The water came slow at first. A seep. A trickle. Just enough to stain the floorboards dark.
Jace watched from the kitchen, his bare feet cold on the wood. Outside, the rain fell in sheets, the river swollen, angry. The levee had held for a hundred years. It wasn’t holding now.
His mother’s voice rang in his head. You gotta move fast when the water rises. Don’t wait, don’t hesitate.
He hesitated.
The lights flickered. Thunder cracked, close. The wind screamed through the gaps in the windows, a high, keening sound like something alive.
A floorboard popped. Water gushed up, black and thick, smelling of rot.
Jace stepped back. His heartbeat thumped hard against his ribs. His breath came short, shallow.
The front door rattled.
Then the knob turned.
No one was there. Just the wind, he told himself. Just the storm.
But the water kept coming, and in it, things moved. Shapes. Long and twisting. They slithered, just below the surface.
A whisper curled around his ear, though no one stood near.
Too late now.
The levee had broken. The house groaned, tilting. The water surged forward, swallowing the room.
Jace took one last breath before the black took him under.
