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"You need to leave."
Daniel was already inside, door shut behind him, key still in his hand. He didn't move like someone who'd just walked in. He moved like he'd been waiting for the right second to kick it open.
I stayed where I was, back to the kitchen counter, phone in my pocket with 911 half-dialed. "You said you don't come here after dark."
"I don't." He scanned the room—walls, corners, the air itself. "Until I have to."
"Because of what's in the walls."
His eyes came back to me. Dark. Tired. Like he hadn't slept in days. "Because you're still here."
"This is my apartment. I signed the lease."
"Then you signed the wrong thing." He stepped closer. Not threatening. Worse—like he was checking to see if I was still breathing. "How long since you heard it?"
"Heard what."
"Don't play."
I shoved off the counter. "My mother's name. Someone saying her name inside the wall. You told me it was old audio equipment."
"It was."
"Left by Mara Cunningham."
He stopped. Just for a second. But I caught it.
"You know that name," I said.
"Everyone in this town knows that name."
"I saw her two weeks ago. On a slab. Blunt force trauma to the back of the skull. They said she fell."
Daniel's jaw tightened. "She did."
"Here?"
"Does it matter?"
"Yeah. It does. Because if she died here, and you're the landlord, and you're renting it out two weeks later like nothing happened—"
"I didn't kill her."
The words came out flat. Hard. Like he'd said them before.
I crossed my arms. "Then why are you here? Why do you care if I stay or go?"
"Because you're next."
The air went cold. Not metaphor cold. Real cold. The kind that makes your breath fog.
I looked past him, toward the hallway. Toward the wall.
"What is it," I said. "What's in there."
"Something that wants out."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I've got." He took another step. Close enough now that I could see the edge of a scar running under his collar. Old. Jagged. "Mara tried to open it. She thought she could control it. She couldn't."
"And my mother?"
His face changed. Just a flicker. But I saw it.
"You know her name," I said. "You know why it's saying her name."
"I know she got out."
My chest went tight. "Out of what."
"This house."
I wanted to laugh. I wanted to grab my bag and walk. But my legs wouldn't move.
"My mother drowned," I said. "Ten years ago. Lake Moran. They found her car in the water."
"They found her car."
"They found her body."
"Did they." He wasn't asking.
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Because no. They hadn't. They'd found clothing. A shoe. Dental records took three weeks. Closed casket.
"She lived here," I said.
Daniel nodded.
"Before she died."
Another nod.
"And you knew."
"I was fourteen. I didn't know anything. I just knew my father told me never to come here after dark, and never to let anyone stay past a month."
"Why a month."
"Because that's how long it takes." He glanced at the wall again. "For it to learn your name."
My hands were shaking. I shoved them in my pockets. "You're saying there's something in this house that killed my mother."
"I'm saying your mother left before it could finish. And it's been waiting for her to come back."
"She's dead."
"Then it'll take you instead."
I laughed. Couldn't help it. Sharp and bitter and too loud. "That's insane."
"Yeah." He pulled something from his jacket. A small canvas bag, tied shut with red thread. "It is."
"What is that."
"Salt. Ash. Yarrow root. Old stuff. Doesn't work for long, but it'll buy you a night." He held it out.
I didn't take it. "You want me to believe you're some kind of—what, exorcist?"
"I want you to pack your things and leave before sunrise. After that, I don't care what you believe."
"And if I don't."
His hand dropped. "Then I'll be back here in three days to scrape you off the floor."
I met his eyes. He wasn't bluffing.
"Did you love her?" I asked. "Mara."
His expression didn't change. "No."
"But you tried to save her."
"I was too late."
The lights flickered. Just once. But it was enough.
Daniel moved fast—faster than I expected. He grabbed my wrist and pulled me toward the door.
"What are you doing—"
"It knows you're still here. It knows I'm here." He shoved the bag into my hand. "Pour this on the threshold. Your bedroom door. Don't break the line."
"I'm not—"
A sound. Low. Wet. Like something dragging itself across tile.
We both froze.
It was coming from the bathroom.
"Go," Daniel said. "Now."
"What about you?"
"I'll handle it."
"With what?"
He pulled a folding knife from his pocket. Flicked it open. The blade looked old. Stained. Not with rust.
"Go," he said again.
I went.
I dumped the salt in a line across my bedroom doorway, hands shaking so hard I spilled half of it. I could hear him in the hall. Talking. Low. Steady. Like he was reasoning with something.
Then the talking stopped.
I pressed my ear to the door.
Nothing.
I waited. One minute. Two.
Then footsteps. Slow. Uneven.
They stopped just outside my door.
"Daniel?" I said.
No answer.
I looked down.
Wet footprints. Small. Barefoot.
They started just inside the salt line.
And they were walking toward my bed.