Chapter 24: The Mountain Town Crisis (8)
The knock came again.
Closer now, somehow, though the distance between the door and the table hadn’t changed. The sound carried weight, the kind that pressed into the room rather than echoing through it. The boss didn’t move at first. He stood there, one hand still hovering near the edge of the table, listening not just to the knock but to everything around it.
The building was quiet.
Too quiet.
No footfalls upstairs. No shifting in sleep. No pipes knocking or old wood settling. Even the hum of the city outside felt muted, as though the night had leaned in to watch what would happen next.
Knock.
The boss picked up his mug out of habit, realized it was empty, and set it down again with deliberate care. He reached out and dimmed the portal screen with a single tap. The kitchen fell into deeper shadow, lit only by the faint spill of light from the hallway leading to the front door.
He started walking.
Each step was measured. Silent. He avoided the loose tile near the sink, the one that clicked if you put your weight on it wrong. He didn’t hurry. Whatever was on the other side of the door wasn’t going anywhere.
Knock.
The sound was firmer now. Insistent, but not panicked. It wasn’t the kind of knocking that came from someone fleeing blindly. It was controlled. Purposeful.
That made it worse.
The boss reached the threshold between kitchen and hall and paused. He rested his palm flat against the wall, feeling the building, not for warmth or vibration, but for tension. There was a faint pressure there, like the air just before a storm breaks. Not active. Not aggressive.
Waiting.
He moved again, boots silent on the floorboards. The hallway seemed longer than usual, the front door sitting at the far end like an endpoint the world had decided to emphasize.
The light above it flickered once, then steadied.
Knock.
This time, the sound carried a hitch in it. A hesitation. As if whoever, or whatever, was knocking had adjusted its rhythm.
The boss stopped an arm’s length from the door.
Up close, he could feel it now. Not fear. Not threat. Presence. Something alive on the other side, breathing too fast, too shallow. Human.
That narrowed things.
His hand settled on the handle.
He didn’t look through the peephole.
He wrenched the door open in one smooth, violent motion.
Cold air rushed in, sharp and biting, carrying with it the smell of sweat and damp fabric. A figure stood there, hand raised mid-knock, eyes wide in shock.
The boss grabbed him.
Hard.
He hooked one arm around the man’s collar and shoulder and yanked, twisting his body sideways as he pulled him across the threshold. The movement was fast, practiced, leaving no room for resistance. The man stumbled, lost his footing, and hit the floor with a startled cry as the boss drove him down with controlled force.
The door slammed shut behind them.
The lock snapped into place.
The world outside vanished.
The man lay on the floor, gasping, palms splayed against the cold tile as he tried to push himself up. He was shaking, violently, uncontrollably, eyes darting around the hallway like a trapped animal’s.
“Please-” he choked out. “Please don’t, don’t hurt me-”
The boss had one knee on the man’s back, weight perfectly balanced, enough to keep him pinned without causing injury. His free hand hovered near the man’s neck, not touching, ready.
“Stay down,” the boss said quietly.
The man froze instantly, breath hitching.
“I- I didn’t know where else to go,” the man babbled, words tumbling over each other. “I saw the light, I saw someone was awake, I swear I wasn’t trying to-”
The boss scanned him quickly.
Middle-aged. Work clothes. Jacket damp with sweat and cold. Hands scraped raw, knuckles red and bleeding slightly as if he’d fallen recently. No visible weapons. No sigils. No markings.
Human.
“I was being followed,” the man whispered, voice breaking. “I know how this sounds but I swear, there was something in the wind-”
The boss’s eyes flicked briefly to the door, then back to the man.
“Quiet,” he said.
The man clamped his mouth shut immediately, tears pooling at the corners of his eyes.
“I didn’t look back,” he whispered anyway, unable to help himself. “I didn’t. I ran straight here. I thought if I could just get inside somewhere, anywhere-”
His voice cracked completely. “Please. I don’t want to disappear.”
The boss didn’t move.
Upstairs, the building remained silent.
The man lay trembling beneath him, breath coming in short, ragged bursts, fear radiating off him in waves so raw it was almost tangible. He wasn’t pretending. He wasn’t probing. He was begging.
The boss slowly shifted his weight back, just enough to signal that the man wasn’t about to be killed where he lay.
“Don’t move,” he said again.
The man nodded frantically, face pressed against the floor.
“I won’t,” he whispered. “I promise. I’ll do whatever you say.”
The boss straightened slightly, still keeping one foot close, still blocking any attempt to rise.
Behind them, somewhere deep in the building, a floorboard creaked softly as it adjusted to the change in weight.
The man swallowed hard.
“I-” he began, then broke off, voice dropping to a terrified whisper. “It’s still out there, isn’t it?”
The boss didn’t answer.
He looked down at the man, at the way his hands shook, at the way his eyes kept flicking toward the door as if expecting it to burst open at any second.
The man’s voice cracked again.
“Please,” he said. “I didn’t mean to cause trouble.”
The hallway light buzzed faintly overhead.
And that was where the moment froze, with a desperate stranger on the floor, the door sealed tight behind them, and whatever had driven the man to knock still waiting somewhere outside.
***
The man’s shaking slowed by degrees rather than all at once.
It took time, more time than the boss would have preferred, but rushing this kind of thing only made it worse.
He eased the pressure off first, stepping back just enough to signal safety without surrendering control, then guided the man upright with a hand at his elbow.
The man flinched at the touch but didn’t pull away, legs unsteady as he was led to one of the chairs near the kitchen table.
“Sit,” the boss said, softer now.
The man obeyed immediately, collapsing into the chair like his bones had forgotten how to hold him up. His breathing was still ragged, but it was no longer on the verge of panic. That was something.
The boss turned away briefly and poured coffee from the pot that had been sitting on the warmer for hours. The smell filled the room, burnt, bitter, grounding. He added a little sugar without asking and set the mug in front of the man, then poured another for himself.
“Drink,” he said.
The man stared at the cup like it might vanish if he blinked, then wrapped both hands around it. The heat seemed to register before the taste. His shoulders sagged a fraction as he took a careful sip.
“Thank you,” he murmured hoarsely.
The boss took his own seat opposite him, posture relaxed but attentive, mug cradled loosely in one hand. He didn’t drink right away. He watched.
The man’s eyes darted around the room as if cataloguing exits, corners, shadows. Ordinary fear, now. Exhaustion layered over adrenaline.
Human.
That, too, was something.
For a few minutes, neither of them spoke. The only sounds were the faint hum of the building and the clink of ceramic as the man’s hands trembled against the cup. Eventually, his breathing evened out enough that he could look up without immediately looking away again.
“You… you didn’t have to let me in,” the man said quietly.
The boss inclined his head slightly. “You needed shelter.”
“Yes, but-” The man hesitated, then shook his head. “Most people don’t open their doors anymore. Not after dark.”
The boss took a sip of his coffee. “You noticed that.”
The man gave a short, humorless laugh. “Everyone notices. We just pretend we don’t.”
Silence stretched again, less sharp this time.
The man glanced at the boss, studying him more carefully now. His gaze lingered on the clothes, too clean, too uniform in a way that didn’t quite match local fashion. On the accent when he’d spoken. On the building itself, too well-kept for the neighborhood.
“You’re not from around here,” the man said.
It wasn’t an accusation. Just an observation.
The boss didn’t hesitate. “No.”
The man nodded slowly. “I thought so.”
“We’re new,” the boss added calmly. “Foreign startup. Food service. Takeout.”
The man’s eyebrows rose a little. “At this hour?”
“Long days,” the boss replied.
The explanation hung there, thin but serviceable.
The man clearly didn’t believe all of it, his eyes flicked briefly to the back of the building, as if he’d noticed more than a simple kitchen, but he didn’t press.
Instead, he bowed his head slightly. “I’m grateful,” he said. “For the door. For the coffee.”
The boss nodded once. Gratitude had a way of closing conversational loops before they opened too far.
“What happened outside?” the boss asked gently.
The man stiffened.
His fingers tightened around the mug, knuckles whitening. For a moment, it looked like he might refuse, might retreat back into silence. Then he swallowed and began to speak.
“I was late,” he said. “At work. I kept telling myself I should leave, but…” He shook his head. “It’s always one more thing.”
The boss listened without interruption.
“The streets were already empty,” the man continued. “Too empty. I knew that was wrong. Everyone knows that’s wrong now.”
He paused, staring into the coffee like it might show him something different. “I tried to stay under the lights. I didn’t run at first. I didn’t panic. I did everything right.”
The boss’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
“The wind changed,” the man said. “That was the first thing. It stopped blowing in my face and started… pulling. From behind.”
He shuddered. “Not pushing. Pulling.”
“Yes,” the boss said quietly.
The man looked up sharply. “You know.”
“I’ve heard similar accounts,” the boss replied.
The man nodded, relief and fear tangling together. “It wasn’t just the wind. There was a voice.”
The boss remained still.
“It didn’t shout,” the man went on. “It didn’t threaten me. It just… called. Like it knew me. Like it was disappointed I wasn’t answering.”
His grip on the mug tightened again. “I didn’t look back. I swear I didn’t.”
“That was wise,” the boss said.
The man laughed weakly. “It didn’t feel like wisdom. It felt like terror.”
“Those aren’t mutually exclusive.”
The man took another sip of coffee, hands steadier now. “I thought it would catch me. I thought that was it.”
“But it didn’t,” the boss said.
“No.” The man hesitated. “Or… maybe it would have, if the door hadn’t been here.”
The boss leaned back slightly. “You think it stopped because you crossed a threshold.”
“Yes.” The man nodded emphatically. “Doors matter.”
The boss’s eyes narrowed a fraction.
“Why do you say that?”
The man looked uncomfortable now, gaze dropping. “People talk,” he said. “Quietly. Not like before. Not stories for children.”
He hesitated, then added, “This isn’t just a… thing. It’s not random.”
“Go on,” the boss said.
The man drew a slow breath. “My grandmother used to tell stories. Old ones. About things that move in the dark and pretend to be weather. Things that don’t break doors because they don’t need to.”
The boss didn’t interrupt.
“She always said that when something hunts like this, it’s not an animal,” the man continued. “And it’s not a spirit that’s lost.”
His voice dropped to almost a whisper.
“It’s a witch.”
The word landed heavily in the room.
The boss felt something click into place with quiet finality.
“A witch,” he repeated.
“Yes,” the man said, nodding, eyes wide now. “Not like in movies. Not curses and potions. A thing that knows how people live. Knows habits. Knows fear.”
He swallowed. “Something that learned.”
The boss said nothing.
Inside his head, patterns rearranged themselves. Legends shifted categories. Disparate reports aligned along a different axis, not anomaly, not ambient presence, not roaming distortion.
Agency.
Intent.
Practice.
The man mistook the silence for disbelief and hurried on. “I know how it sounds,” he said. “But the old stories say witches don’t need to trap you. They don’t need to force you. They just… pressure the world until you make the wrong choice yourself.”
The boss’s fingers tightened around his mug.
“Doors,” the man repeated. “Thresholds. Places where things change. That’s where they lose interest. Or where they can’t follow as easily.”
The boss slowly set his cup down.
That explained the wards.
Not their failure, but their use.
Not brute force.
Understanding.
He looked up at the man again, seeing him differently now, not just as a survivor, but as a data point that had finally tilted the equation.
“You did the right thing,” the boss said. “Coming here.”
The man let out a breath he’d been holding far too long. “I didn’t know where else to go.”
“You’re safe for now,” the boss replied.
For now.
The man nodded, shoulders sagging with exhaustion at last. “I’ll leave when it’s light,” he said quietly. “I don’t want to be a burden.”
“We’ll talk about that later,” the boss said.
He stood, collected the empty mugs, and turned back toward the kitchen. As he did, his gaze flicked briefly toward the staircase leading upstairs, toward sleeping teammates who had no idea that the nature of what they were facing had just shifted.
A witch.
Not a storm.
Not a shadow.
Something that knew better.
The boss’s expression hardened as the implications settled in.
Outside, the night remained calm.
But the rules had just changed.
