Day 5

Even though the sky had begun to darken, Claire continued to pick up things from stores and attempted to get back into the groove of civilian life. This was impossible though. There was a creeping feeling of suspicion over everything and everyone at this point, especially after she remembered her words to Joe. Leon was probably right, but was a Redfield ever one to take another person's word as gospel? If he wasn't going to help then she would find reassurance elsewhere to share with Joe. If that meant taking the risk of heading into the less-occupied part of town then she would. Claire was pretty sure that the main thing that she needed to get into the dump mentioned on the flyer was the right skin color. Blue eyes apparently wouldn't hurt either.

Claire figured that wearing biker apparel would be an even greater aid in portraying her full capability of being there, even though mentally, she didn't. As she pulled up to the bar that was poorly hinted at in the not-so-subtle flyer that decorated a heap of trash downtown Claire steeled herself. As she gripped the steering wheel, she told herself that she could handle being around these people for twenty minutes. So far, the parking lot was littered with a few of the stereotypes that would proudly enter such an establishment that looked barely operational, –for the sake of keeping away what they constituted as undesirable- but also a few college students also went in. A brunette woman with hair just below her shoulders opened the door for herself, her suiter following close behind her, both of them laughing as they disappeared into the darkness inside. People like them laughed? she thought to herself. For the sake of Claire's professional and personal reputation, she hoped that no one saw her go inside.

You can turn back. You can.

No, I can't, she miserably. Leon had an arsenal of information at his fingertips, but he was so concerned with something that his friend wanted to move past that he couldn't even make a simple call. He probably thought that he was doing his companion a favor by treating it as trivial, but with the anniversary of Spencer's passing and Joe's habit of seeing Umbrella everywhere, it was an obligation to look into every possibility. This town was a hotspot for Raccoon City survivors, and the landlord was here far more than either Leon or Claire. Also, Cyrus was most certainly playing games so she'd follow this rabbit hole to the end if necessary to pass his little test.

The rain had started, lightly falling, but constant. It was so constant that puddles had become larger pools, and the once identifiable borders between bodies of water and typically dry land had disappeared. There was no better time than now to check this place out and confirm what Leon had said. Joe didn't say something about the cultists for no reason. Other than his paranoia that is. Claire walked to the building, a small space that used to be a pool hall a few years ago. She remembered the local college students throwing a fit when the place changed hands after the owner died. It wasn't even a thought that they intended to attract this new crowd, but business was business, and their money was spent the same wherever they took it.

There was no need for an umbrella right now, so Claire simply ducked her head slightly as she walked to keep the rain out of her eyes. Okay, twenty minutes should suffice, she said to herself. Once she reached the glass door, she read that it read Herschel's Haunt in a dirty, white cursive font. The hours varied based on the night, as it was closed on Sunday and Monday, not that the one-time visitor needed to know that. A barely lit open sign hung in a window to the right, and beyond the glass, one couldn't make out much due to the darkness. Inhaling deeply before entering, Claire expected a rush of cigarette smoke to assault the senses as soon as the door opened. It was stale.

Rock- or maybe metal music that she'd never heard before floated toward her, the volume just right so that patrons wouldn't be screaming at one another. The darkness of the foyer was unsettling, and the only thing that managed to offer any light was what appeared to be a black light that shone from around the corner. Great, she thought, rolling her eyes. This would be one of those places.

A large bald man in a black tee that was characteristic of bouncers and who towered over all of the patrons despite being seated behind a counter beckoned Claire over to him. "Let me see some ID sweets," he said a bit too loud. After he'd somehow determined in the dark that I was legal, he handed it back to me and pointed me to the back.

There was no apprehension in her stride. No one needed to think that she was scoping the place out, even though that was very well the case. Upon entry it was notable, the place wasn't completely dependent on black lights as a primary source of illumination. A few dim lights hung quite low over the free pool tables, all except two at the back. The occupants of those seemed more interested in trying to convince trashy blondes in summer, denim shorts to leave with them. The middle of the floor was clear of patrons, leaving barstools and tables abandoned as it seemed that most of the customers preferred the coziness of corners. Though this place should have been a safe space for the more questionable denizens of Aurora, they seemed to still prefer to talk amongst themselves in privacy.

Three lost souls were spaced out at the bar that extended pretty much the entire left side of the establishment, nursing glasses of what was more than likely whiskey. Rather than sit between them though Claire took a spot on the end.

Almost immediately, a skinny bartender that seemed to not have showered or slept in two or three days came over. "What can I get for you?" He wiped down the bar in front of the new customer, but he didn't smile.

"Blue Moon." She didn't care.

He smirked as he scoffed at her choice, disappearing briefly before returning with an uncapped bottle.

Claire gave no thanks as he didn't seem to find verbal communication to be essential in this transaction. After taking a swig, he seemed satisfied enough to head back over to the other end. Looking up, she saw four televisions, one on a channel that specialized in propaganda news, one for sports, and another tuned to a primetime show. The fourth television hosted an unfamiliar program. There were several selections of alcohol against the wall, as was expected, but it seemed important to note that much of it consisted of vodka. She was sure she saw a bottle of Ivanabitch squeezed in there. Taking another chug of the bitter beer, she used this time to take in as much of the dimly lit bar as one could. There were a few jerseys on the wall that belonged to local athletes, license plates, laminated news clipping about celebrities, and signatures next to recent Polaroids.

As Claire attempted to focus in on faces, she heard an adjacent stool being slid out. A hulking man with a cleanly-shaved head in a black tee and shades sat next to her. While he adjusted himself against the counter he looked her up and down as though his space had been disturbed.

This only made Claire mask taking a deep breath by taking a long swallow of beer, pretending to watch the news channel, and reading the captions.

"Haven't seen you here before." His voice was deep and confident as he spat out the typical line. Then, in a boom, he shouted down to the other end, "Hey, Tom! Get me a shot of Fireball!"

Claire almost flinched. "I've never been here before."

"Well, you should have." His thin lips curled back in a creepy grin, revealing a mouth of what she believed to be dentures that he'd had to prematurely acquire in his life. "You'd make the prettiest babies," he whispered, unabashedly.

His statement made her skin crawl, but she merely gulped down more beer. "So, how come I've never heard of this place?" Claire kept her eyes on the television, hearing him straighten up in his stool as Tom dropped off his drink.

With a sigh, he said, "Probably 'cause those fuckin' bozos keep takin' down the flyers. Everybody else gets to have their space, why the hell can't we?" He sounded agitated. Out of the corner of Claire's eye, she saw him tilting his head back as he took his Fireball in one, unhesitating swallow. With a sated sigh, he set the glass back down.

"And who would 'those fuckin' bozos be?'" she asked with the slightest tone of mockery.

"Who do you think? The sissies! The snowflakes! The fuckin' illegals. And all the goddamn government leeches."

It took everything in Claire not to respond in the way that she typically would. To counter him she instead asked, "So what are you gonna do about it?"

With a smirk that was somewhat of disbelief and defeat, he stood up from his stool and stepped back from the bar. "That's what friends are for." He slammed down a twenty before walking away. To where Claire didn't care.

She continued to drink her beer in silence. This place was seeming just as it was presented. As Claire reached the bottom of the bottle, growing sick of the hateful whispers surrounding the bar, she was almost ready to call her time here. This had to be why people did meth, she thought in disgust.

Almost done with her last swallow, she heard a voice from behind say to Tom, "I'm buying the lady's next beer." Before Claire could turn to identify who it was, he'd taken the seat that the pig from before had been in. She had no desire to make friends with anyone else here, but when Tom sat out another uncapped bottle she had no choice but to acknowledge the newest stranger. The brunette smiled appreciatively at the man that appeared to possess at least a modicum of charm. His skin was so bronze that she wondered how he was in here with no issue, but perhaps it was because it was obvious that he'd been bathed in sunlight. His lips were plump and smooth, a perfect pout. His hair was as black as coal, fuller than Claire's, and glossier than she'd been able to achieve from a trip to the salon. It was parted down the center, his bangs slightly shorter and clinging to the rest of it covering the top of his neck's nape. He was gorgeous.

With a set of clear, twinkling, blue eyes he introduced himself. "I'm Drake."

More like Prince Eric, Claire thought almost jealously. "I'm Claire," she said instead, pulling the beer he'd just ordered back towards her.

"Don't let Vaughn over there try to scare you off from this place." Drake looked back to Tom. "Hey man, get me my usual."

"I don't think this is my kind of place anyway," she admitted, taking a drink from the new bottle.

"He's just scared of change." When a glass of brown liquid was placed in front of him he looked into the bartender's eyes before saying with eerie certainty, "They all are."

Claire found herself smirking at his bold statement and the fact that Tom didn't dare say anything to him. "So where are you from Drake?"

He had some of his mystery drink. "Everywhere. You?"

"Everywhere." She was still smirking until she found herself asking if she was flirting.

This caused him to smirk as well. "No, seriously. I feel like I know you." With a skeptical expression, he let his eyes rove up and down over her figure. Perhaps Drake's smirk was also being encouraged by an appreciation for what he saw.

"Drake from Everywhere," the newly, interested woman mused, playing with the bottle of beer. It felt odd sitting in a bar with a handsome stranger playing this weird game that would end in him failing to get a number. At the same time though, it felt good to Claire. It felt normal. "You don't seem like the type of guy they like in here."

He scooted over in his stool, bringing himself closer to her, giving his new acquaintance the chance to breathe in the subtle hint of Versace cologne that he knew better than to douse himself in. "What type do I seem like?" After that question left his incredibly perfect lips, he began shrugging off his black jacket, revealing a beige tee that barely covered an impressive set of arms that were just as bronze as his face.

Claire felt a fluttering that started a bit lower in her abdomen than what she was used to, immediately chastising herself. Staring down at her fingers, wet with the sweat from the bottle of beer, she took in a deep breath preparing to disappoint him, unable to play this game. "I have a boyfriend."

"Claire," he started with a single laugh, "it's a simple question." He combed back his bangs with his fingers, but a few strands rebelliously fell back forward to lightly kiss his forehead, free of wrinkles and even pores.

Fuck. This. Guy.

"How do I answer that question without being offensive to the people here?" Claire looked into his eyes which seemed to be searching hers for something unknown.

"Do you think they care about who they offend?"

To hide her surprise at his boldness, her eyes wandered back to one of his arms, and she saw the bottom of a tattoo. Without thinking, Claire reached over to pull up the sleeve of his shirt pinching the fabric between her thumb and index finger, revealing a red bow, undrawn. "What's this?"

Somehow, she could see red beneath the even tone of his cheeks as he blushed. "It's not finished yet." His hand surrounded Claire's, pulling it down from the fabric, but allowing her to feel the smooth skin of his arm as he dragged it downward. "I believe in oneness. I'm nothing like the others here."

Ashamed, she drew back. "Why are you here then?"

Unphased by the change in mood, he turned his body back towards the bar, taking up his glass once more. "I imagine I'm here for the same reason that you are. We all want answers. We all want to help. Maybe I'm where I need to be right now. Maybe you need me to help you."

Right on time, Claire's phone began vibrating and flashing. The display said, Tim. Without excusing herself, she unlocked the phone to see the text.

The gray text bubble read, "What are you up to babe?"

That was a marvelous question.

"Thanks for the beer." Claire stood up from the stool, reaching into her back pocket for a bill to at least pay for the first drink. She was happier to get that message than she would have liked to admit right now.

This time, Drake's hand shot out to take hold of her arm. "It's all on me."

Grateful, she picked up the bottle one last time, holding it out toward him.

He clinked his glass to hers, staring as they both downed what was left of the drinks. "Hopefully, I'll see you around, Claire from Everywhere." He got to his feet, putting his jacket back on as he stood mere inches away from her face. He hovered there for a moment, a good eight inches above her as he popped his collar, unintentionally causing Claire to once more breathe in his cologne.

Claire Redfield had never wanted someone immediately at the moment until now. Perhaps it was his unassuming demeanor. He'd yet to try to get her to put his number in her phone.

"Redfield," she almost whispered.

"Anastas," he responded. "Hopefully I'll see you again." With that same smirk from earlier, he turned on his heel and left.

Now Claire stopped and thought to herself that just maybe she starting to finally get used to normal again…

Day 9

There was a very strange wind blowing throughout the town. Howling. Shrieking. The structure groaned as it was pelted with large gusts that were so strong that one could hear big wheels and basketball goals being knocked over. Sometimes it sounded like machinery, shrill and loud, but whenever Claire peeked outside the window she saw nothing but leaves being tossed through the air along with random bits of litter. This storm would be big, and this was a sheer courtesy call from nature. Claire heard a random knock that could've been either made by nothing but the wind or by the mysterious neighbors who had yet to properly introduce themselves. Nothing would come of it, at this point she was certain.

She heard more knocks, but this time, they were at her door, or so it seemed. Looking down at her phone, Claire hoped to see an update from Tim, but no notification appeared. Worry had completely overshadowed her usual curiosity; there was never a time that she wasn't suspicious of visitors. This was the storm of the year. It seemed that the storm was bringing with it surprises though. Claire never expected that Walter would come knocking on her door; She'd always been the one to initiate conversations with one of the two new neighbors. Honestly, she'd accepted that as the routine at this point: she heard something weird so she'd go over to veil an investigation as a concern. What was more unexpected though was his request that Claire kept his apartment key while he made a quick run to the store.

"I should only be gone forty minutes at the most," he assured her, following it up with an apparent warning. "Do not enter the apartment unless it is an emergency."

"How will I know if there's an emergency?" It was a valid question on her end. Why would she be given a key if he didn't want the woman entering?

"Scott will let you know if there's one. He may not be able to walk, but by God can he shout." He laughed nervously. A serious stare suddenly fell upon his face, taking over the previously lighthearted expression. "I wouldn't be braving the storm if this wasn't a necessary run. You understand?"

"Yeah." Claire's response was one of absentmindedness. Whatever you say, she said to herself.

With nothing more than a nod, he turned to leave, disappearing behind the stairwell door.

Yeah, whatever you say.

That all seemed like forever ago and the storm was getting worse. The giant drops of rain were the only constant in the complex when the electricity began to surge, causing the lights to flicker. The only thing that could have been keeping them on at that time was prayer because the way that the wind blew outside made Claire believe that it was only a matter of time before one of the wires snapped. Five hours. It had been raining for five hours. That wasn't including all of the rain that the area had gotten the previous four days. Now, it had gotten even heavier along with the wind that had knocked down the power lines, leaving the tenants in darkness. There was never any hope for the backup generators it seemed.

Luckily, it was a nice temperature outside, keeping it comfortable in the apartments. This comfort, however, did not extend to internal peace as it had also been five hours since Walter had left. Claire had gone outside an hour ago to check on the roads, only to find that the water was creeping closer and closer to the complex. The slight slope of the area gave the occupants an advantage during these freak storms, but she feared for the rest of Aurora right now. Her phone was set to Low Power Mode, the background apps shut down, and the device was set to Do Not Disturb. If Tim called, she'd get it, but she needed to save juice; there was only one backup charger at the apartment.

Walter had left the key to his apartment in case things got even worse, like, evacuation worse, but how would could someone know if Scott needed anything? Five hours was a long time for a wheelchair-bound man to be left unsupervised in the dark. Claire stared at the key that was only visible with the aid of the flickering candle, and she tried her hardest to calm her mind. You're just being nosey, she told herself. The ring of Claire's phone interrupted the calming mantra and she snatched it up from the coffee table with an unnecessary swiftness. Tim, the screen read. She accepted the call and brought the phone to her ear. "Tim?"

"Are you ok?" her boyfriend immediately asked without salutation.

Claire fell back into the sofa at his question. She was somewhere safe while he was away from home, not knowing what he'd return to. A tornado had been spotted and she knew that it had pulled a few roofs off of businesses. Tim could've been anywhere, he could've been calling from a hospital pretending to be fine... it was the kind of person that he was. "Tim, thank God you're alive!" She leaned forward and rested her elbows against my knees, rubbing her eyes with a free hand.

"Of course I am," he said assuredly. "It's just raining so badly here."

"Where are you?"

"At the Hilton, down from the courthouse. It was like the air was whited out on the way over. The firm is paying for our stay. Claire..." he trailed off, worrying his partner about what he'd say next. "I've never walked through flood water, and I hope I never have to again. It's like I can't get warm from my knees on down."

"Oh my God," was all she could say.

"Do we have power at home?"

"No. It went off five hours ago and of course, none of the generators are kicking on.

With a nervous chuckle, he said, "I hope you've been managing to stay off of social media."

She had, except for the one time that she finally checked IG for one Drake Anastas… she shook that thought away. "Of course."

"Has anyone needed anything?"

The neighbors typically had no issue asking for favors in the past, but to Claire's surprise, there was only one that had a request. She should've been trying to make this call short but instead, she chose to bring up Walter coming by. "Actually, Walter came over before the power went out. He said he was going to the store but that was hours ago. He left me his keys in case Scott needed anything."

"Is he okay?"

She turned her head, the textured wall appearing in her peripheral. "I guess." A worry crept over her as she realized how unnervingly quiet it had been next door for the entire five hours. Not a sound. Not a phone call. Nothing. "I'm more worried about Walter."

"There's nothing you can do about that," he said gently. "Maybe he had to take shelter somewhere. I haven't heard about any fatalities or anything. If I were you I'd be more worried about the guy that can't walk."

"Walter said not to go over there unless I heard something." she sounded nervous now.

"Maybe you should go knock. From the way you described him, sounds like the guy may need more help than he can provide for himself." Before she could respond, he quickly said, "Hey, I have to email my boss some documents. Are you gonna be okay?"

"Of course," Claire replied, barely above a whisper. As they said goodbye she looked at the keys again, curious, and worried, and she could no longer hold back from swiping them up from the coffee table. As Claire exited the apartment with a flashlight in tow, she felt something telling her to go back inside. The backup generators had seemed to finally kick on but so far they only kept the hallways dimly lit, allowing her to find the door with ease. Nothing was wrong, but if she entered that doorway, plenty could go wrong. Scott just wanted his privacy. What if something had gone wrong though? That thought was louder than any other at this moment.

She used her best cop knock. "Mr. Connor?" Nothing. "I'm Claire Redfield, I live next door!" Silence was the continued response. This was not good for a man in his condition. "Walter gave me the keys in case I needed to check on you!" Finally, she thought she heard something, maybe cardboard falling to the floor. "Are you okay?" What if he'd fallen and couldn't call out for help? "Mr. Connor, if you're okay let me know! If not, I'm coming in!"

1… 2... 3… 4…

Claire didn't get to five before the first key was in the bottom lock. Slowly, she turned it, slightly afraid to do the same to the top. She actually couldn't remember doing it. Her hand lingered on the knob for a moment, slowly twisting her wrist, frozen as she reminded herself to open the door. As she stepped over the threshold, she was engulfed in darkness, met by nothing but the rumble of thunder outside. "Mr. Connor?" Claire flicked on the flashlight, closing the door behind her. The intruder was already coming in without an invitation so leaving it open to anyone would just be rude. At least that's what she told herself to feel better. As she raised the light to illuminate the area, it quickly shined over the wheels of a wheelchair, but just as it revealed the face of the hooded neighbor, the distinct sound of the safety of a gun clicking could be heard.

She was stuck, held in place by the shock that refused to release her. Perhaps it was denial. Could Claire be seeing what she was seeing? That ghostly, white pallor, stained by those impossible burns was only possible because of who they marred. A ghost. A nightmare. The bane of Raccoon City survivors' existences, the attempted murderer of Chris Redfield, and the real-life boogeyman had Claire exactly where he needed her.

The biggest threat at this moment was that she was mentally unprepared to properly formulate a plan of escape. There just hadn't been an expectation that her life would be taken today, or for a dead man to rise from the grave once again. No one could have expected Albert Wesker to really have 9 lives.

"You're dead," the TerraSave agent barely got out.

What had to be phantom said evenly, "And you're not far behind." There was no doubt that it was him now, a fact made apparent by the booming voice, accented with a dialect that was unknown to all who had spoken with him.

The specter's gaunt face was haloed by the gray hood of a jacket, his cheeks impossibly sunken. Chapped lips were set in a straight line, his brow not furrowed, but the gun in his lap said everything that his face could not. Eyes that previously had been furiously blazing red and orange were now blue and dull, unshielded as they no longer had any secret to be kept. Was Claire really seeing him? In a hoodie, in a wheelchair, without his shades? Could this have been some other villain that she'd crossed while employed with the company? No, it was him.

Claire could very clearly make the man out beneath the purplish circles that surrounded his eyes, beneath a tired expression, and that weary body. It was Albert Wesker. "How?" she asked loudly despite knowing that it was best to not get any of the other neighbors involved in this.

"A stupid question for a silly, little girl." Suddenly, the almost frail figure of a once towering man leaned forward, falling into one of those coughing fits that the building had heard who they believed to be Scott Connor go into before.

Remembering her training and the paranoia that came with it, Claire quickly reached for the 9 that had been holstered just before she left the apartment. Instead of aiming where there could be no heart beating, Claire aimed for his head, but for some reason, couldn't pull the trigger.

When Wesker had regained his composure he merely took aim once more, making his target realize how stupid it was to believe that he wouldn't be willing to take an opponent out with him. Or was Claire purely brave enough to allow herself to go as well? With a single, bitter laugh he spat, "Killed by Redfield's little sister," before unexpectedly dropping the gun again, this time discharging it before setting it on his lap.

Refusing to let confusion settle, Claireaure twisted her mouth into a snarl, remembering every news report that had been made about him since he'd allegedly been dispatched. Recollections flooded back of the nightmares that were based on very real events that he'd caused the world to endure, and she remembered the moment that he almost killed Chris with his bare hands. Pressure was now being applied to the trigger. "You have no idea how much I hate you," Claire ground out, echoing the very same words that the traitor had before attempting to beat his former subordinate to a bloody pulp.

Another bitter chuckle left Wesker as he fought back another coughing fit. "So what good will killing me do for you?" he asked, the fire that had seemed to dim was returning, almost making it seem possible that someone could live off of the disdain that the world had for them.

With shaky resolve, crippled by his switch from defeat to defiance, Claire replied, "I'd be doing the world plenty of good."

"You're a smart girl," Wesker purred, his lips being tugged to one side of his face with a grin. "The death of the only person that could keep a reemergence of bio-weaponry in check wouldn't be good for this world."

The sardonicism was enough for Claire to salvage her resolve. "I'm smarter than you think," she warned, placing her other hand on the handle of the gun, bracing for the recoil.

"But you're not as perceptive as you thought. Otherwise, you'd know that whenever you leave, someone enters your apartment."

Claire's blue eyes shot open, and she lowered my weapon. "What are you talking about?" If this was a trick, what was the point? Shoot him, she told herself. That command manifested as a scream within only in her mind, but then, a more calm voice said, "Dr. Cyrus." None of this could have been a coincidence; there was no way that was probable.

Unaware of the internal battle that was being lost by the now-armed intruder, Wesker said, "This storm was an opportune time for someone to make their way into your apartment –once again- unbeknownst to you. In a way, my being here may have saved your life. Whoever it is could have had their way with you." The last bit was voiced as an afterthought, however, it was certain that he expected some form of gratification even though no proof existed of such a chilling claim existed.

"Say I believe you… why are you here? You could've gone anywhere in the world, but you chose Aurora?"

"In case you haven't noticed, this is a hot spot for you resettled survivors. It's far too obvious."

This can't be real, Claire chanted to herself. Just as her mouth was set to ask another question, both adversaries heard it, the sound of the neighboring door unlocking. Claire looked back to the door, daring to take her eyes off of her crippled but surely capable enemy for one second. When she turned back around, Wesker raised a surprisingly undamaged finger to his mouth as a warning to remain silent. As they waited, it seemed that neither was breathing. After what felt like half an hour, the heavy door closed, the locks turned over with what seemed a deliberate gentleness, and Claire turned towards the door.

The heavy footfall sounded closer as both stared at the light that managed to illuminate the small crack between the bottom of the door and the floor. With the weapon now pointed at the door, Claire was reminded to breathe. Two shadows of what I guessed to be shoes interrupted the single strip of light, and I prepared for the worse. Suddenly, the shadows disappeared and the footsteps were sounding farther away.

Looking back to Wesker, Claire was met with an I-told-you-so gaze that was unneeded which was almost whispered. He knew something. Whatever was going on had been for a while, and it had become imperative that answers be uncovered. Now that the hallway was safe to check, Claire found that it was clear with not a soul in sight, and not even a wet footprint leaving a trail. Urgently, Claire unlocked her door, flashlight at the ready. Before entering, she checked both ends of the hallway once more, swallowing a lump that had to have just formed.

A prolonged flash of lightning illuminated the front room for about three seconds revealing that no one was there. Unsatisfied, she secured every lock on the door before almost angrily scouting the apartment for intruders. All bedrooms were clear, all bathrooms were empty, and all closets were barely filled with items for storage never mind a person. This can't be real, I told myself, again and again, growing angrier and more confused. This should have caused some relief and alleviated the previous anxiety from earlier, but instead, it only brought on anger and more confusion. It couldn't be real. Before Claire could begin sobbing into a corner she knew that it was vital to verify that he'd been real. Taking a step towards the front door, Claire saw those shadows again, once more interrupting the only consistent source of light that shone underneath the door. This was all real.