The Podcast Episode

Julian spun around.

The sound was faint, barely audible over the hum of the house's ventilation. A creak. A shift in pressure.

He looked at the floor vent. The grate was slightly askew.

I held my breath, pressed against the cold metal of the air duct, two feet below him.

"Did you hear that?" Julian asked.

The rough voice—the man with the limp—grunted. "Hear what? The wind?"

"No," Julian said. "Metal. Scraping."

He walked toward the vent. I could see the shadow of his shoes through the slats.

My heart hammered against my ribs. *Thump-thump-thump.* It was so loud I was sure he could hear it. I pressed my hand over my mouth, stifling the urge to scream.

He knelt down.

"Pass me the flashlight," he said.

A beam of light sliced through the grate, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. The light swept across the metal floor of the duct.

It stopped inches from my face.

I squeezed my eyes shut. *Please don't see me. Please don't see me.*

"Nothing," the rough voice said. "Just dust."

Julian didn't move. He stayed there, crouching, the light steady. He was listening.

"Maybe," he said slowly. "Or maybe she's smarter than we thought."

He stood up.

"Check the garage," he ordered. "Make sure the Range Rover is locked. If she gets out, she'll go for the car."

"On it."

Footsteps moved away. The door to the garage opened and closed.

I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.

I waited until I heard Julian walk back toward the living room. Then, I started to crawl again.

The garage vent was twenty feet away. It felt like twenty miles.

My knees were raw. My shoulders ached. But I kept moving.

I reached the grate. I pushed it open.

It fell with a clang that echoed like a gunshot in the silent garage.

I froze.

Silence.

I dropped down.

The garage was cold. Smelled of oil and ozone.

My Porsche was there. But no keys.

I looked at the Range Rover. The black monolith.

If I couldn't drive out... maybe I could walk.

I ran to the side door. Locked.

I tried the keypad. *Access Denied.*

Of course.

I looked around for a weapon.

A tire iron. A wrench.

I saw a toolbox on the workbench. I ran to it.

Empty.

"Looking for this?"

I spun around.

The man with the limp was standing in the doorway to the house. He was holding a wrench.

He smiled. His teeth were yellow in the dim light.

"Mr. Vance said you might be restless," he said.

I backed up until I hit the Range Rover.

"Stay away from me."

"Now, Mrs. Vance," he said, tapping the wrench against his palm. *Tink. Tink. Tink.* "Don't make this difficult. We just need you to go back to bed."

"I know what you're doing," I said. "I heard you."

"Did you?" He shrugged. "Doesn't matter. No one will believe you. Dead women don't testify."

He lunged.

I dodged. I scrambled over the hood of the Range Rover.

He swung the wrench. It smashed into the windshield, spiderwebbing the glass.

I jumped off the other side. I ran for the garage door button.

He was faster. He grabbed my ankle.

I fell hard, my chin hitting the concrete. I tasted blood.

He dragged me back.

I kicked. I screamed.

"Julian!" I yelled. "Julian!"

"He can't hear you," the man grunted. "He's putting on his costume."

Costume?

I kicked him in the face. Hard.

He let go, cursing, clutching his nose.

I scrambled up. I ran to the wall where the fire extinguisher was mounted.

I grabbed it. It was heavy. Cold.

I swung it around.

He was charging at me.

I pulled the pin. I squeezed the handle.

White foam exploded in his face. He blinded, stumbling back, coughing.

I swung the canister.

*Clang.*

It hit him in the head.

He dropped like a stone.

I stood over him, panting. My chest heaved.

He wasn't moving.

I dropped the extinguisher. It rolled across the floor with a hollow sound.

I needed to get out.

I hit the garage door button.

Nothing. The power was cut to the opener.

I ran to the manual release cord. I pulled it.

The door disengaged from the track.

I grabbed the handle at the bottom and heaved.

It was heavy. Solid wood.

I strained, my muscles burning.

It slid up. Six inches. A foot.

Enough to crawl under.

I dropped to my stomach. I rolled under the door.

I was out.

The cold air hit me like a slap. The fog was thick, swirling around the driveway like smoke.

I stood up and ran.

I ran down the driveway, past the gate, onto the service road.

It was dark. Muddy. The trees loomed over me like skeletons.

I slipped, sliding on the wet leaves. I got up and kept running.

I had to get to the scooter. I had to get to town.

Behind me, I heard a sound.

A car engine starting.

The Range Rover.

Headlights cut through the fog, sweeping across the trees.

He was coming.

I dove into the bushes. I scrambled down the embankment, sliding through the mud and ferns.

The car roared past on the road above me.

I lay in the dirt, heart hammering against the earth.

He was hunting me.

My phone buzzed.

*He knows you're out.*

I looked at the screen.

*Where are you?* I typed.

*The old sanitarium,* the reply came. *Meet me there.*

The sanitarium. The ruins down the cliff.

It was dangerous. Unstable.

But it was the only place he wouldn't look.

I stood up. I wiped the mud from my face.

And I ran into the dark.