I stepped through the front door and it slammed shut behind me—no wind, no hand, just a finality that vibrated in my bones. The air smelled like wet ash and lavender, the scent my mother used to wear before she vanished. Dust swirled in the dim light, forming shapes that almost looked like words. Then I heard it: a soft giggle from upstairs. My giggle. From when I was six.\n\nThe letter said seven nights. No police, no exorcists, no escape until the clock struck midnight on the eighth. But as I stood there, the hallway stretched impossibly long, the wallpaper peeling into grinning faces. A note fluttered down from the chandelier: Welcome home, Heir.\n\nMy flashlight flickered. At the end of the hall, a figure in a yellow raincoat—mine, from childhood—turned slowly. It wasn’t me. But it knew how to wave.