“Mom… I don’t want to bathe anymore.” My daughter started saying that every night after I remarried. At first, it seemed like a small thing. Ordinary. The kind of resistance that any parent hears a hundred times. But it wasn’t.

Soft.

“Eh… everything okay?”

I couldn’t answer.

La manija giró.

Once.

Twice.

“Why is the door locked?”

His voice changed.

Harder.

“Open the door.”

What happened next lasted perhaps three minutes.

It seemed like an eternity.

He slammed his shoulder on the door.

I dragged the dresser in front of her with one hand, fueled by an adrenaline rush I didn’t know I had.

“Laura!” he shouted.

And then, in a voice that I still hear in my nightmares:

“What did he tell you?”

And then—

Mermaids.

Doors banging.

“Sheriff’s Department! Don’t move!”

The house exploded in noise.

Screams.

Struggles.

Metal hitting tile.

Then silence.