The basement door slammed shut above us, a violent crack of wood against frame, followed immediately by the distinctive, metallic thunk of a deadbolt sliding into place.
“Trevor!” I screamed, my voice shredding as I scrambled back up the stairs, my knees protesting with every step. I pounded on the door with both fists, the vibrations rattling through my arms. “Trevor, what are you doing? Let us out!”
My son’s voice came through the door, muffled by the heavy oak but chillingly clear. It was a tone I had never heard from him—cold, detached, final.
“Mom, Dad, you’re staying down there. You’re too old to manage this house anymore. We’re taking over. You’ll stay in the basement where it’s safe until I can get you into a proper facility. It’s for your own good. You’re not capable anymore.”
“Trevor! Baby, please!” I was crying now, tears hot and stinging on my cheeks. “We’re fine! We don’t need a facility! This is our home!”
“Not anymore. It’s not.”
