The cartoons on the TV changed. The animated dog on the screen stopped dancing and turned its head to look directly at Kevin. It pointed a gloved finger toward the stairs.
Kevin looked toward the front door, but it was gone too. One by one, the windows were vanishing, replaced by smooth, blank walls. The house was sealing itself shut.
She wasn't in her bed. The sheets were pulled back, cold to the touch. Kevin walked to the hallway, but the door to his parents' room wasn't there anymore. Where the wood and the brass knob should have been, there was only seamless, beige drywall.
Kevin woke up because the hum of the refrigerator had stopped. He was four, and the dark usually felt like a blanket, but tonight it felt like a weight. He crawled out of bed, his feet silent on the carpet, and padded toward his sister Kaylee’s room. "Kaylee?" he whispered.
Kevin looked at the floor. His favorite blue bucket was floating three feet off the ground. He reached out to touch it, but his hand kept going, disappearing into a patch of darkness that felt like ice. When he pulled his hand back, his fingernails were gone. He didn't feel pain, only a hollow, echoing cold.
The silence in the house didn’t just happen; it settled like dust.