Chapter 3 - DUAL REALITIES"Thank God," Mark sobbed, collapsing against the doorframe. "You have to get her out of here! You have to get my daughter away from that thing!"
Jenkins backed away, pointing his firearm straight at Mark’s chest. "Hold it right there! Don't move!"
"What is going on?!" Mark screamed, his voice cracking with pure terror. "I came home early from my shift—someone attacked me in the driveway and dragged me down here! My wife... my daughter..."
"Mr. Miller," I interrupted, trying to process the impossibility of what was happening. "Your wife is upstairs. And so are you."
Mark froze, his eyes widening in horror. "What do you mean 'so am I'? I've been locked in the storm cellar for three hours!"
Before I could demand an explanation, a blood-curdling scream echoed from the master bedroom down the hall.
It was Ramirez.
We sprinted back down the corridor, weapons raised. When we kicked open the bedroom door, Ramirez was flat against the wall, his pistol drawn, shaking violently.
The bed was empty.
The two bodies—the purple-veined corpses of Mark and Sarah—were gone. The bedsheets were thrown back, wet with a dark, oily liquid that smelled of burnt plastic and chemical solvent.
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And on the wall above the headboard, painted in that same glowing purple fluid, were four words:
THEY ARE ALREADY INSIDE.
