The blaze consumed the back of the property—walls split and caved, rafters screamed as they twisted, and the house behind the store crumbled into ruin. Smoke poured into the street like ink bleeding across paper.
And yet, "NEW LIFE: Restoration & Repair" stood untouched.
The fire curled away from it. The flames hissed like they burned their tongues to even lick its surface. Not a single window cracked, not a single tile melted. The building simply hummed, low and hungry, like something dreaming beneath its bones.
Dozens of firefighters swarmed the property, axes in hand, hoses drawn. Police backup followed, including a six-man team sent to secure the basement.
They entered the house first. That's when they found it. The basement had caved in—but a hatch led deeper than it should've. Beyond it was metal, not foundation, wires instead of beams, and at the center of it all—
Michael Harrington or what remained of him.
The core's energy had struck him like lightning, laced through his bones, and refused to let go. His skin blistered open, filled with circuits. His spine had extended like a centipede made of armor. His jaw split wide, revealing jagged teeth layered with copper and ash.
He no longer breathed. He pulsed. His claws were half melted from the fire, blackened with bone and steel. And he smiled, the wires twitching around his ribs like worms tasting air.
When the officers approached, weapons raised, he moved. One was torn apart before he could scream.
Another was slammed against the wall with such force his ribs shattered outward.
A firefighter trying to rescue them was skewered by a pipe, his body dragged into the ground like dirt being swallowed.
Missy, Dina, Kevin, Natasha, and Officer Jiro were the only ones not inside.
They had just arrived, running from the far end of Gallagher Street, when they saw the basement explode upward with metal and bodies. Blood rained against the walls behind the store, but the shop remained whole. Unbothered.
The survivors screamed.
Another officer tried to run—his legs were crushed under collapsing beams, then silenced by a scream that didn't sound human anymore.
They didn't look back. They ran to the only door still open. The shop.
Inside, the bell above the entrance gave a cheerful ding. The lights were soft. Jazz played from a record player in the corner. Everything was neat, warm, and freshly cleaned.
Behind the counter sat Markie, elbows on the surface, flipping through a small notepad and sipping warm coffee. His expression was blank, as if none of the chaos outside had reached him.
The screams, the sirens, the death. They didn't seem to matter here.
Markie looked up at them, blinked once.
"Welcome back," he said softly, then looked back down at his notepad.
The five of them—Missy, Dina, Kevin, Natasha, and Officer Jiro—slammed the door shut behind them. The windows instantly blacked out, shrouding them in flickering yellow light.
Kevin panted. "What the hell was that?! What happened to Michael?!"
Markie didn't even flinch. Missy stared at him. "Didn't you hear them screaming?! The officers—your coworkers—firefighters!"
Markie finally looked up. He smiled.
"I was told not to open the back door," he said simply.
And somewhere below their feet… The floor pulsed. The shop exhaled.
The lights in the shop flickered—once, twice—and then dimmed to a strange amber hue, like candlelight choked by smoke.
And then… a sound.
Humming.
Soft at first. Tender. Like a lullaby wrapped in static.
They turned.
She was already inside.
Hush-Mama.
She stood near the entrance to the employee hallway, as if she had always been there, as if she had grown out of the walls like mold. Her gown floated like it was submerged in black water. Her hair—long, stringy, and silver—lifted around her like it had forgotten gravity. Her face was veiled in a curtain of translucent gauze, but her lips moved beneath it, humming a tune that made Missy's stomach clench. Then the humming stopped.
Her hand, thin, almost too thin, raised a knife. A long kitchen blade, rusted along the edges, still stained with something thick and old. She didn't lift it high. She pointed it—slowly, deliberately—toward her neck.
"You took my baby," she said.
Her voice was broken-glass sweet. Too many tones layered at once. Something in between crying and choking.
Her fingers twitched around the handle. The blade kissed her throat.
"Give. Him. Back."
Missy's knees nearly gave out. Natasha grabbed her arm to keep her steady.
Dina's voice was low, stern. "We don't have him."
The lights stuttered. Hush-Mama tilted her head, the movement unnatural—too far, too fluid, like her neck had been unhinged by grief. Her fingers dug into her skin, just enough to draw a line of ink-black blood down her throat.
"I know where he is," she whispered. "He's close. I hear him on the wires. Crying. Cold."
Markie, still behind the counter, didn't move. Didn't speak. Just stared straight ahead, as if refusing to acknowledge her presence.
Or maybe… As if he couldn't see her at all.
Dina stepped forward, steady but careful. "If you hurt yourself, it won't bring him back. We can help you—"
Hush-Mama snarled. The humming exploded in volume, vibrating the shelves. Glass jars shattered. The overhead light burst, raining sparks. The walls themselves groaned, like the shop was being bent from within.
"YOU THINK I WANT HELP?!"
The knife cut deeper into her skin. Not enough to kill. Just enough to remind.
"You buried him. You let him drown. You forgot him. You all did."
Her eyes shimmered behind the veil—silver and slick, like oil on water. And suddenly, she smiled.
"Then you can drown too."
The lights snapped off. Total blackness. And the humming returned, closer now. It was inside the walls. Inside their heads.
The humming wasn't just in the air now—it was in their bones, in their teeth, in the marrow of their panic. It pulsed like a lullaby drowning in static.
Then a flash of light. Jiro's flashlight cut through the dark just in time to catch a glimpse of her. Hush-Mama.
Now closer. Now unhinged.
She wasn't walking—she was gliding, her limbs stiff, twitching like a marionette yanked by invisible strings. The gauze over her face fluttered as she moved, and beneath it, the faint outlines of a grinning mouth carved too wide.
"Natasha!" Missy screamed as the entity lunged.
Hush-Mama's blade swung, catching the air inches from Natasha's throat.
Jiro acted on instinct—he shoved Natasha hard, sending her sprawling behind the counter just as Hush-Mama's blade came back down.
It sliced across Jiro's side—deep, tearing through armor and flesh. He grunted, but didn't stop. He raised his weapon, fired blindly.
The bullets passed through her like fog. No blood. No recoil. Just an angry shriek, like glass bending.
She threw her head back and screamed—a sound that cracked the air like a migraine, sent jars falling, shelves trembling. Jiro staggered back, blood pouring from his wound.
Dina reached out, trying to grab him—"Jiro!"—but it was too late.
Hush-Mama was on him.
Her fingers wrapped around his neck, and her humming returned, soft now, almost sorrowful.
"I'll hush you too," she whispered, and with a single jerk. She snapped his neck.
Missy screamed. Kevin pulled Natasha up, arm wrapped tightly around her. "We need to MOVE!"
Dina grabbed Missy, yanking her away from the spreading pool of blood. Hush-Mama stood over Jiro's limp body, her fingers twitching, her head tilting in confusion. Almost… mournfully.
"He's quiet now," she cooed. "Just like Lukas."
Then she looked up. Straight at them.
"Who's next?"
They ran. The humming chased them through the aisles, through the flickering lights, through the cold-breathed dark that didn't behave like darkness should. The front door was locked. The windows are sealed.
Only one place left: The back hallway. They sprinted past Markie—still at the counter, staring blankly ahead, like the chaos didn't touch him at all.
Missy paused for half a second. "Markie—come with us!"
No response. His lips moved. Barely a whisper.
"He told me to stay here."
The group didn't have time to process that.
The back hallway. The emergency exit. The metal door. They slammed into it, burst through, tumbled out into the alley beside the shop, gasping for air.
The door slammed shut behind them. Hush-Mama didn't follow.
But the humming continued, leaking from the vents, from the gutters, from the walls of the building itself.
Like she had become part of the structure. Like she was waiting for them to return.