A door latch becomes the only line between "safe" and "not safe."

In a house that won't stay quiet—and a mind that won't stay still—Amelia discovers a simple rule:

Keep it latched.

The attic door opens once.

Then again.

Then again.

Each time she closes it, she becomes less certain whether the problem is upstairs or inside her own head.

The Latch is a standalone entry in The Dark Beyond, an anthology series set within the world of Red in the Dark. Each story stands on its own, exploring the people, places, and horrors lurking just beyond the edges of the main narrative.

A story of obsession, isolation, psychological horror, and the terrifying moment when reality stops feeling reliable.

Once it slips the first time, it never feels the same again.

Support the show: share it with someone you think would love Red in the Dark.

Written, produced, sound engineered, and voice acted by Leonard Voss.

All voices are AI generated while we continue seeking voice actors to replace and update those performances.

Email [email protected] if you're interested in participating in the project, from voice acting and production to editing and website support.

Beyond the dark.

The latch.

George.

Amelia sat on the kitchen floor.

The room tilted slightly off center.

Furniture was jammed against the attic door.

Chairs, the small bookshelf, the coffee table shoved sideways.

She didn't remember moving them.

The lights flickered.

A cabinet door swung open and struck the frame.

Where is George?

She pressed her hands to the tile to steady herself.

They were dark.

Blood streaked her fingers and soaked through the front of her shirt, dried thick along her forearms.

She stared at her hands like they belonged to someone else.

The latch shifted beneath the pile.

A man's voice threaded through the room.

Low, close.

Not loud enough to make out words.

Her breath caught in her throat.

She shook her head once.

This isn't real.

The whisper came again, clearer this time.

She clamped her hands over her ears, palms pressing hard against the sides of her skull.

Stop.

Stop.

The chair at the top of the stack scraped an inch.

The voice pressed closer syllables, pushing through bone.

Her chest tightened.

The room narrowed to a point.

Fine.

I'm fine.

This isn't the latch snapped, and then the pile lurched.

Day one Amelia adjusted George's carrier on the passenger seat when he yowled.

I know, she said, angling the air vent toward him.

I know.

The phone rested against the dash.

Dr. Halpern's name lit on the screen, his voice coming through the speakers.

Just remember to stay on track.

Transitions can throw you a little, even good ones.

I am on track, amelia said.

It's a job.

It's an apartment.

It's normal.

George shoved one massive paw through the carrier door and rattled it.

There's nothing to wander into, she added.

Keep it simple, her therapist said.

Yeah.

Silence settled in the car.

She glanced at the dashboard screen.

The building looked smaller than it had in the listing photos.

Amelia parked along the curb and turned off the engine.

She stayed there for a moment, hands resting on the steering wheel.

George let out another offended yowl.

We live here now, she said.

He thudded against the carrier again.

She stepped out into the late afternoon air and walked around to the passenger side.

The building was old, the siding warped in places, the windows slightly uneven.

Not charming, just old.

Unit 2B sat at the end of the second floor hall.

She unlocked the door and pushed it open with her shoulder.

The air inside was still and faintly sour.

Dust and something underneath it.

Old wood or old carpet.

The particular smell of a place that had been closed up and waiting.

Okay, she said, setting the carrier down just inside the living room.

New Kingdom.

She opened the carrier.

George stepped out cautiously, tail high.

He paused, then trotted forward, sniffing everything in reach.

I told you, she said, dragging a duffel bag inside.

It's not a lighthouse.

George ignored her and immediately tried to wedge himself behind the radiator.

Don't.

He did.

Anyway.

Unpacking was minimal.

She set up his food bowl first.

George followed closely, weaving between her legs with insistent confidence.

When she bent to pour the food, he rose onto his hind legs and slapped at the bag.

Relax, she said, pulling it out of reach.

It's not going anywhere.

He answered with a short trill and pressed his head against her knee.

By the time she finished the basics sheets on the bed, toiletries in the bathroom, laptop on the kitchen table it was nearly dark.

The radiator ticked in the corner.

Outside, a car passed and its headlights swept the ceiling and were gone.

She walked back into the living room to grab her phone from where she'd left it on the floor.

That was when she noticed the small door beside the fireplace.

It had been painted over so many times it nearly blended into the wall.

A brass latch sat at chest height.

She stepped closer and traced a finger along the frame.

Attic Access, probably.

She turned the latch and pulled.

The door opened easily.

Cool air slipped out from the dark space above.

She peered up.

Just beams and shadow.

Great, she muttered.

Murder.

Attic.

She closed it and pressed the latch down until it caught with a soft click.

Her hand lingered on the brass a moment before she stepped back.

Later, after a shower and a microwaved dinner eaten standing at the counter, she wandered back through the living room to turn off the lights.

The attic door was open a few inches.

She stopped.

Did I not latch that?

She crossed the room and pushed it shut again.

The latch snapped in place with a click.

She tested it once.

It held.

Old house, she told herself.

She flipped the light off.

It was almost midnight when she padded out of the bedroom for a glass of water.

The living room was dim, lit only by streetlight filtering through the curtains.

The attic door stood open again.

Not wide, just enough.

Her stomach tightened.

Just a draft.

She crossed the room, pressed it closed, and lowered the latch with her thumb.

Click.

She waited.

Nothing moved.

Then she went back to bed.

Day 2 the doorknob turned while Amelia was still holding her phone.

Yeah, no, totally, she said, pinning the phone between her shoulder and ear as she crossed the living room.

I'll get right on it.

I can have a clean pass back to you by end of day.

She nodded, voice bright.

Sounds good.

Thank you.

She ended the call and opened the door.

An older woman stood in the hall like she belonged there.

Grey hair pinned back, cardigan neat.

A pie tin balanced in Both hands.

Morning, she said.

I'm Eleanor.

First floor.

Oh, hi.

I'm Amelia.

Pleased to meet you.

Eleanor caught herself.

I mean, welcome.

I figured you'd be settling in.

The pie smelled like apples and cinnamon, something toasted at the edges.

That's.

Wow.

You didn't have to.

I did, eleanor said, stepping inside before Amelia could object.

Small building.

We pretend we're civilized.

The tin was warm through the foil.

George appeared at Amelia's ankle as if summoned.

He looked at Eleanor, then the pie, then Amelia, and let out a long, offended chirp.

Eleanor's eyes softened.

And this is George, amelia said.

Pleased to meet you, George.

He rubbed against Amelia's leg, then Eleanor's shoe, claiming both without hesitation.

Maine coon, eleanor said.

He acts like he pays rent.

Then let's hope he's reliable.

George flicked his tail and wandered off, already uninterested.

Eleanor's gaze moved through the room windows, ceiling height, the stretch of space toward the fireplace.

You got the big room?

I guess I did.

This used to be the master, eleanor said.

Back when it was one house.

They chopped it up later, kept some of the bones.

George returned, brushed Eleanor's calf, then sat squarely in the middle of the room.

Eleanor's eyes shifted.

The attic door was open a few inches.

Amelia followed her gaze.

I keep shutting it, amelia said.

She wasn't sure she had.

She crossed the room and shut it.

The latch clicked.

Drafts, eleanor said.

They go where they like in these old places.

Amelia's hand lingered on the brass.

Sure.

At the door.

Eleanor gave Amelia's shoulder a light pat.

Good to have someone upstairs again.

If you need anything, you knock.

I will.

Thank you.

Really.

Eleanor headed down the hall at the same unhurried pace she'd arrived with Amelia, set the pie on the table and opened her laptop.

The song she'd been looping all week started again, and she reached for the volume, turning it down.

The assignment waited.

It was a feature on the Victorian mansion in Portland.

Restoration work, preservation grants, craftsmen with serious faces.

She slipped into it easily, tightening phrasing, smoothing, repetition, correcting small errors that tugged at her nerves.

George leapt onto the chair beside her and pushed his head between her elbow and the keyboard.

Not happening.

He placed a paw squarely on the trackpad.

You're hired, she murmured.

He blinked slowly.

The creak from the living room was soft but distinct.

Her fingers stilled.

The attic door stood open a few inches.

Did I not?

She rose, crossed to it, pressed it shut, listened for the click, waited back to the table.

The mansion pulled her in again.

A paragraph about the original doors.

Hand carved panels, ornate brass hardware.

The care taken to preserve what could be saved.

She adjusted a line, replaced a word, read it again.

The words began to blur at the edges.

A creak, louder this time.

She looked up.

The attic door stood wide open.

The dark behind it was deep, thick.

Amelia rose slowly.

What the actual fuck?

She breathed.

She approached without quite deciding to, pressed the door shut, felt the latch drop.

Click.

Held it there, back to the table.

George had claimed her chair.

She worked around him, settling into the edge of the seat.

Her fingers returned to the keyboard.

The sentence came out wrong.

She paused, looked down.

The latch.

The latch won't catch.

She hadn't meant to type that.

Her hands hovered over the keys.

George gave a small questioning chirp.

She stared at the words until the letters stopped feeling like language.

Day three Amelia caught Eleanor in the hall just after nine.

Eleanor was locking her door, keys already in hand.

Hey, amelia said.

Do you have a second?

Sure.

It's the attic door.

It keeps opening.

The little one by the fireplace you shut yesterday?

Yeah.

The latch is probably just loose.

Amelia frowned.

You think?

Old wood, eleanor said.

It swells.

It shifts.

Sometimes it doesn't catch all the way.

It clicks, amelia said.

I check it doesn't mean it's holding, eleanor replied.

You can wedge something under it or get the landlord to tighten it.

Amelia nodded.

So it's just that.

Eleanor looked at her.

What else do you think it could possibly be?

Amelia hesitated.

I don't know.

Eleanor gave a small shake of her head.

Look, old places have history.

This one does too.

But that's not why your door isn't latching.

She shifted her keys.

You settling in alright otherwise?

Yeah, amelia said.

I think so.

Good.

You'll get used to the quirks.

She headed down the hall.

Amelia stood there a moment.

George chirped from inside.

Yeah, she muttered.

We're fine.

She went back in and opened her laptop.

The Portland piece waited.

Another restoration project.

Another door.

The Longfellow House on Congress Street.

George climbed onto the table and pressed against her elbow.

You can't sit there.

He blinked and stayed.

She nudged him aside and went back to the paragraph about the doors.

The craftsmen worked carefully to preserve what they could.

The latch mechanisms, though worn, were still functional.

Her fingers paused.

She adjusted the sentence, deleted it, rewrote it.

The latch won't catch.

She stared at the words.

That's not even in the copy.

She erased the line.

Before she could argue with herself.

She opened a new tab and typed the address, added one word.

History results.

Populated the screen listings.

Records A Portland Press Herald archive.

She clicked it.

The scan resolved in fragments.

Headline, date, the address.

Her eyes moved down borders.

Young women.

Bodies discovered in the attic space.

Evidence of restraint.

Multiple victims.

The landlord arrested, charged, tried in Cumberland County Superior Court.

Convicted.

The language was flat, clinical.

She read it again.

It wasn't rumor.

It was record.

George headbutted her wrist.

Not now, she said.

Then softer.

Sorry.

A small creak came from the living room.

Amelia looked up.

The attic door stood slightly open.

She stared at it.

She tried to remember standing up.

Wha.

She gasped.

Her eyes settled on the latch.

Her pulse ticked once in her throat.

Then, from somewhere she couldn't place, a voice breathed her name.

Amelia.

Day 4Amelia called the number in her lease three times before she accepted.

It wasn't going to be answered.

The first time went to voicemail.

The second time rang until it stopped.

The third time she hung up before it could finish ringing.

Like she could control the outcome if she cut it off early.

She stared at the screen, thumb hovering over the call button again.

Just fix the latch, she muttered.

She set the phone down and made herself a cup of coffee.

The routine felt thin, like a prop George wove around her feet, chirping like he had something urgent to report.

When she stepped back, he stepped with her, matching her pace.

I know, she muttered, scratching behind his ears.

I'm working on it.

He leaned into her hand with a satisfied purr.

She carried the coffee into the living room.

The attic door sat closed and ordinary against the fireplace wall.

She looked at it, then looked away, then found her eyes sliding back to it before she'd finished the thought.

She opened her laptop and pulled up her inbox.

A soft sound moved through the room, low and shapeless.

Somewhere between a breath and a word.

She turned her head toward it.

The sound was already gone.

She went back to the screen.

After a few minutes, she stood needing air, needing to be somewhere that wasn't this room.

The hallway felt longer than it should have.

The floorboards complained under her feet.

Eleanor was locking her own door.

Morning, eleanor said.

Hi.

Amelia hesitated.

That number in the lease.

Does he ever actually answer?

Eleanor gave a small, knowing look.

Not reliably, of course.

Eleanor watched her for a moment.

The latch again.

It keeps opening.

I told you yesterday, eleanor said, not unkindly.

Push it hard till it clicks.

I do, amelia said.

It still opens.

Eleanor held her gaze for a second, then adjusted her keys.

Just try wedging something under it.

Like I said, Amelia.

She gave Amelia a brief nod and headed down the stairs.

Amelia stood in the hall until the building settled back into quiet, then went back inside.

She sat at the table.

George jumped onto the chair beside her, claimed it completely, and settled in like he'd paid a deposit.

You're not helping, she told him.

He blinked slowly.

She opened the Portland piece and read from the top, hands moving automatically, catching small errors.

It worked for nearly a full minute before a faint creak moved through the room.

She looked up.

The attic door was open again.

She stood and crossed to it, slower than she needed to.

The closer she got, the colder the air felt against her face, against the inside of her wrists.

She stood beneath the opening and looked up into the dark above the ceiling line.

Beams.

Shadow.

Nothing, then reached up and pulled the door shut.

She pressed it firm to the frame and lowered the latch.

Click.

She tested it once, then again, keeping her fingers on the brass until she was sure it held.

George trilled from the kitchen doorway, tail high, watching her like she was the strange one.

She turned back to the table and picked up her coffee.

Cold.

She drank it anyway.

The cursor blinked in the middle of a sentence she didn't remember writing.

She leaned closer to the screen.

The latch won't catch.

My mind is a match.

She stared at it.

Then she selected the line and deleted it without reading it again.

Amelia Day 5 It was past midnight when she stopped pretending she was working.

The laptop sat open in front of her, screen dimmed from neglect.

The cursor blinked in the middle of a sentence she had already edited twice.

Amelia sat at the kitchen table and stared into the living room, at the attic door.

George was asleep on the chair beside her, a heavy, breathing presence.

His tail twitched once and stilled.

The door didn't move, she told herself.

She wasn't waiting for it to she should go to bed.

She didn't move.

The latch made a small metallic shift.

Her shoulders tightened.

The attic door eased open.

Warm light spilled down from the opening and stretched across the floorboards in a thin amber line.

George stirred but didn't wake.

A whisper slipped into the room, low, shapeless.

Another followed, then another.

They layered over each other, rising in the corners of the room, pressing in from the walls, multiplying until the air felt thick with them.

She stood.

She didn't decide to.

Her legs carried her across the living room and she watched them do it, heart slamming against her ribs, every screaming part of her telling her to stop, to sit back down, to look away.

Her feet kept moving.

She reached the base of the stairs and looked up.

The steep, narrow steps rose into the warm light above old wood, worn pale at the centers, the risers, so high and close together they were almost a ladder.

A cobweb crossed the opening at head height, thick and undisturbed.

She put her foot on the first step.

It groaned under her weight, a long, low complaint that moved through the walls.

The whispers climbed the second step.

Another groan, deeper this time.

She ducked through the cobweb and it draped itself across her face and she pulled at it with one hand and kept moving.

The third step.

Another web caught her wrist and wound around her fingers.

The wood creaked and shifted beneath her.

The whispers pressed closer, filling the stairwell, her ears, the space between, her thoughts.

The fourth step.

The fifth.

More cobwebs.

They clung to her hair, her shoulders, the back of her neck.

The light above deepened, amber bleeding into something warmer and longer with every step she took toward it.

The sixth step.

The seventh.

Her head broke the ceiling line.

The smell hit her first.

Copper rot, something sweet underneath it that coated the back of her throat and stayed there.

She pulled herself up into the attic and stood.

The whispers stopped.

Complete silence dropped like a physical weight.

The floorboards were dark and slick, stained in layers so old they had become part of the wood itself.

In the centre of the room sat a chair, wooden upright, its legs uneven against the boards.

Leather straps hung from the arms, their buckles tarnished black.

The floor beneath it was splattered in arcs that had dried and cracked and been added to again and again over what must have been years.

Handprints dragged downward through long dark smears.

Spattered arcs crossed the beams overhead.

Tools lay scattered near the chair.

A bone saw with a cracked wooden handle, its blade dark with age and caught between two of its teeth, dried and brown and unmistakable, a thin curl of flesh.

Hooks, instruments with purposes she didn't want to name.

The smell thickened the longer she stood there.

She took one step toward the chair.

Her shoe stuck briefly to the floor and peeled free with a sound she felt in her back teeth.

She stopped in front of the chair and stared down at it.

A heavy footstep sounded behind her.

She went rigid.

Another, slow, deliberate, booted, the floorboards protesting under the weight of each step.

Another breath warmed the back of her neck, close enough to move the loose hair at her collar.

She turned.

A tall shape stood behind her, just absence arranged in the shape of a man, the light bending wrong around its edges.

One arm lifted, something long and dark in its grip.

It came down toward her face.

She screamed and squeezed her eyes shut.

When she opened her eyes, she was sitting in the chair.

Moonlight fell through a single narrow window.

Cobwebs laced across her shoulders, through her hair, across her knees.

They draped from the beams overhead in long grey curtains, undisturbed except where she had walked through them on the way up.

The air was cool and still and smelled of dust and old wood and nothing else.

She stood.

Her hands went to her hair, her shoulders brushing frantically, pulling the webs free in long, clinging strands that wound around her fingers.

She scraped them from her arms, the back of her neck, the front of her shirt, her skin crawling with the feel of them.

She crossed to the stairs and went down fast, one hand pressed to the wall, the steep risers pitching her forward.

Her foot slipped on the second step from the bottom and she caught herself and kept going.

She hit the living room floor shaking.

She stood there for a long moment, her breath ragged, her hands still moving against her arms.

Then she went to the table and sat down.

The laptop screen had dimmed.

She touched the trackpad.

It brightened.

George lifted his head from the chair beside her and watched her face, her eyes fixed on the screen.

Her lips began to move.

Her fingers found the keys.

The latch won't catch.

It won't stay attached.

My mind's a door and the latch won't match.

She turned on her song again while staring at the words.

How they sat there, incomplete.

She didn't know what came.

Day six Amelia was standing in the hallway.

She didn't remember opening her apartment door.

Eleanor was halfway up the stairs and stopped when she saw her.

Amelia.

A door at the end of the hall stood open a few inches.

Amelia crossed to it without thinking and slammed it shut.

Sound cracked down the stairwell.

Eleanor blinked.

It's just the laundry room.

I know, amelia said too quickly.

I just need to make a phone call.

Eleanor studied her face.

You all right?

I just need to call someone.

Her hands were shaking.

She backed into her apartment, fumbled her keys, and shut the door harder than she meant to.

George stood in the middle of the living room.

He didn't approach her.

He watched.

His ears were flat.

She grabbed her phone from the table and pulled up Dr. Halpern's contact.

She pressed call.

The number you have dialed is not in service.

Her stomach dropped.

She hung up and tried again.

The number you have dialed is not in service.

She checked the digits carefully.

They were correct.

She searched manually and found his name again.

She tapped it.

The number you have dialed is not.

The line shifted with a faint click.

Then his voice.

Amelia?

Relief hit so hard it made her dizzy.

Yes?

Yes, it's me.

Something's happening.

Something is very wrong.

The words came fast and broken.

I went up there, into the attic last night.

I know what I saw.

There was a chair, straps on the arms.

And the floor.

The floor was dark.

It was soaked through.

Layers of it.

And tools.

There were tools.

A bone, saw, hooks.

Things for.

I don't know what they were for.

I don't want to know.

And the smell.

It was copper and rot and something sweet underneath it.

And it coated my throat and I couldn't.

She was pacing now, phone pressed hard to her ear.

A cupboard door eased open behind her.

She pushed it shut without looking.

And it's been saying my name since I moved in.

Whispering it over and over.

I can hear it right now if I stop talking.

A drawer slid out from the counter.

She shoved it closed mid sentence.

I know how it sounds.

I know.

But I was up there.

I saw it.

I'm not.

Another cabinet drifted open.

She shut it without breaking stride.

I'm not imagining it.

George had retreated to the far corner of the room.

He sat with his back against the wall, watching her from a distance, unblinking.

The whispers returned, low at first, a pressure at the edges of the room building slowly, layering over itself.

Different distances, different registers.

Mounting.

She pressed the phone harder against her ear.

It's doing it right now, she said.

Right now.

Can you hear it?

The attic door creaked behind her.

She didn't turn.

I didn't open that.

I didn't touch it.

The whispers climbed, folding over each other, urgent and close, filling the room from the walls inward.

She kept talking faster and louder, her voice rising to meet them.

Then everything stopped.

The cupboards hung still.

The attic fell silent.

The whispers vanished.

Silence.

Beep.

She pulled the phone away slightly.

The automated voice returned.

The number you have dialed is no longer in service.

She stared at the screen.

No call timer.

No connection.

No record of a call placed.

The whispers surged back all at once, louder than they had ever been, a layered pressure that filled her ears and pressed behind her eyes.

She dropped the phone.

Her eyes found the laptop.

She was across the room before she decided to move.

Her hands found the keyboard and didn't stop.

The same line over and over, growing with each pass, picking up words she didn't know she had.

The latch won't catch.

The latch won't catch.

It's the latch.

The latch won't catch.

It won't stay attached.

My mind's a door.

If it won't catch, it won't match.

It's.

She stopped, stared at the screen.

It's.

It's.

Her hands hovered over the keys shaking.

The word sat there, unfinished, waiting.

She didn't know what came next.

Day 7Amelia sat in the middle of the living room floor.

The lights were off.

Moonlight filtered thin and pale through the curtains, washing the room in gray.

She rocked slowly forward and back.

George sat in her lap, warm and heavy against her chest.

She stroked the thick fur at his neck in the same motion, over and over, her eyes fixed on the attic door.

I see you, she whispered, her voice hoarse.

George chirped softly and pressed his head up into her chin.

I know, she murmured.

I know.

He kneaded slowly against her thigh, like he was trying to keep her tethered.

Footsteps creaked above her.

Slow, measured descending.

Her rocking stopped.

The steps came down the attic stairs one at a time, wood bending, underweight.

The attic door swung open.

Dark inside.

Empty.

She stared into it.

A whisper, barely there, the edge of a breath.

Amelia long drawn out behind her.

She twisted around.

The kitchen was empty.

The hallway beyond it stood still.

A footstep sounded in front of her.

She turned back.

The attic opening remained wide and black.

A second voice threaded under the first.

Amelia.

Amelia.

George trilled, loud and urgent, and butted his head hard against her jaw.

I know, she breathed.

I hear them, too.

He chirped again, insistent.

They're so loud tonight, aren't they?

She murmured.

I know you can hear that.

She clutched him tighter and stood.

The attic door snapped shut with a crack.

She flinched.

The whispers multiplied.

Three voices now, four stacking over each other.

Different pitches, different distances, a low, layered hum building beneath them.

A cupboard in the kitchen creaked open.

Then another.

A door down the hall eased inward.

No.

Her breathing spiked.

No.

No.

No.

She set George down and he immediately pressed against her shins, trilling sharply, following her step for step as she moved toward the kitchen.

She slammed the covered slammed the next one.

Stop it.

George stayed at her heels, loud now, chirping in quick, sharp bursts, like he was trying to talk her through it.

I know, she snapped, then softer.

I know.

I'm sorry.

I'm trying.

The attic latch shifted.

The door swung open.

She spun and crossed the room in three strides.

Fuck you.

She slammed it with both palms.

Stay closed.

Just fucking stay closed.

George yowled from behind her, loud and raw.

She turned.

He was standing in the center of the room, fur raised along his spine, eyes wide and fixed on her face.

Georgie.

Her voice broke on it.

Can you hear them?

Tell me you can hear them.

He let out another yowl, lower this time, mournful.

Come here.

She crossed to him and scooped him up.

He went easily Pressing his face into her neck, purring hard and fast.

There.

You hear them, too.

I knew it.

The whispers surged.

Five voices, six.

The hum beneath them deepening, vibrating in her chest now and her back teeth.

A cabinet banged open.

She ran to it, George still in her arms, and kicked it shut.

Another door, and she shoved it with her shoulder.

Then another.

Stop opening.

She screamed.

George dug his claws lightly into her shoulder, holding on.

Stay with me, she gasped.

Stay with me, okay?

Don't you go anywhere.

He chirped against her ear.

The attic door stood wide open again.

The whispers came from everywhere now, layered, so thick they had become a texture, a pressure, a sound that was almost not sound anymore.

Amelia.

Amelia.

She charged at the door with George still clutched to her chest.

You stop right now.

She slammed it with both hands.

The house went.

Went silent.

In the sudden quiet, something snapped.

Small, wet.

She froze.

Her hands were still pressed against the door.

Slowly, she looked down.

George's head and neck were caught in the door frame.

His body hung limp on the living room side, one paw extended, claws still slightly hooked from where he had been holding on to her.

She didn't understand what she was seeing.

She didn't understand it.

Then she did.

No.

She yanked at the door.

It held.

No.

George.

She pulled harder, a sound tearing out of her that wasn't a word.

The latch scraped and gave and the door swung free and his body fell into her arms.

And she went down with him, both knees hitting the floor hard.

No.

No.

No.

She gathered him against her chest and pressed her face into the fur at his neck and sobbed.

Ugly, broken, airless sobs that shook her whole body.

I'm sorry, she wept.

I'm so sorry.

I didn't mean to.

I didn't mean to, Georgie.

I'm so sorry.

She rocked him forward, back.

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry.

His fur was soft under her cheek.

He was so heavy.

He was so still.

She held him tighter.

Please, she whispered.

Please.

Nothing.

She pressed her lips to the top of his head.

I'm so sorry.

Then a vibration, faint, almost imperceptible.

She went rigid.

It came again, stronger, a purr.

She jerked back and looked down at him.

George blinked up at her, slow and sleepy, and licked her wrist.

Oh, my God.

She cupped his face in both hands.

Oh, my God.

You're okay.

You're okay.

He pushed his nose into her palm and purred louder.

I've got you, she breathed.

I've got you.

I'm so sorry.

I've got you.

She pressed her forehead against his and stayed there, shaking, until her breath came back.

Then she became aware of her hands.

She pulled them back slowly and looked at them, dark, wet along the fingers.

She stared at them for a moment, the way you stare at something that doesn't quite belong to you.

Then she looked down.

George was watching her from her arms, blinking slowly, his purr a steady rumble against her chest.

She looked back at her hands, then back at him.

She carried him to the kitchen.

Carefully she set him down beside his bowl with both hands, lowering him slowly until his feet found the floor.

There, she murmured.

There you go.

He looked up at her.

She reached into the cupboard above and found the treat bag, shook a small pile into her palm, set them in front of him one at a time.

Here, she said softly.

These are yours.

All of them.

He sniffed them and began to eat, delicate and unhurried.

She watched him for a moment, hands dark at her sides.

Good boy, she whispered.

The whispers returned.

Amelia.

Immediate.

No warning.

Amelia.

A cupboard slammed open behind her.

She screamed.

She spun toward the living room.

The attic door was open again, black and wide and patient.

The voices stacked, a roaring, layered pressure pressing in from every surface, through the walls, through the floor.

She grabbed the couch with both hands and dragged it across the floor, the legs screaming against the floorboards, and rammed it against the attic door.

Stay closed.

A chair heaved on top, the coffee table sideways, wedged in the bookshelf.

She emptied it in armfuls, books hitting the floor in cascades, spines splitting, pages fanning across the floorboards.

The shelf dragged and slammed into place.

Another chair, the side table from the hall, every cushion pulled from the couch and jammed into gaps.

Her duffel bag, her suitcase, unzipped and empty, forced into a gap near the base.

Stay.

Just stop.

She pressed her back against the barricade, chest heaving, hair in her face, hands dark against the pale of her shirt.

The whispers pressed through it like it wasn't there.

Amelia.

She slid down until she was sitting on the floor, back against the couch, knees to her chest.

She covered her ears.

She rocked forward, back.

After a while she looked toward the kitchen.

George lay draped across his bowl, limp and sideways, one paw folded under him, his body slumped at an angle no sleeping cat would choose.

The treat bag lay on its side on the counter above him, a few scattered pieces on the floor near his nose.

She looked at him and smiled, warm and distant.

He's so tired, she murmured.

She turned back toward the door.

Forward, back.

It's in the past, she whispered.

It's in the past.

Her fingers rubbed together slowly dark and tacky.

The latch forward, back, my mind is a door.

Aftermath.

The door was unlocked.

Eleanor pushed it open and stopped.

The smell hit her before her eyes made sense of anything copper and something stale and close underneath it.

The living room was barely recognizable.

Her eyes moved to the kitchen doorway.

George lay draped across his food bowl, one paw folded beneath him.

His fur was matted and dark along his neck and chest.

Eleanor's hand went to her mouth.

She stood there, eyes filling, and looked at him for a moment that felt longer than it was.

Her chest pulled tight, holding her breath until she could make herself turn away.

Then she saw Amelia sitting in the center of the living room floor, back against the barricade, knees drawn to her chest, rocking slow and even, forward and back.

Her hands rested open in her lap, dark and dried.

Her shirt was stained through rust brown, and there was blood on her face, a smear along one cheek, at the corner of her mouth.

Eleanor let out a gasp.

She pressed her hand harder against her mouth for just a second.

Then she lowered it, smoothed her cardigan, and crossed the room.

She lowered herself to one knee in front of Amelia, close but careful, like she might startle her.

Amelia.

Amelia's eyes were open but fixed on something past Eleanor's shoulder, somewhere far away.

It's the latch, she whispered.

The latch won't catch.

It won't stay attached.

Her fingers rubbed together slowly in her lap.

Eleanor looked at her hands, at the blood dried into the creases of her knuckles, at the smear on her cheek.

Amelia, she said softly.

It's Eleanor.

I'm right here.

Amelia's head tilted faintly.

It's tied to the past, she murmured.

That's all.

Tied to the past.

A faint smile crossed her face, warm, distant.

Georgie's fine, she said.

He's so tired.

Eleanor's eyes stung, wet with tears.

She blinked it back and kept her gaze on Amelia's face.

I know, she said, and her voice only just held.

I know he is.

My mind's a door, amelia whispered.

A door with a latch.

If it won't catch, it won't match.

She rocked forward, back.

Eleanor reached out and placed both hands over Amelia's.

Amelia blinked.

Her eyes shifted, and for just a moment she was there, looking at Eleanor's face with something like recognition.

Then she was gone again.

The latch won't catch, she murmured.

It's tied to the past.

My mind's attached.

The common room was quiet in the morning light.

A muted television murmured in the corner while chair legs scraped softly across tile.

A nurse guided someone back toward their seat.

With gentle patience, Amelia walked the perimeter of the room, her fingertips brushing the backs of chairs as she passed.

She moved in a slow circuit, steady and repetitive.

It's the latch, she murmured.

The latch won't catch.

It won't stay attached.

She paused near the window, staring at nothing in particular.

My mind's a door, she whispered.

If it won't catch, it won't match.

Down the hall, Dr. Halpern stood at the nurse's station with a thin file open in his hands.

How's she been?

He asked.

Not great, the nurse replied quietly.

She's looping again.

Doors?

He nodded.

Any stabilization?

For a bit, then she slipped.

He closed the file without reacting.

She's been asking for Georgie, too, the nurse added.

Where is he?

Gone since you left.

Prioritize finding him, please, he said evenly.

You know how she gets.

She made a small note on her clipboard.

How was the trip?

She asked.

Good.

It was good to get out of state.

And Eleanor?

She had an absolute blast.

The nurse nodded.

Once Dr. Halpern set the file down and walked into the common room.

Amelia stopped her circuit when she saw him.

She crossed toward him, unsteady but deliberate, her fingers rubbing together at her sides.

I tried to call, she said.

I tried for seven days.

He looked to her with a warm, caring smile.

I know, he said warmly.

I was only gone a week.

He touched her arm once, lightly.

I'm going to find George for you, okay?

Amelia held his gaze for a moment.

Okay, she whispered.

He must be hungry.

He stepped past her toward the double doors at the end of the hall.

She watched him go, her body swaying slightly as she shifted her weight forward and back.

It's tied to the past, she murmured.

That's all.

Her fingers rubbed against each other as though feeling for something invisible.

The latch won't catch.

Dr. Halpern pushed the doors open.

Beyond them was the living room, not the corridor beyond the ward, the living room.

Fire pokers just visible to the right, the kitchen open beyond.

Dr. Halpern stepped through as if nothing were unusual.

The doors drifted shut behind him without latching fully.

The nurse looked up after a moment, frowning at the incomplete closure.

She crossed the hall and pulled the doors open again.

The living room remained beyond them.

Dr. Halpern was gone.

She stood there a second, longer than she should have.

These doors never shut right, she muttered to herself.

The whispers came then, soft at first, threading through the room like breath, finding gaps in old wood.

Amelia.

Amelia layered, overlapping, rising around the common room.

Heads began to turn.

A woman by the window, looked up at the ceiling.

A man near the television tilted his head, listening.

Someone in the corner started rocking, slow and even, forward and back.

The latch won't catch.

My mind is a match click.