The photograph burned in Amara's hand like a secret too heavy to hold.
Her mother.
Eli.
And a promise scrawled on the back that turned everything she believed about her past upside down.
"For the child we'll protect…"
The implications swirled through her mind like a storm. Her father had never spoken of Eli. Never mentioned Thornridge. But then again, he'd barely spoken about anything after her mother vanished.
And now, here she was — employed under false pretenses, tangled in lies, staring at a photo that hinted Eli may have known her before she was born.
Possibly even—
No. She couldn't go there. Not yet.
Margot was gone when Amara returned to the kitchen. The house had fallen into a strange hush — that eerie stillness just before a scream.
And for the first time, Amara felt it.
The house watching her.
Waiting.
She remembered what Margot had said.
"This house doesn't let people go."
Was that why her mother had stayed?
Why she had never come back?
As night settled in, Amara found herself standing in front of a door she had passed a dozen times before — the only one on the third floor that was always locked. No number on it. No nameplate. Just a heavy, wooden door with a tarnished brass knob and a faint, lingering scent of lavender.
She had asked about it once. Eli said it was a guest room. Margot had changed the subject. And eventually, Amara had stopped asking.
But tonight, it called to her.
She tried the handle.
Locked.
Her fingers brushed the key ring she'd taken from Margot's drawer two nights ago, half out of curiosity, half from a need to understand what surrounded her.
She tried each one, heart thudding with every soft click of a wrong key.
Then finally, a sound.
Click.
The door creaked open.
Darkness spilled out like ink.
She stepped in.
Dust clouded the air. The room had been untouched for years, maybe decades. White sheets cloaked the furniture like ghosts in mourning.
Her phone's flashlight illuminated faded wallpaper — floral patterns curling with age — and a single painting above the fireplace.
Her mother.
No doubt now.
Amara moved toward it, breath catching. Her mother stood barefoot in a field of lilies, sunlight in her hair, joy in her eyes.
It was dated.
Spring, 2008.
Just months before she vanished.
The brushwork was familiar. She'd seen it once in the art books stored in Eli's private office.
He painted this.
Suddenly, a whisper.
Faint.
Not words — just the sense of breath not her own.
Amara froze.
Then turned toward a wardrobe tucked in the corner.
Its door was ajar.
Inside was a small trunk.
She pulled it out, heart racing. The latch was rusted but loose. Inside were journals — her mother's handwriting sprawled across each one.
She flipped to a random page.
"Eli says the house feels heavier lately. I feel it too. Sometimes I think it's not just the past that lives here, but something else. Something that never left."
Another entry:
"I heard it again. A cry in the walls. Eli says it's the wind. But I know what I heard."
And then:
"If anything happens to me — tell her the truth. She deserves that much."
A floorboard creaked behind her.
Amara spun around, light darting through the room.
Empty.
But she wasn't alone.
She felt it.
Not just fear. Not just curiosity.
Presence.
As she backed out, clutching the journals to her chest, the door slammed behind her with a thunderous bang. She let out a gasp and stumbled back, nearly dropping her phone.
Her light flickered.
For a brief second, the hallway seemed to shift — the walls narrowing, breathing — before settling into stillness again.
Back in her room, Amara locked the door and sat on the edge of the bed, the journals spread out in front of her.
She hadn't just stepped into a room.
She had stepped into her mother's last days.
And if the house had hidden this for fifteen years… what else was it still hiding?