I stood before the iron gate, rusted open like a wound, and knew I shouldn’t cross. But her voice had come through the phone last night—soft, broken, saying my name in a way only Lila could. Impossible. She’s been dead for seven years. The house loomed ahead, windows shattered, paint peeled like burned skin. As I stepped onto the porch, the front door groaned shut behind me. No wind. No hand. Just silence… until the whisper: You left me here.

The foyer stretched longer than I remembered, wallpaper curling into grasping fingers. My breath fogged in air too cold for summer. At the foot of the stairs, a child’s drawing lay on the floor—crayon figures of two girls holding hands. I never drew. Lila did. On the back, in her handwriting: Why did you lock me in?

A thud came from upstairs. Then laughter. My own voice, younger, panicked. I took a step toward the staircase when the chandelier crashed down, blocking the way. From the shadows above, something shifted. Waiting. Watching. I had to move—but the kitchen held the old cellar door, the one with the lock I still dream about. Or I could try the study, where Dad’s gun might still be in the desk.

The house wasn’t just haunted. It was remembering. And it wanted me to remember too.