Chapter 11: A face Returned

 The sun had dipped low by the time they returned to the farmhouse. The mist had thickened, curling tightly around the trees like it was waiting for something. The path home felt longer, heavier. Aaron stepped through the front door first, the journal still clutched in his hands. He stopped cold. At the end of the hallway stood the boy. Small. Barefoot. Silent. His wide eyes locked onto Aaron's like he had never left.

 Aaron's breath caught in his throat. "What…" he whispered. "Where did you go?" The journal slipped slightly in his grasp. His voice rose. "Where did you go?!" The boy didn't answer. He only stared. Then, slowly, mechanically, he turned his head toward Jacob. "Papa?" the boy asked. Jacob stepped inside, brushing mist from his shoulders and hanging his coat. He looked calm. Casual. Like nothing was wrong. Aaron turned to him, voice sharp. "You see him, right? You told me there was no boy.

 Ruth said there was no boy. He was gone!" Jacob looked at him with faint concern. "You alright?" he asked gently. "Long day. You've done a lot." Aaron glanced past him into the kitchen. Ruth stood at the counter, folding a cloth. Her daughter stirred a pot on the stove, helping silently, her movements slow and steady. Neither looked toward the hallway. Neither looked at the boy. But Aaron couldn't look away.

 Then it began. The hallway stretched, warped like a rubber band pulled too far. Shadows thickened in the corners, curling inward like ink dropped in water. The boy's skin turned pale and waxy, like candle flesh left too long in the cold. His glassy eyes dulled, sinking into black pits that didn't just stare at Aaron but through him, reaching into some hidden place beyond the walls. From the kitchen came a soft metallic clink. Ruth's hands twitched—small spasms, jerky and stiff, like her bones no longer knew what they were.

 She folded the towel again, slower this time. The daughter stirred the pot in perfect circles, never blinking, never speaking. The steam curled like breath from something dead. The boy moved. Not with steps. He slid—his feet dragging silently across the floor, his motion smooth, unnatural, like the house itself carried him forward. Then his mouth parted. A grin stretched too wide across his face, tugging at the corners of his cheeks like something was pulling from beneath the skin.

 His teeth were too small. Too sharp. Too many. It was not a child's smile. It was a warning. Aaron stumbled back, breath shallow, his mind screaming while his body froze. He looked down. The journal in his hands pulsed softly, like a living thing. A dark stain seeped between the pages—thick, slow, and red. He blinked. And it was gone. The hallway snapped back to normal. The boy stood where he had always been—calm, quiet, still. Ruth and her daughter worked in the kitchen, the pot steaming, the towel folded. Only Jacob moved. He stepped forward, placing a hand gently on Aaron's shoulder. "You alright?" he said again. "Why don't you go get some rest? You've done enough for one day."

 Aaron didn't speak. His eyes stayed on the boy, who hadn't blinked once. The house seemed to exhale behind him.