Early evening.
The sky still holds light, but it’s thinning — that uneasy hour where scary feelings last longer than they should.
A flickering STREETLIGHT hums near an EMPTY LOT beside the store.
A battered STATION WAGON idles at the curb.
IRINA DEAN (early 40s) — worn, sharp-eyed, carrying too much weight inside — struggles out of the store with plastic grocery bags cutting into her fingers.
Beside her is ONYA (5), quiet, observant, clutching Irina’s hand.
Irina moves fast. Tense. Irritated. Like the world is always one step behind her and she’s sick of waiting.
---
Irina fumbles with the rear hatch of the station wagon.
Groceries spill. She mutters under her breath. Not angry — resentful.
Onya lingers. She stares past the car.
Past the streetlight.
Into the empty lot.
Where the light doesn’t reach.
—
At the edge of the glow, something stands still.
Not stepping forward.
Not retreating.
Just… there.
Too tall for comfort.
Too still to be human.
The darkness around it looks thicker, like it bends inward.
---
Onya tugs on Irina’s sleeve.
Soft. Careful.
ONYA:
“Mommy…”
Irina shoves a bag into the trunk.
IRINA:
“Not now, Onya.”
Onya doesn’t look away.
Her eyes stay locked on the shape.
ONYA:
“Mommy… there’s a man.”
Irina freezes.
Just for a second.
Something old tightens in her chest.
She turns. Scans.
---
Nothing obvious.
Just darkness beyond the streetlight.
The empty lot.
Wind moving trash.
Then—
A presence presses back.
Not seen, but felt.
Her breath catches.
Her pupils dilate.
Like a blown fuse.
She whispers, involuntary:
IRINA:
“Oh… Lord—”
Her eyes pulse WHITE — just for an instant.
—
Silence.