When Antoine tore open the inner stitch, a damp, earth-stained bundle of dark cloth fell onto the kitchen table. For a moment, the house fell into such silence that even the old beams seemed to creak louder.

Antoine unfolded the fabric. Inside lay a small, crumpled piece of paper, the edges torn, the handwriting uneven and shaky.
Sophie paled so abruptly, it was as if the floor had dropped beneath her feet.

The message read:

“He said he would come back for him.
He said the boy belongs to him.
The boy must not speak.
To anyone.”

Antoine felt his chest tighten. Sophie staggered backward, clutching the counter for support.

— What… what is this supposed to mean? — she whispered.
— Who is ‘he’? — Antoine asked, though something cold inside him already suspected the worst.

But that wasn’t all.

As Antoine searched the lining again, his fingers struck something hard. He pulled out a small, rust-covered metal box, hidden deep between the layers of fabric. With a soft metallic snap, the lid opened.

Inside were:

a bent, tarnished child’s ring

a tiny lock of pale hair tied with thread

another note, even shorter, even darker

Antoine’s face drained of color. Sophie’s breath caught.

The second note said:

“I will take him when he is ready.
You know he is not yours.
His mother promised.”

Sophie let out a strangled cry.

— This is a joke — a sick joke!
But the old black dog, Truffle, suddenly growled — a deep, gut-shaking growl — staring into the empty hallway as if something unseen had stepped inside the house.

Antoine turned to his son.

— Leo… tell me the truth. Who gave you this? Who hid it in your clothes?

The boy stood in the corner, holding little Gabin’s hand. His eyes — pale, fragile, too old for his age — lifted slowly to meet his father’s.

And he whispered:

“He comes at night.”

A sharp gust of wind rattled the windowpane. Sophie flinched.
Truffle’s growl deepened. His fur rose. His gaze never left the dark hallway.

Antoine swallowed hard.

— Who comes?
— The man… the big man, — Leo murmured. — He’s all black… covered in dirt. He stands by my bed. He tells me I belong to him. That I must go when he calls.

Sophie collapsed into a chair.

— He’s seven! He’s imagining things!
But at that exact moment, baby Gabin turned toward the stairs and began to scream — a cry so raw and terrified it pierced the air.

Antoine clenched his fists.

— We’re going to the police. Right now.

But before they reached the door, Truffle lunged toward the staircase, barking with furious desperation. The sound echoed through the entire house.

Antoine forced himself up the stairs, heart pounding violently.
He pushed open Leo’s bedroom door—

And froze.

Under the boy’s bed was a deep, freshly dug hole — soil scattered in all directions, as if someone had clawed into the ground from beneath the house.
At the bottom of the hole was a massive footprint. Far too large to belong to any child.

Sophie gasped, then sank to her knees.

— Who did this? Who has been inside our home?!

Antoine turned slowly toward Leo.

The boy stood absolutely still.

Then he whispered, barely audible:

“He said he’s coming back tonight.”

And in that shattering moment, everyone understood:

Truffle hadn’t been barking at the child.
He had been barking at the presence already standing next to Leo —
a presence invisible to everyone else.