Morrisa’s voice rang out. “They’ve been standing there for two hours, Sheriff. They haven’t moved. They haven’t said a word. They’re not answering any questions. They seem to be waiting for something.” Brennan approached slowly, his boots crunching on the straw floor. “Children,” he said quietly. “I’m Sheriff Brennan. We’re here to help you. Can you tell me your names?” Nothing, not even a blink. He tried again. “Where are your parents? Where are the Harlows?”
At the sound of that name, something changed, not in their expressions, which remained strangely neutral, but in the silence itself. It grew heavier, more expectant. The older girl, with dark hair who would have been beautiful if her hair were clean, nodded slightly to the left. When he spoke, his voice took on a strange melody that didn’t fit the words: “Mom and Dad are home. They’re waiting for us too. Everything’s on hold now.”
Brennan smiled crookedly. “What are you waiting for, honey?” Her lips curved into something that didn’t quite resemble a smile. “So you’ll understand. But you won’t. No one ever will. That’s just how it works.”
Before Brennan could think of some cryptic answer, the youngest child stepped forward: a boy who couldn’t have been more than four. His movements were strange, too small, like a puppet on well-oiled strings. “We’ve been practicing,” the boy said, imitating the older girl’s tone and rhythm. “We’re really good. Mom says we’re almost perfect. Do you want to see us?”
Without a response, the children smiled in unison. That smile, identical to the previous one, from exactly the same angle, lasted exactly three seconds before their expressions darkened again. This was a game, Brennan realized with horror. They were acting like human children, and they weren’t handling it very well. She had to get to that house. She had to see what the Harlows had done to those children.
The walk from the barn to the house seemed to stretch for miles, not meters. The children followed without question, walking single file, their steps coordinated in a way that natural human movement never achieves. Morris stayed close to Brennan, his hand on his revolver, though neither could say what role the weapon might play in the chaos.
The front door was ajar. Inside, the house was spotless, which, as it turned out, only made matters worse. The floors gleamed, the furniture was neat, and there was not a speck of dust on any surface. It resembled a stage more than a living room. In the living room, two figures sat on high stools, facing the window. Mr. and Mrs. Harlow, Brennan thought, though she could only see their backs. Neither of them moved as the group entered.
“Mr. Harlow, Mrs. Harlow, this is Deputy Brennan. We need to talk about these children.” Silence. Brennan circled the seated couple and instinctively drew her gun. The Harlows were dead. Judging by the state of their bodies, they must have been dead for some time, though the cold had somehow spared them. They lay in their armchairs, their hands clasped in their laps, their faces turned toward the window, as if waiting for someone who would never appear.
