Whispers in the Walls

Rain slashed sideways against the windows of Mara’s Boston apartment, blurring the skyline in gray streaks. She stared at the letter on her kitchen table—yellowed, water-stained, and smelling faintly of mildew and decay.

Her name was written in smudged ink, familiar handwriting twisted with something frantic. Her fingers trembled as she turned it over again and again. This couldn’t be real.

“Dear Mara,” it began.

“I’m alive. But I’m not safe. They’re still here—in the walls, in the dark. I need you. Come to Black Hollow. The Hollister House. Come alone.”

It was signed Sienna. Her sister. Dead ten years.

Mara’s breath hitched as she clutched the letter. She remembered the funeral. The body they’d never recovered. The blood-slick floors of their childhood home. Her therapy bills.

The wind howled like a scream outside. She looked toward her hallway mirror—and for a moment, thought she saw something move behind her reflection.

No. She was just tired. Overworked. Hallucinations weren’t new to her, but this—this letter wasn’t in her head.

And Black Hollow? That place had been quarantined by the state after the massacre. Everyone had left…everyone who could.

She should burn the letter. Forget it. But instead, she was already grabbing her coat.

She had to know.

Even if it killed her.