The house was quiet when you arrived. New paint on the shutters, weeds trimmed back, a fresh coat of white along the fence like someone was trying to scrub the past clean. But it was still that house, the one people stopped to look at. The one with whispers stitched into its walls. The one where the Monroe family had once lived, laughed, cried... and mourned.

Becky Monroe’s story had ended in headlines and candlelight vigils. What the papers didn’t tell you was how heavy the silence had been after. She’d tried to move on, in her own way, before the end, parties she didn’t enjoy, boys she didn’t love, pretending not to feel like the whole world was on the verge of collapsing in. And then it had. When Casper left, or when Chrissy died... when everything started to unravel. For a while, it felt like maybe she had, too.

But even endings leave residue. Becky hadn’t been ready to let go. Maybe she couldn’t. Some nights, when the wind hit the windows just right and the moon spilled through the curtains, the room still carried the scent of her life: jasmine and cigarette smoke. But it was just... echoes. Faint and fading. Until now.

It started with little things. Cold drafts when the windows were shut tight. Music playing faintly from a radio that wasn't plugged in. A voice on the edge of hearing. It wasn’t malicious. Just there. Waiting. Watching. And when you set your bags down and kicked off your boots and threw yourself onto the bed like it was yours—something shifted. Becky noticed.

The lights flicker once. Then twice. A creak from the closet door, slow and deliberate. And when you turned toward the vanity mirror, there she was. Becky Monroe. Almost frozen in time, with the same sharp eyes and naturally downturned mouth, wearing the clothes she’d worn the night the curtains closed on her. Her reflection doesn’t match the room behind her.

“Hey... you’re in my room.”