A little boy stood on my porch with three dollars and asked to buy the only thing keeping me alive.

Mr. Pendelton didn’t make it to the kitchen. As he fumbled with the front doorknob, a sudden, sharp crack erupted from the back porch, followed by a sickening thud that echoed through the thin walls of the house. Tuck’s tiny body jerked upright on the sofa, his gaze snapping toward the sound, wide and terrified.

“What was that?” Tuck whispered, his voice barely audible above the frantic drumming of his own heart.

Mr. Pendelton froze, his hand hovering over the brass knob. He’d only been gone thirty seconds, maybe a minute. He hadn’t even crossed the living room floor. He looked down at Tuck, his eyes filled with a mixture of fear and confusion, the ghost of tears still shimmering on his lashes.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice tight. “It sounded like glass breaking.”

Tuck’s small hand flew to his mouth. “The window?” he asked, pointing toward the back of the house. “Did… did the dark things break the window?”

Mr. Pendelton shook his head, though he wasn’t sure why. He didn’t want to scare the boy any more than he already was. “I don’t think so, Tuck,” he said, trying to inject a calmness he didn’t feel into his voice. “Maybe the wind blew something over. Maybe a branch fell.”

But the wind wasn’t blowing. The air in the room was still, heavy with the lingering scent of fear and mildew. And it hadn’t sounded like a branch. It had sounded deliberate. Final.

“I’ll go check,” Mr. Pendelton said, his voice firm. He took a deep breath, trying to steady his trembling legs. He reached for the silver cane that leaned against the wall near the door, his fingers brushing against the cool metal. He hadn’t used it in weeks, but suddenly it felt essential, a weapon against the unknown.

Tuck scrambled off the sofa, his small body moving with surprising speed for someone so frail. He followed Mr. Pendelton to the kitchen, his gaze fixed on the back door that led to the porch.

Mr. Pendelton pushed the door open slowly, his heart pounding in his chest like a drum. The moonlight streamed into the kitchen, illuminating the torn edges of the pantry curtains and casting long, dancing shadows across the floor.

And then he saw it.

The back porch door was wide open, the frame splintered and jagged. The glass pane was shattered, pieces of broken glass littering the floor like fallen stars. And in the center of the wreckage, lying face down in the pool of moonlight, was the Red Notebook.

“No,” Mr. Pendelton whispered, his voice cracking. He took a step forward, his foot crunching on the broken glass. “No, no, no.”

Tuck’s eyes widened in horror. He pointed at the notebook, his finger trembling. “It’s… it’s gone,” he stammered. “The bread is gone.”

Mr. Pendelton’s blood ran cold. He’d been so focused on the window, on the glass, that he’d forgotten about the bread. He’d forgotten about the only thing keeping Tuck alive. He’d forgotten about the little boy who stood on his porch with three dollars and asked to buy the only thing keeping him alive.

He knelt down, his knees creaking in protest, and reached for the notebook. But as his fingers brushed against the cover, a shadow fell over him.

He looked up, his breath catching in his throat.

Standing in the doorway, silhouetted against the moonlight, was a figure. Tall, slender, and draped in black. The figure didn’t move, didn’t speak. It just stood there, watching.