The Killing Hour
The gunshot echoed through the Blackwood house at precisely 3:07 AM.
Twelve-year-old Aria knew this because she'd been staring at the digital clock when it happened, watching red numbers bleed into each other while pretending not to hear her father's frantic whispers downstairs.
"They'll come for her next."
Then—the shot.
Silence.
Aria didn't scream. Didn't move. Just pressed her back against the closet wall, knees pulled to her chest, her father's pocket watch digging into her palm. The one he'd shoved at her minutes earlier with shaking hands.
"No matter what happens, firefly, you run."
Boots thudded up the stairs.
Through the slats, she saw them—four silhouettes pausing outside her bedroom. One wore polished Oxfords. Another had military-issue boots. The third dragged a bloodied knuckle across her doorframe. The fourth...the fourth just stood there, humming her mother's lullaby.
Her father's pocket watch clicked open in her sweaty hand. Hidden in the casing—a microfilm strip and a photograph of five boys lined up like specimens. Scrawled on the back in her father's handwriting:
PROJECT DOLLHOUSE SUBJECTS 01-05
The knob turned.
Aria stopped breathing.
The closet door never opened.
Because at that exact moment, from somewhere downstairs, a fifth voice snarled:
"You missed one."
Then—screams.
Not her father's. Not anymore.
These were grown men screaming.
When the house finally fell silent again, Aria crept out to find three things:
1. Her father's body in a pool of jasmine tea (he always drank it at 3 AM)
2. A silver spider pendant glinting on the floor
3. The words THEY'RE NOT HUMAN written in blood beneath the shattered clock
The pocket watch in her hand began to tick.
It hadn't worked in years.