have fused with it's surroundings, and the kitchen is void of anything useful. You double back to the living room, mindfully stepping over one darkened mass that you avert your eyes from, and something glints on the mantelpiece.
Once close enough to touch it, you pick up the blackened photo frame. Cradling the shotgun in the crook of an elbow, you quickly tear off the back of the frame and free the photograph sealed within it.
Mercifully, the melted frame had protected it. You can't see it well in the dim light, but it's a family photo; the young girl sat between her parents. It's perfect, both in memory and for the comfort it will bring.
Light footsteps echoing down the hallway has you hastily shoving it in your trouser pocket, and you shuffle to hide behind the door.
The sound of a voice and the light of a torch foretells that FEMA has caught up with you. You hold your breath, listening as they begin a sweep of the house.
One agent sends a torch shining around the room, and the blackened mass reveals itself to be a body. But it's not your neighbour, to your relief. The agent doesn't step inside, seeming content with the lack of change to the interior, and continues down the corridor.
You listen with rising nerves as twin footsteps head deeper into the house, and after a beat, you silently move out from behind the door, and quickly move back to the front door.
You almost make it. Until your shadow, cast by a torch, covers the ground outside as you freeze.
"I know you." The agents voice is familiar. And so is that uncompromising tone. "Why have you left your home?"
You're silent. The scrutinising gaze on your back is different to the sinister one you felt earlier. You're not sure which you prefer.
"Speak when you're spoken to! You've trespassed, and you've broken government mandated rules—"
"I needed something." You cut him off, still not turning around to face him. "I'm going home now." You feet move again, but you're stopped by a harsh hand to the shoulder.
"What did you need?" The agents voice is hard. It's none of his business, and you don't want to speak to him longer than is neccesary.
"You took someone last night, why are you back?" Is all you counter with, eyes firmly ahead to your house.
"Thats not for you to question." The hand tightens. "Answer me. Or you'll be taken in for resisting orders."
There's no doubt about that. You start to wonder if you could win in a fight against the agent. Your silence isn't appreciated.
"Peter, pass me the cuffs." He moves his hand to grip your forearm as he speaks. Silence answers him once more. "Peter?"
Suddenly, that all consuming feeling of a heavy gaze is back. You break out of the agents grip, and start running.
There's a yelp of anger as you break away from him, and it's quickly thwarted by a cry of fear. The sounds of the agents struggle echos behind you, your feet almost tripping over themselves as fear overcomes you. A sicking snap silences the agents protests, a thump as you presume the body is thrown to the floor, and then it's silent again.
But the silence is a lure. You know he's catching up.
You make it back to the house, not looking back once, your fingertips almost grasp the door handle before you're pulled back by a strong grip to your jumper.
You yelp, and your spun around until a familiar large pale hand firmly moves to grip the front of your jumper. You're acutely aware that that's a choice, he could have easily grabbed your throat instead.
"It's dangerous outside." His voice is both grating and smooth, an odd quality that is no longer muffled behind the faux saftey of a wooden door. You shift your gaze to look up at him, and hes even taller in person, you have to crane your head up.
"I'm aware." Your voice trembles on the last syllable, and his bright menacing smile grows.
He's even more intense up close. His form unnatural and foreboding, but you can't bring yourself to look away – and not entirely because of fear. You wonder what he wants, but that's a question that's haunted you since the beginning. He seems to enjoy playing with you.
"All alone, out in the darkness." He appraises you like a cat that's caught a mouse. "All for a memento. Was your life worth the risk?"
You swallow nervously. You're not sure of anything, you haven't been in a long while. But if you were to die trying to do something good, then maybe that's worth it.
"Yes." Your voice is steadier this time. He tilts his head slightly as he looks at you curiously, perhaps wondering your reasonings. "Are you going to kill me?"
His smile drops, and his gaze hardens. Either you've said something wrong, or perhaps he's finally readying for the kill. Instead he surprises you, he's good at that;
"I killed those FEMA agents for you, you are safe." Safe?! You were safer with the agents! He looks at you expectantly, dark eyes boring into yours. His grip tightens, and your feet slide against the ground as he pulls you closer. "What do you say?"
That's a good question. You flounder for a moment, trying to guess what he wants. Then it hits you.
"Thank you." You breathe. You find you truely are greatful, even if his help confuses you. You think the smile that returns to his pale features is something more sincere, but it's hard to tell.
"You're welcome." His voice is lighter, more sing-song. He pushes you back towards your house, stooping swiftly to grab your shotgun before thrusting it into your arms. You grip it tightly, eyes never leaving him as you wait for his next move. "One last questionnnnn."
"No. I'm not alone." You stammer before he can ask. He almost looks disappointed.
You stumble back, a hand reaching behind you to blindly find the door handle. He's letting you go, it's as alarming as it is odd, but then everything about your interactions has been his choice. He keeps up the pretense of this little game of not breaking down your door if you have company, he also didn't approach you in the neighbours house, and he had allowed you to make it back to your own before he grabbed you.
You're alive. Because that's what he wants.
"It was nice to see you, without obstruction." Are his parting words. He turns, and stalks back off into the night. You watch his retreating form until he dissappears into the darkness, and then you scramble to get back inside and lock the door.
You fumble for the photo, and the relief that you still have it is immense. All that is left now is to wait until morning.
And to sit with the all consuming thoughts and emotions inflicted by the strange visitor.