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"Don't move."
Daniel's voice came from the doorway. Not behind me. Not from the wet footprints tracking across my floor.
I spun. He stood in the hall, one hand braced on the frame, breathing hard. His shirt was soaked through, clinging to his chest. Water dripped from his hair onto the floorboards.
"Where the hell were you?" My voice came out thin.
"Downstairs." He stepped over the salt line without breaking it. His boots left wet prints. "Trying to keep her contained."
"Her."
"Mara." He moved past me, eyes tracking the wet trail that led from my bed to the bathroom door. "She's getting stronger. The house is feeding her."
I looked at the footprints again. They'd stopped at the edge of my bed. Right where I would've been lying if I hadn't heard him in the hall.
"You said salt would work."
"It does. Against the house." He crouched, touched one of the prints. His fingers came away wet. "Mara's different. She died here. She's part of it now."
"So what the hell am I supposed to do?"
He stood. Looked at me. His eyes were grey, flat in the dim light. "Leave. Tonight. Don't come back."
"You think I haven't tried?" I grabbed my bag off the chair, dumped it. Lease agreement, first month's rent receipt, security deposit check—all of it with his signature. "You won't refund me. I called your office four times. They said you're not taking calls."
"I'll refund it."
"When? After I'm dead?"
His jaw tightened. "I'll write you a check right now. You can crash at a motel until you find something else."
I wanted to say yes. Grab the check, grab my scrubs, get the hell out.
But I looked at the bathroom door. It was open. Just a crack. I hadn't left it open.
"My mother lived here," I said. "You told me that last night. You said the house was waiting for her."
"I said it's waiting for someone like her."
"What does that mean?"
He didn't answer. Just moved toward the bathroom, hand outstretched like he was going to close the door.
"Don't." I stepped in front of him. "I need to see."
"Leah—"
"You owe me that much." I pushed the door open. The bathroom light was still on. Fluorescent, buzzing. The mirror over the sink was fogged, edges dripping condensation.
I moved closer. Wiped the glass with my palm.
My reflection stared back. Same dark circles. Same pulled-back hair. Same bloodshot eyes.
Then I saw the bruises.
Five of them. Dark purple, almost black. Finger-shaped. Wrapped around my throat.
I touched my neck. My skin was smooth. Warm. No pain.
But in the mirror, the bruises stayed.
"Daniel."
He was already behind me. Close enough I could feel the cold coming off his wet shirt. He didn't look surprised.
"How long?" I asked.
"Since you moved in." His voice was low. "They show up when she's near."
"She."
"Mara. Or whoever she's working with."
I couldn't stop staring. The bruises were too precise. Too deliberate. Like someone had held me down and—
"My mother drowned," I said. "Ten years ago. They found her in the lake. No signs of struggle."
Daniel's eyes met mine in the mirror. "You sure about that?"
I turned. He was too close. I could see the water still beading on his collarbone, the way his chest rose and fell. He didn't back up.
"The coroner's report said drowning. Accidental."
"Did you read it yourself?"
I hadn't. My aunt had handled everything. Told me the details. Told me it was fast, painless, an accident.
"She was found in the lake," I repeated.
"Where'd she go in?"
I didn't know. I'd been at school. Two states away. By the time I got the call, she was already in the ground.
"Leah." He said my name like a warning. "If she lived here, and she drowned—"
"Then what? The house killed her?"
"The house doesn't kill anyone." He stepped back, finally. Shoved a hand through his wet hair. "It just makes sure the debts get paid."
"What debts?"
"I don't know. That's the problem." He looked at the mirror again. The bruises were still there, stark against my skin. "Mara thought she could bargain with it. Thought she could trade something and walk away clean."
"What did she trade?"
"I don't know. She didn't tell me until it was too late." His voice went rough. "I found her in the basement. Throat crushed. No one else in the house."
"Except whatever lives in the walls."
"Yeah. Except that." He pulled out his phone, thumbed it open. "I'm calling you a cab. You're leaving."
"And going where? You think this stops if I leave?" I pointed at the mirror. "Those bruises aren't on me. They're on her. Whoever she is."
"Your mother."
The words hit like a slap. I wanted to say no. Wanted to tell him he was insane.
But I looked at the mirror again. At the bruises. At my reflection's eyes.
And for just a second—less than a second—my reflection blinked when I didn't.
I stepped back. Hit the counter. Daniel caught my arm.
"Easy."
"She's in there."
"No. It's a reflection. An echo." But his hand stayed on my arm, warm and solid. "The house shows you what it wants you to see."
"Why?"
"To keep you here. To make you finish what she started."
I pulled free. Moved past him, out of the bathroom. My heart was slamming against my ribs. I needed air. Needed space. Needed to think.
But when I turned, the mirror caught my eye again.
My reflection wasn't looking at me anymore. She was looking down. At something in the sink.
I stepped back into the doorway. The sink was empty. Just white porcelain, dry.
In the mirror, my reflection reached down. Pulled something up.
A photograph. Curled at the edges. Water-stained.
She held it up to the glass.
I saw my mother's face. Younger. Smiling. Standing in front of this house.
And beside her, his arm around her waist—
Daniel.
I turned. He was still standing in the hallway, phone in hand. He looked up, saw my face.
"Leah—"
"You knew her." My voice came out flat. "You knew my mother."
He didn't deny it. Just stood there, jaw tight, eyes unreadable.
"How long?"
"Long enough." He pocketed his phone. "I tried to warn her. She didn't listen."
"Warn her about what?"
"The same thing I'm warning you about now." He moved toward me. Slow. Careful. Like I was something that might bolt. "This house doesn't let people go. Not unless they finish the contract."
"What contract?"
"I don't know. That's what I've been trying to figure out for ten years." He stopped in front of me. Close enough I could see the scar along his jawline, the way his pupils had blown wide. "Your mother came here looking for something. She thought she could take it and leave. She was wrong."
"And Mara?"
"Mara found your mother's notes. Thought she could finish what your mother started. Use it as leverage." His voice dropped. "She died three days later."
I looked past him. At the wet footprints leading from my bed. They were already drying, fading into the old wood.
"You said Mara died two weeks ago."
"I said I found her two weeks ago. She'd been dead longer."
I pulled out my phone. Opened the hospital directory. Typed in Mara's name.
Her file came up. I scrolled to the intake notes.
Date of death: April seventh. Time: eleven-forty PM.
I looked at Daniel. "You said she died here. In this house."
"She did."
"Then how the hell did she end up at County General?" I turned the phone toward him. "This says she was brought in by ambulance. Found in her apartment."
He looked at the screen. His face didn't change.
"Someone moved her," he said.
"Who?"
"I don't know."
"Bullshit." I stepped closer. "You're lying. You've been lying since I moved in."
"I'm trying to keep you alive."
"By lying?"
"By keeping you away from the truth." His hand came up, caught my wrist. Not hard. Just firm enough to stop me from pushing past him. "You want the truth? Fine. Your mother didn't drown. She was strangled. Right here. In that bathroom."
I tried to pull free. He didn't let go.
"The coroner lied?"
"The coroner wrote what he was told to write." His thumb pressed against my pulse. I could feel my heartbeat hammering under his touch. "Your mother had enemies. People who wanted her gone. The house just made it easy."
"And you did nothing."
"I tried." His voice went rough. "I failed."
I looked down at his hand on my wrist. At the way his fingers overlapped, pale against my skin.
Then I looked at the mirror.
My reflection was smiling.
Not me. Her.
And behind her—behind me—someone else was standing in the bathroom doorway.
A woman. Wet hair. Bruised throat.
She opened her mouth.
"You didn't come for me."
The voice came from everywhere. From the walls. From the mirror. From inside my own chest.
I spun. The bathroom was empty.
When I turned back, Daniel was staring at the mirror. His face had gone white.
"We need to leave," he said. "Right now."
But when I looked down, the wet footprints were back. Leading from the bathroom. Across the floor.
Stopping at the front door.
Blocking the only way out.
I pulled Mara's file back up. Scrolled past the intake notes. Found the discharge summary.
Time of death: eleven-forty PM.
Time she left this house, according to the landlord's log: ten-fifteen PM.
She'd been alive for another hour and twenty-five minutes after she supposedly left.
I showed Daniel the screen.
He looked at it. Then at me.
"That's impossible," he said.
From the bathroom, I heard water running.
And my mother's voice, soft and clear: "No. It's just the beginning."