Whispers of Betrayal

The morning light crept through the boarded windows of the old farmhouse, casting long, dusty beams across the floor. Chris sat at the edge of a worn sofa, his eyes fixed on the door that led to the upstairs bedrooms. He hadn’t slept. Every creak of the settling house, every whisper of wind against the glass, had felt like a threat. Beside him, Yasmine stirred on a makeshift pallet, her arm draped protectively over Marie, who had curled into her side like a small animal seeking warmth. Monte was already awake, sitting cross-legged on the floor, his fingers tracing patterns in the dust.

“Dad,” Monte whispered, his voice barely audible. “Is Kacy really gone?”

Chris nodded slowly. They had found her sleeping spot empty at dawn. Her pack was still there, but she was not. No sign of struggle. No blood. Just an open window on the ground floor that no one remembered leaving unlatched. The group had searched the perimeter, calling her name, but the only reply had been the distant, hollow moans of the dead shuffling through the overgrown fields.