I Thought No One Knew About the Safe House—Until a Stranger Came Knocking

For eight years, Clover has kept Sanctum Noctis hidden, a secret safe house for children with nowhere else to go. But when one of them makes a mistake, she's forced into a deadly game with Michael... the man she once escaped. This time, she's not running. This time, she fights.

I built Sanctum Noctis for kids like me. Children who had nowhere else to go. Children who had already learned that sometimes, the monsters aren't hiding under the bed. Children who just needed a safe space to put their heads at night.

Sanctum Noctis is Latin, meaning "sanctuary of the night," a secret haven that only exists in the dark. But that's what I wanted, a haven for all those who were scared of things going bump in the world.

For eight years, I kept them safe.

No records. No phones. No footprints to follow.

Then, yesterday, one of them made a mistake.

And now?

Now, someone is coming.

I hear Noah before I see him, his uneven footsteps crunching in the frost-covered leaves just outside the house.

I already know what he's done. He'd been talking about his mother the entire day. I knew he was yearning for her. I knew he would try to reach out.

He stops at the tree line, his shoulders hunched, fists stuffed into his hoodie. He doesn't turn when I step beside him. But his body calms down. It's something that we can both feel. A kindred spirit, of sorts.

We both watch the distant glow of the town beyond the hills, the place he should have never gone.

"You called her, didn't you?" My voice is quiet and calm.

I don't want to spook Noah. I don't want him to think that there's anything wrong with looking for answers. I'd want closure, too.

He takes a breath. There's a pause. And he follows with a slow nod.

"She told me never to call again," he whispers. "Clover, she said that I should have stayed gone."

His words hit me like a weight to the chest. I know that pain. I know what it's like to reach out, to hope that maybe, just maybe, someone still wants you... only to be met with silence or worse.

But grief is a luxury. And right now, we don't have time for it.

I place a steady hand on his shoulder.

Not to punish, never to punish. But just to ground him.

"Did you... did you tell her where we are?"

"No. I swear, Clover! And I used the library phone..."

That should bring relief. But it doesn't. Because I already know he wasn't the only one listening.

Michael has been searching for me for ten years. Not because I ran.

But because of what I stole.

And he didn't find us by accident.

Noah's mother wasn't just an absent parent. She used to work for Michael. Not high-level, not powerful, just another person caught up in his world, making herself useful to stay alive.

When she abandoned Noah, she thought she was cutting ties and that she was keeping her son safe. But men like Michael? They don't forget.

When Noah called, she didn't just hang up. She panicked. She panicked because... maybe she just wanted to clear her name with Michael?

Maybe she just wanted to be free.

So, she called someone. A connection from the past, someone who still worked for Michael. Or at least, that was how I imagined it all to be.

That was all it took.

Michael had been waiting for a slip-up. And now he had one.

And he was already on his way. I was sure of it.

I don't sleep that night. Instead, I sit in the kitchen, turning a ceramic mug over in my hands, staring at the worn wood of the table, thinking.

Sanctum Noctis has always been a ghost. It has always been untraceable. Unreachable.

But Michael won't show up without certainty. If he's coming, he knows we're here.

And I need a plan.

I step into the back room, the one with the violin and the guitar. And I move the loose floorboard near the bookcase. I pry it open and pull out the Black Book.

The Black Book is one thing that could destroy him.

Inside, it holds everything.

Names: the people he worked with. The people who helped him. The people who are just as damned as he is.

Bank transfers: details of offshore accounts. Millions of dollars in blood money.

Power: the people who turned a blind eye to everything. The officers and officials who took his bribes.

If this book gets out, Michael doesn't just lose everything.

He dies.

And that's why I didn't hand it off to a journalist or the FBI. I didn't know who I could trust. I didn't know who was on his payroll. Because, honestly?

This book is a loaded gun, and I have no idea who else is holding the trigger.

I tuck it back under the floorboards. I don't need to move it yet. If I run, I take it with me.

If I stay, I use it.

I pick up the phone and dial the old church on the outskirts of town. I need to have a contingency plan. I need to know that these beautiful children will be safe.

It rings twice before Pastor Ellis answers, his voice thick with sleep.

"Ellis," I say, talking quickly. "I might need to bring the kids to you soon."

He doesn't ask questions. He never does.

"I'll be ready, Clover," he says. "I have food and the basics. They'll be safe."

I hang up.

Now, I wait.

The night passes, and I don't see anything out of the ordinary. The kids wake up as the sun streams through the house. The older ones stir first, getting themselves ready for online school. The younger ones smile and turn over, ready to sleep in for a few more hours.

"What's for breakfast?" Nat, one of my older girls, asks. "Can I help?"

"I have oatmeal," I say, grinning as she makes a face. "But also a stack of pancakes. A huge stack. With strawberries and syrup."

I should have spent more time getting everything ready. But if I'm being honest, I just wanted to spoil them one last time. There wasn't going to be any online school today. There wasn't going to be the usual routine.

We were going to have breakfast like a family, and then I was going to take them to the church.

I needed to keep them safe. That was the priority.

"Clover?" Noah calls from the doorway. "Is everything okay?"

It was a loaded question, and I knew exactly what he was asking. But how could I tell him that I was terrified that Michael would appear at our front door?

No. We were going to eat. We were going to pack the essentials. And we were going to the church.

I would come back alone and deal with the consequences of Noah's call.

"Everything is fine, but you two should round up the others. Breakfast first, and then we're going on a little walk."

If it was an odd request, they didn't say it. Nat smiled at me and nodded, walking to the staircase. Noah stood still before heading to the boys' side of the house.

Hours later, the kids were at the church.

"You'll come back for us?" little Millie asks me.

"Of course, my little love," I say. "I'm just getting the house fumigated for us all."

"What does that mean?" Ethan asks.

"It means that there won't be any bugs around, silly," Millie says. "It's a good thing."

I smile, my heart beaming with joy at their little faces. But I am also terrified. These children need to be far away from me.

I cannot. I will not put them in danger.

"I'll see you soon," I say, leaving them in the capable hands of the pastor. "I promise! Pastor Ellis is going to tell you stories and play games with you. And Mimi, I think you should show everyone your shadow puppets in the candlelight."

I hug each of the kids in turn and leave to go back home.

I sit in the dark of the kitchen, waiting.

The first sign is the headlights cutting through the trees. Then, the low hum of an engine, slow and deliberate.

I step onto the porch, fingers brushing over the thin leather cord around my wrist. It is the only thing I have left from the person I was before. From the girl I had to bury before becoming the woman I am. I go back inside, my heart pounding.

I wonder if people think about me. If they remember me. If they... miss me.

Outside, a car door creaks open. Then, boots on gravel.

And then, a voice from my nightmares rings loud and clear.

"Clover."

It is like ice floods my veins.

I stand at the door while Michael steps into the porch light, still dressed like a man who believes that the world belongs to him alone. His expensive coat, cold smile, and presence infect the air around him.

"It's been a long time, Clover," he says from the other side of the door.

"Not long enough," I reply.

"Now, now," he says. "Open the door for me, Clover."

He is amused. It is like I am something small. Something already caught.

"Chivalry is dead, Michael."

"You always did have a sharp tongue. I see you've been busy," he says. "What is this place? A home for... orphans?"

I open the door a tiny bit, not that it matters. Michael could overpower me with ease.

"Kids, huh?" he asks.

Heat spreads through my chest as he tries to see behind me.

No, they're not his leverage, I think to myself. They're tucked away safely.

My stomach knots.

There are two choices here.

Run, or fight.

For the first time in my life, I know the answer.

Michael tries to push the door open, and he barely flinches when I slam the door into his face. Blood drips from his nose, but he's still smiling.

"Ah, that's my girl," he says.

He's standing on my porch with the knitted mailbox cover.

Michael uses his handkerchief to wipe his nose, and then he reaches for me. This man is fast. He's stronger than me.

He grabs my arm, twisting hard. I drop my weight, slam my heel into his knee, and run. But Michael trips me and I fall onto the hard porch.

A voice cuts through the night.

"Get away from her!"

Noah. Sweet baby, Noah.

Suddenly, I'm back up on my feet trying to locate Noah.

He stands at the tree line, lining our driveway, his chest heaving.

He should have stayed at the church. He should have run. He should have...

Michael's grip tightens on my arm. His breath is warm against my ear.

"Oh, Clover. You never could stop picking up strays."

Noah moves fast. He kicks out his foot, hard.

Michael stumbles backward, his weight shifting. He loses his balance and collides with a pile of stones and a fallen branch. His body goes limp, collapsing onto the cold ground.

Unconscious.

For the first time in ten years, Michael is nothing but dead weight to me.

I can hear my own breathing, sharp and uneven, mixing with Noah's ragged gasps. The world around us feels too still.

Noah's hands are shaking. His wide eyes flicker from Michael to me, like he can't believe what just happened.

Like he can't believe he did that.

"I..." he starts, but the words don't come out.

I don't give him time to spiral.

"You saved me, love," I tell him. "Now, we need to go!"

We take off into the trees.

Sanctum Noctis is behind us now. But it's no longer safe.

Michael isn't dead. He will wake up. He will come for us.

Unless...

I force the thought out of my head.

A mile ahead, a rusted sign barely visible through the trees tells me that we're close.

The church.

I see the outline of the old stone building just as a light flickers on inside.

Pastor Ellis.

He must have heard us coming. I shove open the doors, pulling Noah in after me. The old pastor is already there, candlelight casting deep shadows on his weathered face.

He doesn't ask questions. Then again, he never does. His sharp gaze sweeps over us, over Noah's trembling hands, my bruised arms, and the raw terror still sitting in my chest.

He understands.

He just nods and gestures toward the back.

"They're inside. They're all safe."

The others are waiting. Huddled in blankets, confused but fine.

Noah moves toward them, but he hesitates. He looks back at me, something unreadable in his eyes.

I exhale slowly. My hands are still shaking, but my mind is clearer than it has ever been.

Michael is still out there. And for the first time in my life, I'm not running.

I grab the burner phone from my bag and dial.

"911, what's your emergency?"

I close my eyes.

"There's a man lying unconscious just outside my property. He was trying to harm me. His name is Michael, and he's wanted in many states... You'll find evidence in the kitchen, next to the fruit bowl. It's Sanctum Noctis, near the north ridge."

A long pause.

I had left the notebook there... just in case this call needed to happen.

"Ma'am, we're sending officers now," the voice says. "Can you stay on the line?"

I end the call.

I've given them more than enough.

"I need to borrow a car," I tell the pastor.

I step outside. The cold air burns my lungs, but for the first time in years, I can breathe.

Ellis tosses me a set of keys. I catch them, turning toward a beat-up truck parked near the trees.

"Where will you go?" he asks.

I glance back at the church. The kids.

"I'm not going anywhere. Not for long," I say. "But I have to take care of something first."

The pastor doesn't push. He knows.

I climb into the truck, start the engine, and drive.

Not away. Not to hide. Not to run.

I'm heading back.

The headlights cut through the mist as I pull up to the house. The front porch light is still on. There's no sign of Michael. He's gone.

Still, I don't hesitate. I walk inside, straight to the kitchen. I grab the book, and then I burn the place down. I had only called 911 in case Michael was... dead. But now?

Now, he was gone and still very much alive.

For years, I told myself I wasn't a mother. I wasn't a savior. I was just a survivor, trying to keep my head above water. I had been entangled with a man who splashed around in blood money.

But it's over. I'm done running.

And if Michael comes back, I'll be ready. But he'll have to find me first.

I sit in the pick-up truck and watched our home burn down. At least I had savings. I would rebuild our lives...

And we will survive. My children and I.

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This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

The author and publisher make no claims to the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretation. This story is provided “as is,” and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.