The first slam shook the walls so hard the picture frames rattled.
Ten-year-old Emily Carter froze on the living room floor, her small hands clutching the hem of her pajama top as if it could hold her together. For a split second, her mind refused to accept what her ears had just heard.
Houses in her neighborhood didn’t make sounds like that. Not at night. Not like someone was trying to break the door down.
Then came the second slam.
BANG.
Emily screamed.
Her heart pounded so fast it hurt, each beat echoing in her ears louder than the thunder outside. The living room lamp flickered, casting cold blue shadows across the walls. The front door groaned under another violent hit, the metal handle rattling like it was about to snap off.
“Dad…” she whispered, her voice barely louder than her breathing.
She scrambled backward until her shoulders hit the couch. Her knees pulled tight to her chest, arms wrapped around them, rocking as tears streamed down her cheeks. Her phone lay on the coffee table—just a few feet away—but it felt like miles.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
“Please…” she cried. “Please stop…”
The door shook again.
Emily knew, in her bones, that this wasn’t random. This wasn’t a drunk neighbor or kids playing a prank. Those who were outside knew someone was home. And worse—they knew exactly who lived here.
Two hours earlier, the house had felt normal.
Dinner dishes were still drying on the rack. Emily’s backpack leaned against the wall where she’d dropped it after homework. The TV was paused on a cartoon she planned to finish before bed. Everything looked the way it always did when her dad was supposed to be home by nine.
But nine had come and gone.
Then ten.
Emily had tried not to worry. Her dad was a police officer—late nights were normal. He always told her that being brave didn’t mean not being scared; it meant knowing what to do when you were.
“Lock the doors. Don’t open them for anyone. Call me first,” he’d say, smiling as he tapped her nose.
She’d locked the doors.
She’d turned on all the lights.
She’d even checked under the bed, just in case.
Still, when the knocking started, it felt like the house had shrunk around her.
The phone vibrated in her hand as she finally grabbed it, fingers slippery with tears.
“Dad,” she sobbed as soon as the call connected. “Dad, please save me. Someone is here.”
Another slam thundered through the house, so loud it made her drop the phone. She screamed again, crawling backward until she was pressed into the corner between the couch and the wall.
“Emily?” Her dad’s voice crackled through the speaker. “Emily, listen to me. Are the doors locked?”
“Yes!” she cried. “They’re locked—but they keep hitting it! Please come home fast, Dad, I’m scared!”
On the other end of the line, there was a pause. Not the kind that meant the signal was bad—but the kind that meant something had just gone very, very wrong.
“Sweetheart,” he said carefully, his voice lower now, tighter. “Do not open that door. No matter what they say. Do you hear me?”
Another slam answered for her.
The doorframe creaked.
“I hear you,” she whispered.
“Get to the safe room,” he said. “Now.”
Emily’s breath caught. The safe room. He’d shown it to her once—her bedroom closet, reinforced, with a lock hidden behind the shoe rack. He’d made it sound like a game back then. A secret fort.
It didn’t feel like a game anymore.
She ran.
Bare feet slapped against the hallway floor as the banging grew louder behind her. With every step, she expected the door to burst open, splintering wood and glass, hands reaching for her.
Her bedroom light was off. Moonlight spilled through the window, painting silver lines across her bed. She dove into the closet, yanking the shoe rack aside with shaking hands, fumbling for the hidden latch.
BANG.
The house groaned.
“Dad!” she cried into the phone, wedging it between her shoulder and ear as she turned the lock. “I’m in the closet!”
“Good,” he said. “Stay there. I’m on my way.”
She slid down to the floor, knees pulled tight again, listening to her own breathing echo in the small space. The closet smelled like laundry detergent and dust. Normally, it made her feel safe.
Tonight, it felt like a box.
The slamming stopped.
Emily held her breath.
Seconds passed. Then a minute.
Her heart pounded so hard she thought whoever was outside might hear it.
Then a new sound cut through the silence.
A voice.
“Emily,” a man called from the other side of the front door. Calm. Almost friendly. “We know you’re home.”
Her blood ran cold.
“Your dad forgot something,” the voice continued. “We just want to give it back.”
Emily squeezed her eyes shut.
Dad had warned her about this. About people who pretended to be kind. About voices that lied.
“I’m not opening the door,” she whispered, barely able to speak.
The handle rattled again—but softer this time. Testing. Patient.
“That’s okay,” the man said. “We’ll wait.”
On the other end of the phone, her father was already speeding through red lights, siren off, jaw clenched so tight it ached.
Because he knew exactly who was at his house.
And he knew why they were there.
To them, he wasn’t just a cop.
He was a problem.
And Emily was the leverage.
END OF PART 1
