Sasha and Zhian had barricaded the bedroom door with every piece of furniture they could find, but it wasn't enough. On the other side of the wood, The Thriller of the Hunt let out a low chuckle, dragging his machete slowly across the surface, scoring deep, whining gashes into the door. The sack on his back thumped. Heavy. As if full of moving things.
They were trapped. The box containing their daughter's mutilated body sat like a coffin in the corner. Sasha couldn't even look at it. Her hands trembled. Her mind was still echoing with the sound of Mila's last muffled scream over the phone.
Zhian yanked open the window. "Sasha, help me with the blanket!" They tore the blanket off the bed and tied it to the tall oak cabinet. A makeshift rope, knotted in panic.
The Thriller began slamming into the door now. With each slam, splinters of wood shot across the room. His breathing was heavy and playful, like a hunter excited by his prey's struggle.
"You go first!" Zhian shouted.
"No—no, we go together!"
"Sasha, please!"
She hesitated—but the door cracked, a machete blade slicing halfway through it.
She slipped through the window and lowered herself with the blanket. It burned her palms. Her feet scraped the brick wall. When she landed, she stumbled into the grass, knees cut, but alive.
Above her, the door finally burst open.
She heard Zhian scream. There was a crashing sound. Fighting. Furniture being thrown. Metal against bone.
Then—silence.
Sudden.
Sasha looked up.
Michael's head dropped out the window.
Followed by his body, mutilated, spine bent unnaturally, eyes wide and mouth frozen in horror.
Sasha screamed so loud the street echoed. She backed away, tears choking her throat. She couldn't see who had done it—but she didn't wait. She ran into the night, barefoot and bleeding.
Gallagher Street, same time. The fog was thicker tonight.
A group of officers stood outside the police station. Tension wrapped around them like barbed wire. No one knew what to expect anymore. They had faced monsters—real ones—and came out broken.
Toff Ballesteros stepped out of the building, cigarette tucked in the corner of his mouth, rifle strapped across his back. He wore an old bomber jacket, jeans, and a calm expression that didn't match the warzone they were about to walk into.
He wasn't from here. He was a name the department whispered about when things got too ugly. The man who made monsters disappear without asking questions.
Commander Ditch approached him. "You sure about this?"
Toff looked at him and flicked the cigarette to the ground.
"I don't get scared by haunted stores," he muttered. "Just point me to the shop."
"It's called Dead Shop now. It's... different."
"I don't care what it's called," Toff said. "If it breathes, it can die."
He walked to his car, tossed the rifle into the passenger seat, and started the engine. The headlights sliced through the mist. A small cross hung from his rearview mirror. His dashboard was cluttered with old bullet casings and faded photographs.
As he drove, he whispered something under his breath—some prayer or curse—and tightened his grip on the steering wheel.
Back in New York, Sasha ran down the street with no destination. Sirens screamed in the distance but didn't come close. She tried her phone again. Still no signal.
She collapsed by a streetlight. Her arms wrapped around herself, trembling, lost. Mila was gone. Michael was dead. And yet… the Thriller was still out there.
And something worse might be coming.
She looked up—and saw a flicker of movement across the road.
A figure. Thin. Tall. White face. That same Santa outfit. He stood still, machete in hand, sack in the other. Just watching.
Sasha backed away slowly. The figure didn't move. Just smiled. Unnaturally wide.
She turned and ran again.
In Greenland, the fog on Gallagher Street clung to the buildings like a memory that refused to die. Toff Ballesteros parked the truck across from the shop, engine humming low, eyes locked on the glowing neon sign that read:
"El Fuego de Shop"
Beside him, Bruce loaded his shotgun and slung it across his back. He was younger than Toff, but tougher-looking. Both had seen war. But this... this was something else.
"You ready?" Bruce asked, voice low, checking the street.
Toff nodded. "This place doesn't breathe like the others. It thinks."
Bruce smirked nervously. "Don't give it more credit than it deserves."
Toff pulled the rifle from the passenger seat. "Just stay sharp. No hero moves. We go in, sweep, and torch it from the basement up."
They crossed the street slowly, boots crunching broken glass and ash. The front door of the shop creaked as Bruce tested it. Unlocked.
He looked at Toff. "If anything moves, we shoot."
Toff gave him a sharp nod.
Bruce stepped inside. Instantly, the shop lit up. Flickering yellow lights buzzed overhead. Rows of antique mannequins lined the shelves, staring with lifeless eyes. The walls looked freshly painted, but the colors shifted, like skin under water.
And then— snap.
Bruce's body jolted upward.
A thick, black tendril snapped from the ceiling, coiling around his neck, lifting him like a marionette. His shotgun clattered to the ground.
"Toff—!"
His boots kicked, eyes bulging.
Toff raised his gun and fired at the ceiling. Sparks erupted. The bullet shredded through a piece of living flesh—something slick and oily with too many eyes that blinked independently of each other. The ceiling hissed and released Bruce's body. He crashed down hard, groaning in pain.
The entity slithered back into the shadows, vanishing into the veins of the building.
"Bruce!" Toff ran in, dragging him behind a display case.
Bruce gasped. "It... it was in the f***ing ceiling, man. It was watching us—waiting."
Toff's eyes scanned the shop. "We're not alone. Keep your eyes up."
Then Bruce saw it.
In the corner of the room, behind a tattered curtain, stood a boy.
Small. Pale. Face partly hidden under shadow. His eyes glowed—deep red—like burning coals submerged in water.
Bruce froze. "Toff..."
Toff looked. The boy stared straight at them. No fear. No emotion. Just hunger.
Bruce pointed his pistol. "What the hell is that?"
Toff fired— But the gun twisted in midair.
A metallic groan cracked through the room as the rifle barrel bent on its own—warped, reshaped by an unseen force—and pointed directly at Bruce.
"Toff—DON'T—!"
BANG.
The bullet blew through Bruce's head, painting the wall behind him red.
Toff stumbled backward, horror knotting in his throat. He looked at the weapon, its barrel still twisted unnaturally as if it were laughing at him.
He hadn't meant to.
The door behind him slammed shut. The lights dimmed.
He ran—dodging shelves, smashing through glass displays—until he reached the storage room door in the back.
He shoved it open and slammed it behind him.
Darkness.
The scent of rust and rot filled the air. He flicked on his flashlight. The beam shook in his hand. Boxes were stacked in strange arrangements—too neatly. Like an altar.
He pressed his back to the door, breathing hard.
The shop had taken Bruce.
Just like it had taken everyone else.
And it wasn't done yet.