Narrator

In the weeks afterward, normal life resumed in the way it always does.

Bills, work, emails.

But the cabin followed us in small ways.

Nora started locking the deadbolt the moment the sun set, even though we live in a safe neighborhood.

Maddy stopped sleeping with her bedroom door open.

Eric, who'd always mocked paranormal anything, refused to talk about it at all, like language might invite it back.

I read the notebook slowly, page by page, over several nights.

I didn't tell Nora at first because she needed the event to stay contained, to remain in the past where it belonged.

The entries got worse as October progressed.

The writer described men hearing their own voices calling from the woods.

He described finding deer carcasses arranged.

He described a thing that would stand at the edge of firelight and watch, learning faces.

And then the last entry, dated October 31st, was short.

It wore my brother's voice today.

I saw it move wrong.

It is not a man in a mask.

It is a borrower.

If you read this, do not answer it.

Do not go to it.

Let it starve on your silence.