I came home from my week-long trip tired but eager to see my family. I expected to find the house quiet, the boys asleep in their beds, and my husband waiting for me. Instead, when I stepped inside, the first thing I saw were my two sons sleeping on the cold hallway floor. No blankets, no pillows, nothing to cushion them. They were just curled up against each other, shivering slightly. My heart dropped. Something was wrong.

A dozen possibilities flashed through my mind. Was there a fire? A burst pipe? Some emergency that forced them out of their room? But no—my husband would’ve told me. Even he wouldn’t forget to mention something like that.

I stepped over the boys carefully, keeping the lights low so I wouldn’t wake them. The house felt strangely still, like the air itself was holding its breath. I headed to our bedroom first. It was empty. The bed hadn’t been slept in. My husband’s shoes were missing, and even his phone charger was gone. I frowned. Where would he be at this hour? And why wouldn’t he tell me?

Growing more uneasy, I walked toward the boys’ room. That was when I heard muffled noises coming from behind the closed door—soft thumps and shuffling, like someone trying to be quiet but failing. I froze, listening. Someone was in there.

I reached for the doorknob slowly and pushed the door open just a crack, letting only a sliver of hallway light into the room. I didn’t speak. I didn’t turn on the light. I just watched.

And the moment my eyes adjusted, I gasped. In the dim glow, I saw—