She hit the foyer. The front door had reappeared, but the knob was now a screaming face made of melted candles. Sarah didn’t hesitate; she slapped her bleeding hand against it. The wax face shrieked and melted into a puddle of screaming wax that spelled GET OUT. The door swung open onto blinding daylight and their actual street. Freedom. She stumbled across the threshold. The three children skidded to a halt at the doorway, unable to cross. They clawed at empty air, mouths stretching impossibly wide. The little boy snarled, “The pattern isn’t finished!” Sarah flipped them off with her bloody hand and stepped onto the porch. The door slammed behind her. Silence. Birds chirped. A normal Tuesday. She almost collapsed in relief.
