Maya didn't remember walking upstairs.
One moment, she was staring at her phone on the kitchen floor. The next, her hand was on the locked door again—key turning slowly, against her will. Her body moved like it belonged to someone else. Like the house had taken control.
The door creaked open.
The rocking chair was still.
But the doll was gone.
The air inside the room was bitter cold now. Her breath came in visible wisps. The silence pressed against her ears until it rang like white noise. Then—a whisper.
Low. Drawn out. Familiar.
"Maya..."
She spun around. No one there.
Her heart pounded, each beat louder than the last. She backed into the room, scanning the corners, eyes darting like a hunted animal's. Her fingers brushed the chair's arm. It was warm.
Too warm.
The chair began to rock slowly.
Back.
And forth.
Then stopped.
She stepped toward the wall where the wallpaper had been peeled away. On instinct, she dug her nails into the soft plaster, tearing it back. Beneath the rose print was more scratching—this time forming words, carved over and over again:
"She watches. She waits. She remembers."
Maya's breath caught. The message wrapped around the room like a curse.
A child's laugh echoed behind her.
She whirled around.
The doll now sat on the windowsill, facing her. Its head tilted.
Maya stumbled back, hitting the wall. Her head spun. The floor shifted beneath her like it was breathing.
Then came the thumping.
From underneath.
Like fists pounding from below the floorboards.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
She crouched, pressing her ear to the cold wood. The thudding grew louder—closer. And then, faintly, a voice. Not a whisper this time. A sob.
"Let me out…"
Maya leapt to her feet, heart racing. She ran from the room, slammed the door shut, and locked it.
Downstairs, the fog had seeped inside the house.
It curled along the floor, soft as silk, thick as smoke. Her shoes disappeared into it. She could barely see her own legs. The front door stood open—just a crack.
She hadn't touched it.
A woman stood outside in the mist.
Barefoot.
Drenched.
Staring up at the house with hollow eyes.
"Eliza?" Maya whispered.
The woman's head snapped toward her. Her mouth moved, but the words didn't carry. She raised one pale hand and pointed—toward the house. Toward the room.
Then she vanished, swallowed by the fog.
The silence returned.
Maya shut the door and turned the deadbolt, breathing hard.
She was no longer sure if she was losing her mind or uncovering someone else's.
The house wasn't haunted.
It was possessed—by something far older than death.
And it wanted her to remember.