I shouldn’t go up there.
Every rational thought I have lines up neatly behind that conclusion, like a list I could recite if my hands weren’t shaking so badly. Stay where you are. Barricade. Wait for help. Don’t walk toward the thing you don’t understand. Don’t separate yourself from exits. Don’t move into tighter spaces when you don’t know who else is in the house.
It’s a perfect list.
It means nothing.
My feet move anyway.
The knife is slick in my hand, my grip too tight, knuckles burning as I creep toward the staircase. The blade catches a faint reflection from the downstairs light, bright and unfamiliar, like it belongs to someone else. The first step looks taller than it should. Steeper. Like it’s daring me to commit to a mistake I won’t be able to undo.
I pause at the base and
