3:33

Chapter 2: The House on Carlisle Street

Traffic was absolutely killing him. Mateo gripped the wheel of his beat-up Honda Civic, sandwiched between a massive construction truck and some shiny Tesla.

The dashboard clock mocked him: 4:47 PM. Then 4:48. Then 4:49. Every second dragged like molasses.

Ivy hadn't slept in three days.

Three. Whole. Days. That's when things get scary—like, medically scary. Once you hit seventy-two hours without sleep, your body basically gives up. You start seeing things that aren't there. Can't remember your own name. Your immune system? Toast.

Mateo had seen enough patients to know the look. They all had it—that empty stare, like someone had reached in and scooped out whatever made them human.

His phone buzzed. Eloise.

"Where are you?" Her voice was wound tight as a spring.

"Stuck on 93. Construction. I'm coming."

"She's locked in her room. Won't budge."

"Did you—"

"I've tried everything, Mateo. Why do you think I called?" The frustration cut through the phone. "You're supposed to be the sleep expert, remember? The guy with all the answers?"

He started to respond—maybe offer some comfort—but she'd already hung up.

Classic Eloise. Always cutting things short before they could turn into real conversations. Sure, it was efficient. But each time she did it, he felt them drift a little further apart.

The traffic lurched forward. Mateo gunned it, weaving between lanes like one of those jerks he usually hated. But right now? He didn't care.

Something was wrong. This wasn't just about missing sleep. It was deeper than that—he could feel it in his gut, that same warning bell that had saved him before.

Seven months ago. October 14th, 2024. Aurora's last day.

Don't go there.

But of course he did. Every patient, every session—they were all just mirrors reflecting what he'd lost. Talk about irony: a sleep therapist who couldn't sleep. A dad who couldn't save his own daughter. A husband whose wife looked right through him now.

Finally—5:23 PM. Home.

Their little colonial sat there in Medford, looking exactly like they'd dreamed it would when they'd signed away their financial future. White siding, black shutters, that big maple tree out front—Aurora's favorite place to climb.

Stop it.

But what else was there to think about? Everything reminded him of what wasn't there anymore.

Eloise met him at the door. God, she looked thin. Her blonde hair pulled back so tight it made her cheekbones look sharp enough to cut.

She used to be beautiful. Still was, technically. But now it was just a fact, like saying the sky was blue—no warmth behind it.

"She's upstairs," Eloise said, skipping the hello. "Won't talk to me."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean she just sits there. Staring at nothing."

Mateo took the stairs two at a time. The house felt too quiet—that awful kind of quiet that had settled in after Aurora. Everything muted. Conversations in whispers. Even the refrigerator seemed to hum more softly, like it was afraid to disturb the grief.

Ivy's door stood half-open at the end of the hall. He knocked softly.

"Ivy? Honey, it's Dad. Can I come in?"

Nothing.

He pushed the door wider.

There she was—cross-legged on her bed, still in her school uniform. Navy jumper, white shirt, dark hair a tangled mess around her face.

When she looked up, her eyes were too bright. Feverish. Terrified.

"Hey, sweetheart," he kept his voice gentle, steady. "Mom says you're having trouble sleeping?"

She just stared. And for one horrible moment, he saw Aurora in her face. Not identical—Aurora's nose had been wider, Ivy's chin sharper. But sometimes, in the right light...

"Can you tell me what's wrong?" He sat carefully on the edge of her bed, giving her space. "Whatever it is, we'll figure it out together."

Her lips moved. No sound. Then, barely a whisper: "It comes at 3:33."

"What comes, honey?"

"The thing in the walls."

Ice water flooded his veins. "What thing?"

"The one that took Aurora."

The room seemed to tilt. Downstairs, normal sounds—Eloise doing dishes, water running. But nothing felt normal anymore.

"Ivy," he said carefully, "Aurora drowned. You know that. It was an accident."

"No." Her voice got stronger. Surer. "Something pulled her down. Something that lives in dark places. And now it's here. In my room. Behind the walls."

She pointed to the corner where wallpaper met baseboard.

"I hear it," she whispered. "Scratching."