Through the Black Window Part 1

The clock read 4:13 a.m. — that strange, brittle hour when the world feels like it’s holding its breath. David sat at the kitchen table, elbows braced on cool wood, eyes fixed on the phone in front of him. It hadn’t rung yet.

He’d been awake since two, pacing between the window and the sink, sipping bitter coffee that did nothing but keep his hands from trembling. Outside, the street was empty except for a single streetlamp that buzzed like an insect.

Somewhere out there, his sister was either still driving toward home or lying in a ditch. She’d texted him three words hours ago- "Car broke down." No location. No answer to his calls.

David checked the phone again. Still nothing. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked. Somewhere closer, the refrigerator hummed.

And all the while, the sky stayed stubbornly black, as if the sun had decided not to rise until he knew for sure which way this night was going to end.

The phone buzzed. David's heart slammed hard enough to make him dizzy, but when he snatched it up, the screen only showed a text from the bank- Suspicious activity detected.

“Not now,” he muttered, tossing it onto the table. The sound felt too loud in the stillness.

He checked the window again. Still nothing — no headlights, no movement. Just that lonely streetlamp painting the sidewalk in sickly yellow. His coffee was cold now, and his hands were stiff from clutching the mug.

The front door rattled.

David froze. No knock, no call of his name. Just a slow turn of the doorknob from the other side.

He reached for the baseball bat leaning against the wall. His sister didn’t have a key — he’d taken hers after she lost the last one in a bar parking lot.

The knob stopped turning. Silence. Then, a soft scrape, like metal against metal.

Someone was trying to pick the lock.

David's phone was still on the table. He inched toward it, but halfway there, the lock clicked.

The door began to open.

The door opened just enough for a shadow to slip inside. David stayed still, the bat gripped tight, heart hammering in his ears.

The figure paused in the doorway — tall, lean, a hood drawn up so low the face was just a darkness inside the darker room.

David took one silent step backward, placing the kitchen island between them. The figure stepped in fully and shut the door with a careful click.

They weren’t in a rush. That was worse.

David glanced toward the phone on the table. Too far. The figure moved toward it.

“Where’s my sister?” The words left David's mouth before he realized he’d said them.

The hooded head tilted — slowly, like they were considering the question. No answer.

David raised the bat. “I’m not asking again.”

Finally, the figure spoke. The voice was soft, almost amused. “She’s fine. You should be worried about yourself.”

David's stomach dropped. The figure stepped closer, and in the faint streetlamp light spilling through the blinds, something metal glinted in their hand.

Not a weapon. A phone.

His sister’s phone.

The air in the room seemed to shrink.

“Where is she?” he demanded again.

The figure tossed the phone onto the floor.

The screen was shattered, spiderweb cracks catching the light. “She’s waiting,” they said. “And you’re coming with me.”

David didn’t lower the bat. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

The figure smiled — he could hear it in their voice, even if he couldn’t see it. “You will. Because if you don’t, she won’t see the sunrise.”

The words dug into him like hooks. His grip tightened until the wood creaked.

The figure stepped aside, motioning toward the door. “Car’s waiting.”

David glanced at the phone on the table — his phone. But the figure caught his hesitation. “Don’t bother,” they said. “Signal’s gone.”

David didn’t believe them, but he also didn’t have proof. Outside, the black pre-dawn stillness pressed against the windows, a suffocating curtain.

He lowered the bat, but kept it in hand.

“I’m driving,” he said.

The figure chuckled. “Not a chance.”

They ushered him outside. The street was empty, silent except for the faint buzz of the streetlamp and the crunch of gravel under their steps. A black sedan sat at the curb, engine running. The rear door was already open.

David hesitated. The figure leaned closer.

“She’s fifteen minutes from here. Every minute you waste…” They let the sentence hang, heavy.

David slid into the back seat. The figure followed, shutting the door. The driver — a second person, face hidden by a baseball cap — pulled away without a word.

The city gave way to long stretches of highway, then to winding back roads. The sky was still dark, but a faint line of gray pressed against the horizon.

David leaned forward. “If you hurt her—”

The driver cut him off with a dry laugh.

“We’re not going to hurt her. She’s… important to us.”

That word — us — landed wrong.

They took a turn onto a narrow dirt road, trees crowding in on both sides. The air smelled of damp earth and pine. Ahead, through the darkness, a single light glowed in the woods.

The driver spoke without looking back.

“You’ll see her soon. But you might not like the terms.”

The sedan rolled to a stop in a clearing.

The cabin ahead was small, almost swallowed by the trees, but its single lit window felt like a spotlight aimed at David.

The figure in the hood got out first, gesturing for him to follow. David hesitated, eyes darting between the trees. Could he run? Not without knowing where his sister was — and not without a weapon.

They led him inside.

The place was cramped, smelling of woodsmoke and damp wool. On the far side of the room sat his sister, bound to a chair, a strip of duct tape over her mouth. Her eyes went wide when she saw him.

David stepped toward her, but the hooded figure blocked his path. “Not yet.”

The driver removed their cap. She was older than he expected — late fifties, wiry, with sharp eyes that seemed to weigh and measure him in seconds.

“You don’t know us,” she said, “but we know you. More importantly, we know your sister.”

David's voice was ice. “Let her go.”

The older woman ignored him, turning to the hooded figure. “Show him.”

From a pocket, they pulled a photograph. Not new — faded around the edges, colors bleeding toward sepia. It showed a baby girl in a hospital blanket. On the back, in shaky handwriting- Property of Grafton Institute – Subject 7.

David stared. “What the hell is this?”

The older woman’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Your sister isn’t who you think she is. She’s the seventh of twelve children — none of them born to a mother in the usual sense. We made her. We made all of them. And now… we need her back.”

The words hit like cold water. David looked at his sister — she was shaking her head violently, eyes pleading.

“You think you’re protecting her,” the woman continued, “but she’s not safe out there. She belongs with us. And if you don’t give her up willingly, you’ll both disappear.”

Outside, the sky was paling — the first streaks of dawn cutting through the trees.

Inside, the room felt smaller by the second.