"You're not going to find her in there."
I dropped the crowbar. It hit the floorboard with a crack that echoed through the whole damn house.
Daniel stood in the doorway, arms crossed, backlit by the hall light. I couldn't see his face but I could feel him watching.
"How long you been standing there?" I said.
"Long enough to know you're about to put a hole in my wall."
I picked up the crowbar. My hands were shaking. "Your wall's already got something in it. I heard it again. Last night. Two hours after you left."
He didn't move. "What did it say?"
"My mother's name. Then mine."
"Leah—"
"Don't." I turned back to the wall, ran my fingers along the seam where the baseboard met the plaster. "You told me the last tenant left audio equipment. Mara Cunningham. The woman I pronounced dead two weeks ago. You want to tell me how a dead woman's voice is calling my name through your walls, or do I keep digging?"
Daniel stepped into the room. The floor creaked under his weight. He moved like someone who'd done this before—slow, careful, like the house might wake up if he stepped wrong.
"Put the crowbar down," he said.
I laughed. It came out sharp. "You think I'm scared of you?"
"No." He stopped three feet away. Close enough that I could see the lines around his eyes, the way his jaw was set. "I think you're scared of what you'll find if you keep going. And you should be."
"My mother drowned ten years ago. No body. No closure. Just a car in the river and a note that said she was sorry." I tapped the wall with the crowbar. "If there's any chance she's connected to this place, I'm tearing it apart."
"She is connected," Daniel said.
I went still.
"What?"
"Your mother. Cass. She lived here."
The crowbar slipped. I caught it before it fell. "You're lying."
"I'm not." He pulled something from his jacket pocket. A photo. Old, creased, edges worn soft. He held it out.
I didn't want to take it. I took it anyway.
The woman in the photo was younger than I remembered. Her hair was longer. She was standing on the porch outside, smiling, one hand shading her eyes from the sun. Behind her, the house looked the same. White siding. Sagging steps. That upstairs window with the curtains drawn.
"When?" My voice didn't sound like mine.
"Eleven years ago. She rented the attic room for eight months."
I looked up. "The year before she died."
Daniel nodded.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because you wouldn't have believed me. You'd have thought I was running a scam. Playing on your grief."
I wanted to argue. I couldn't. He was right.
"What happened to her?" I said.
"She left. Middle of the night. No notice. Left everything behind. Clothes. Books. Her phone."
"And you kept it all?"
"I kept it in case she came back." He met my eyes. "She never did."
I looked at the photo again. My mother's smile. The way her hand was lifted, like she was waving someone closer.
"You said she left me for you," I said. "Last night. Through the wall. Someone said, 'She left you for us.'"
Daniel's expression didn't change but something shifted behind his eyes. "That wasn't me."
"I know." I set the photo on the windowsill. Turned back to the wall. "So who was it?"
Before he could answer, the house creaked. Not the settling kind. The intentional kind. The sound started in the attic and ran down through the walls like something heavy dragging itself closer.
Daniel grabbed my wrist. "Don't move."
"What is that?"
"It knows you're asking questions."
The creaking stopped. The air went cold. I could see my breath.
Then the voice came. Not from the wall this time. From right behind me.
"Birdie."
I spun. No one there. Just the empty room and Daniel's hand still locked around my wrist.
"What did it say?" Daniel's voice was low, tight.
I couldn't answer. My throat had closed.
"Birdie" was my mother's name for me. No one else called me that. No one else knew.
The voice came again. Softer this time. Almost affectionate.
"Birdie, don't dig. It only makes it worse."
Daniel pulled me toward the door. I pulled back.
"Let go."
"Leah, we need to leave. Now."
"No." I yanked free. Turned back to the wall. "You want to talk? Then talk. Tell me what you did to my mother."
Silence.
Then a sound like fingernails dragging across the inside of the plaster. Slow. Deliberate. It moved from the baseboard up to shoulder height, tracing a line I could follow with my eyes.
The scratching stopped.
A crack appeared in the wall. Thin. Vertical. It split the plaster clean down the middle.
Something dark leaked out. Not water. Not blood. Something in between. It ran down the wall in a thin stream and pooled on the floor.
Daniel swore under his breath. He grabbed my arm again, harder this time, and hauled me toward the door.
"Move. Now."
I didn't argue. We hit the hallway and he slammed the door behind us. The lock clicked. He leaned against it, breathing hard.
"What the hell was that?" I said.
"The house showing you what happens when you push."
"It used her name. My name. It knew—"
"It knows everything she knew. That's how it works." He straightened, ran a hand through his hair. "Your mother made a deal here. She didn't finish it. The house thinks you're the collateral."
"What kind of deal?"
"The kind you don't walk away from."
I stared at him. "You're saying my mother sold me?"
"I'm saying she ran before the contract closed. And now the house wants what it's owed."
My pulse was hammering. I could still hear the scratching. Faint. Coming from behind the door.
"How do I stop it?"
Daniel looked at me for a long moment. Then he pulled something else from his jacket. A notebook. Small. Leather-bound. The edges were burned.
"This was in the attic. In a box with your mother's things."
He handed it to me.
I opened it. The first page was blank. The second had a list of names. Handwritten. Dates next to each one.
I recognized some of them. Local names. People who'd died in the last decade. Car accidents. Falls. Drownings.
Mara Cunningham's name was third from the bottom. The date next to it was two weeks ago.
The second-to-last name was Cass Landry.
My mother.
The date next to her name was ten years ago. The day she drowned.
I turned the page.
The last name on the list was mine.
Leah Cash.
The date next to it was blank.
But someone had started writing it in. The ink was still wet.
Today's date. And below it, in smaller letters: "Replacement offering. Contract to close at end of next night shift."
I looked up at Daniel. His face was pale.
"When's your next shift?" he said.
I checked my phone. My hands were shaking so hard I almost dropped it.
"Tomorrow night," I said. "Eleven PM."
Daniel didn't say anything. He didn't have to.
Behind the locked door, the scratching started again. Louder this time. Faster.
And under it, so faint I almost missed it, I heard my mother's voice.
"I'm sorry, Birdie. I thought I could save you."
The scratching stopped.
The notebook in my hands grew warm.
I looked down.
The ink next to my name was drying. The date was complete.
And below it, one last line had appeared.
"She's ours now."