PART 6

The dark vehicle was still behind us.
I didn’t look at it again.
I couldn’t.
Every time I checked the mirror, my imagination supplied the same answer.
He was still there.
Waiting.
Following.
Watching.
Sarah sat beside me without speaking.
For the first few minutes, she kept looking through the passenger-side window.
Then she finally whispered:
“You shouldn’t have come after me.”
I tightened my hands around the steering wheel.
“You disappeared.”
“I know.”
“You left the hospital without telling anyone.”
“I had to.”
“You had no right to frighten us like that.”
“I know.”
“You keep saying you know.”
Sarah looked at me.
“I don’t know what else to say.”
“Try the truth.”
She looked away.
For a while, neither of us spoke.
The girls remained quiet in the back seat.

Emma had one hand wrapped around Lily’s.

Lily was staring out the window.

She looked exhausted.

But she wasn’t asleep.

Not even close.

Every few seconds, she looked behind us.

As if she was expecting someone to appear.

I finally asked Sarah:

“How far is the old house?”

“About fifteen minutes.”

“Is anyone there?”

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“Does anyone know we’re going there?”

Sarah hesitated.

I glanced at her.

“Sarah.”

“No.”

“You hesitated.”

“I was thinking.”

“About what?”

She looked at me.

“About whether I can still trust my own memory.”

That answer frightened me.

Not because it was dramatic.

Because it sounded honest.

We turned onto a narrow road lined with old trees.

The city lights slowly disappeared behind us.

The farther we drove, the darker it became.

The old house had belonged to our grandmother.

It had been empty for years.

I hadn’t been there since I was a teenager.

I remembered the front porch.

The cracked flowerpots.

The enormous oak tree near the driveway.

And the basement door that had always been locked.

I had never known there was another room beneath the house.

Sarah had never told me.

Until tonight.

Then Lily suddenly spoke.

“That’s it.”

I looked at her through the rearview mirror.

“What?”

“The house.”

She was staring through the windshield.

“We’re almost there.”

I slowed down.

The road curved.

Then the house appeared.

Dark.

Silent.

Exactly as I remembered it.

Except for one thing.

A light was on upstairs.

I stopped.

Sarah’s face went pale.

“That shouldn’t be on.”

I stared at the house.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Could someone have broken in?”

Sarah didn’t answer.

I turned off the headlights.

The girls looked at me.

“Stay inside,” I said.

“Mom?”

“I’ll be right back.”

Sarah grabbed my arm.

“No.”

“You’re coming with me.”

“Don’t go inside.”

“You told me to come here.”

“I didn’t know someone might already be here.”

I looked at the upstairs window.

The light remained on.

“Then we don’t go inside yet.”

I reached for my phone.

No signal.

I raised it.

Nothing.

Sarah checked hers.

Nothing.

She looked at me.

“He knows.”

I shook my head.

“We don’t know that.”

Sarah whispered:

“You’ll understand soon.”

I stepped out of the SUV.

Sarah followed.

We walked toward the house.

The gravel crunched beneath our shoes.

The wind moved through the trees.

Nothing else.

No footsteps.

No voices.

No cars.

I reached the front door.

Locked.

Sarah walked toward the side.

There was an old key hidden beneath a loose stone.

She found it immediately.

I looked at her.

“You remembered.”

She nodded.

“I never forgot.”

The key turned.

The door opened.

The smell hit me first.

Dust.

Wood.

Old paper.

A house that hadn’t been lived in for years.

I stepped inside.

Sarah followed.

We stood in the darkness.

Then we heard something upstairs.

A floorboard creaked.

We froze.

Another creak.

Then silence.

I whispered:

“Did you hear that?”

Sarah nodded.

We looked at each other.

I wanted to leave.

Every instinct told me to get back into the SUV and drive somewhere crowded.

But then I remembered Lily.

The blue box.

The recording.

The years of secrets.

I couldn’t leave without knowing what was happening.

We climbed the stairs.

Slowly.

At the top, the hallway was dark.

The light from the room at the end spilled across the floor.

Sarah stopped.

“That’s my old room.”

I stared at her.

“Why is the light on?”

“I don’t know.”

She reached for the door.

I caught her wrist.

“Wait.”

We listened.

Nothing.

I pushed the door open.

Empty.

A lamp was on beside the window.

I walked inside.

Sarah stood behind me.

Everything looked untouched.

Old furniture.

Boxes.

A faded photograph on the wall.

I recognized it immediately.

Our family.

Our grandmother.

My mother.

Sarah.

Me.

We were standing together in front of this same house.

I stepped closer.

Something was wrong.

There was a person missing from the photograph.

Someone had been cut out.

Not naturally.

Deliberately.

The photograph had been sliced.

Sarah saw it.

“Oh no.”

“Who was here?”

She didn’t answer.

“Sarah.”

She looked at the picture.

“I don’t remember.”

I stared at her.

“You said you wanted to trust your memory.”

“I know.”

“You don’t remember who was standing there?”

She shook her head.

“I remember the photograph.”

“But not the person.”

“No.”

I looked at the empty space.

The cut was old.

Years old.

Whoever had been removed had been standing between me and Sarah.

I took a photograph of it with my phone.

Then my phone vibrated.

I looked down.

One bar of signal had appeared.

A message came through.

Unknown number.

“You shouldn’t have opened that room.”

My heart dropped.

I showed Sarah.

She didn’t look surprised.

Instead she whispered:

“He knew we’d come.”

I typed:

Who are you?

The reply came almost immediately.

“Ask Sarah.”

I looked at my sister.

She shook her head.

“No.”

Another message.

“She knows.”

I turned to Sarah.

“Tell me.”

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

“I don’t!”

Her voice echoed through the room.

Then something happened.

The lamp went out.

The entire house went dark.

Emma screamed downstairs.

I ran.

“Emma!”

Sarah followed.

We rushed down the stairs.

The front door was open.

The SUV was still outside.

I ran through the doorway.

“Emma!”

My daughter was standing beside the vehicle.

Lily was with her.

Both girls were safe.

But Emma was pointing toward the road.

“There.”

I looked.

The dark vehicle was gone.

Completely gone.

No headlights.

No sound.

Nothing.

I rushed to the girls.

“Are you okay?”

Emma nodded.

Lily nodded too.

“Did anyone come near you?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

Emma looked at me.

“The lights went out.”

“I know.”

“Then Lily said we should stay together.”

I looked at Lily.

She nodded.

“Good.”

I pulled both girls close.

Then I noticed something on the SUV.

A piece of paper tucked beneath the windshield wiper.

I walked toward it.

Sarah followed.

“Don’t touch it.”

I stopped.

She stared at the paper.

“Why?”

“Because I know what that means.”

“What?”

“It means he wants us to find something.”

I carefully removed it.

There was only one sentence.

“The basement door is not the entrance.”

I looked at Sarah.

“What does that mean?”

She shook her head.

“I don’t know.”

“You’re lying.”

“No.”

“You’ve known about the room under this house for years.”

“Yes.”

“So you know how to get there.”

“I thought I did.”

“What changed?”

Sarah looked at the house.

“The house.”

“What?”

“It wasn’t always built like this.”

I stared at her.

“What are you talking about?”

“When Grandma owned it, there was no hidden room.”

“Then how do you know?”

“Because I found it after she died.”

“And?”

“I found the room.”

“What was inside?”

Sarah hesitated.

“Nothing.”

I frowned.

“Nothing?”

“Almost nothing.”

“What does that mean?”

“A chair.”

“A chair?”

“A tape recorder.”

My heart began pounding.

“And?”

“A child’s drawing.”

I looked toward the house.

“Where is it?”

“I don’t know.”

“You said there was a recording.”

“There was.”

“Where?”

Sarah swallowed.

“I listened to it once.”

“What did it say?”

“I couldn’t listen again.”

“Why?”

“Because I heard your voice.”

I felt cold.

“My voice?”

“Yes.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“I know.”

“What were you saying?”

Sarah shook her head.

“I don’t remember.”

“You just said you heard me.”

“I did.”

“And now you don’t remember?”

She looked at me.

“That’s what scares me.”

I stared at my sister.

Something was terribly wrong.

Not only with the story.

With our memories.

With the missing years.

With what had happened in this house.

I turned toward the front door.

“Take us inside.”

Sarah looked frightened.

“Why?”

“Because we’re not leaving until we find that room.”

“You don’t understand.”

“I understand enough.”

“No.”

She grabbed my arm.

“If that recording is still here, there is a reason nobody found it.”

“Then let’s find out why.”

We returned inside.

The girls stayed downstairs.

I told Emma to keep the doors locked.

Sarah and I searched the house.

The old rooms.

The closets.

The attic.

Every wall.

Every floorboard.

Nothing.

Then Lily spoke from the hallway.

“Auntie?”

I turned.

“Yes?”

“There’s something here.”

She pointed toward the old dining room.

I walked over.

“What?”

She pointed at the wall.

“There.”

I looked.

Nothing.

Just wallpaper.

Then she touched a small section near the floor.

It moved.

I crouched.

There was a tiny metal latch hidden beneath the wallpaper.

I looked at Sarah.

She covered her mouth.

“How did you know?”

Lily shrugged.

“Mom showed me.”

I turned slowly toward Sarah.

“You brought her here?”

“Once.”

“When?”

“Years ago.”

“Why?”

Sarah didn’t answer.

I pulled the latch.

A section of the wall opened.

Behind it was a narrow staircase.

Dark.

Descending.

Emma came closer.

“Mom?”

I immediately stepped between her and the opening.

“You stay here.”

“But—”

“No.”

Sarah stared into the darkness.

“That wasn’t there before.”

“What?”

“The stairs.”

“You just said you knew about the hidden room.”

“I knew the room existed.”

“But not the entrance?”

“No.”

I took out my phone and turned on the flashlight.

The beam disappeared down the narrow staircase.

Dust covered every step.

No footprints.

At least none that I could see.

Then Lily whispered:

“Someone was here.”

I looked at her.

“How do you know?”

She pointed.

Near the bottom step was a fresh mark.

A shoeprint.

Still visible in the dust.

Someone had been there recently.

Very recently.

I looked at Sarah.

“Stay here.”

She shook her head.

“I’m coming.”

We descended.

Step by step.

The air became colder.

The walls narrowed.

At the bottom was a small concrete corridor.

No windows.

No sound.

Then we saw the door.

Old metal.

No handle.

Only a small keyhole.

Sarah pulled the key from her pocket.

The key she had shown me earlier.

She inserted it.

It fit.

She turned.

Click.

The door opened.

Inside was a small room.

There was an old wooden table.

A chair.

A shelf.

And a blue box.

My heart stopped.

“The box.”

Sarah stared at it.

“I thought he had it.”

I walked toward the table.

The box was covered in dust.

Nobody had touched it recently.

At least, not from what I could see.

I reached toward it.

Sarah grabbed my wrist.

“Wait.”

“What?”

“Look.”

She pointed to the table.

There was a tape recorder.

Beside it was a handwritten note.

My name was on it.

I picked it up.

My hands shook.

The handwriting looked familiar.

I turned it over.

There were only three words.

“You forgot everything.”

I looked at Sarah.

“What does that mean?”

She didn’t answer.

I opened the blue box.

Inside were photographs.

Old photographs.

Documents.

A small cassette tape.

And a folded piece of paper.

I unfolded it.

There were names.

Dozens of them.

Some I recognized.

Some I didn’t.

But one name stopped me completely.

My own.

Underneath it was another name.

My husband’s.

And beneath his name was Sarah’s.

I stared at the list.

“Why are our names here?”

Sarah began crying.

“I told you.”

“No.”

I looked at her.

“You told me everyone who knew was on the list.”

“Yes.”

“But why is my name here?”

“Because you knew.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did.”

“What did I know?”

Sarah looked at the tape recorder.

“You knew before Lily.”

I felt dizzy.

“I don’t remember.”

“I know.”

“Why?”

Sarah whispered:

“Because that’s what they wanted.”

I turned toward the tape recorder.

“Play it.”

“No.”

“Play it.”

“Please.”

“Sarah.”

She shook her head.

“You don’t want to hear it.”

“You’ve been telling me that all night.”

“Because the last time I heard it, I couldn’t sleep for months.”

“Play it.”

Sarah finally reached for the recorder.

She pressed the button.

Static filled the room.

Then a voice.

A child’s voice.

Quiet.

Frightened.

“Mom?”

Sarah froze.

I froze.

The recording continued.

“I don’t want to go back.”

Then another voice.

An adult.

Calm.

“You need to stop telling stories.”

The child began crying.

I looked at Sarah.

She was shaking.

Then the child’s voice returned.

“Please believe me.”

Static.

Then another voice.

My voice.

I heard myself say:

“It’s okay.”

My heart stopped.

Sarah covered her mouth.

The recording continued.

My voice again.

“I’m going to help you.”

I stepped backward.

“No.”

Sarah looked at me.

“I told you.”

“That isn’t me.”

“It is.”

“I don’t remember.”

“You weren’t supposed to.”

The recording continued.

Then my husband’s voice appeared.

Calm.

Almost gentle.

“She’s confused.”

My stomach dropped.

“No.”

Sarah was crying now.

The recording continued.

Then a sound.

A door.

A child crying.

Someone shouting.

Then silence.

The tape stopped.

Nobody moved.

I stared at the recorder.

“What happened next?”

Sarah didn’t answer.

“Sarah.”

She shook her head.

“I left.”

“You left?”

“I was afraid.”

“You left the child?”

“Yes.”

“Where did she go?”

“I don’t know.”

“You said she was taken.”

“I thought she was.”

“By him?”

Sarah nodded.

“Then why is my voice on the recording?”

Sarah looked at me.

“Because you were there.”

I couldn’t breathe.

“No.”

“You were there.”

“I don’t remember.”

“You told her you’d help.”

I stared at my sister.

“What happened to me?”

Sarah whispered:

“You were threatened.”

“By who?”

She looked at the tape recorder.

“Him.”

I looked at the list again.

My husband’s name.

Sarah’s name.

Mine.

Then I noticed something else.

There was one name crossed out.

I leaned closer.

“Who is that?”

Sarah didn’t answer.

I touched the paper.

The ink was old.

But beneath the crossed-out name was a date.

The date was the day I got married.

I stared at it.

Then everything inside me went cold.

“Sarah.”

“What?”

“Why was this name crossed out on my wedding day?”

She didn’t answer.

“Sarah.”

She finally whispered:

“Because that’s the day she disappeared.”

I looked at the name again.

I couldn’t read it completely.

But I could make out the first letter.

E.

I thought of Emma.

My daughter.

My heart began pounding.

“Who was she?”

Sarah stared at me.

“The other child.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Her name was Emma?”

Sarah nodded.

I felt sick.

My daughter upstairs had the same name.

The same name.

The same first letter.

And suddenly I remembered something I had forgotten for years.

A little girl standing in this house.

Holding my hand.

Calling me by a name I didn’t recognize.

Then darkness.

I stumbled backward.

Sarah caught me.

“You remembered.”

I stared at her.

“Just a little.”

“What?”

“I remember her.”

Sarah began crying.

“You do?”

I nodded slowly.

“She called me…”

I stopped.

“What did she call you?”

I searched my memory.

The answer came like a whisper from a locked room.

“She called me Auntie.”

Sarah covered her face.

I looked at the tape recorder.

Then at the list.

Then at the blue box.

Something wasn’t right.

If the missing girl had called me Auntie…

why had nobody told me she existed?

Why had Sarah said she was sent away?

Why had my husband been on the list?

And why did my daughter share her name?

I opened the box again.

There was one final envelope beneath the photographs.

It had never been opened.

My name was written on it.

I pulled it out.

Sarah whispered:

“Don’t.”

I ignored her.

I opened it.

Inside was a single photograph.

A family photograph.

Me.

Sarah.

My husband.

And two little girls.

Lily.

And another girl.

Emma.

But the photograph wasn’t from years ago.

The timestamp printed on the back was recent.

Only three days earlier.

I stared at the picture.

My daughter was standing beside the other girl.

They looked almost identical in age.

Almost identical in height.

And both were smiling.

But my daughter had never met her.

At least, I thought she hadn’t.

I turned the photograph over.

There was a message.

“You have been looking for the wrong child.”

My hands went numb.

I looked at Sarah.

“What does this mean?”

She was staring at the photograph.

Her face had lost all color.

“I don’t know.”

“You know.”

“No.”

“Sarah!”

She stepped backward.

“I swear I don’t.”

Then we heard footsteps upstairs.

One.

Two.

Three.

Slow footsteps.

Someone was walking across the floor above us.

Sarah looked toward the ceiling.

“The girls.”

We ran.

We climbed the stairs.

“Emma!”

No answer.

“Lily!”

Nothing.

We reached the dining room.

Empty.

The front door was still locked.

The girls were gone.

I ran through the house.

Kitchen.

Empty.

Living room.

Empty.

Hallway.

Empty.

Then I heard Emma’s voice.

“Mom?”

I spun around.

The voice came from upstairs.

I ran.

Sarah followed.

We reached the bedroom.

Emma was standing beside the window.

Lily was beside her.

Both girls were staring outside.

“What are you doing?”

Emma turned.

“Mom…”

Her face was confused.

“I thought you called me.”

“I didn’t.”

Lily looked at me.

“I heard it too.”

I walked toward them.

“Who called you?”

Emma pointed toward the window.

“Someone outside.”

I looked through the glass.

Nothing.

Then Lily whispered:

“He said my name.”

I opened the window slightly.

Cold air rushed inside.

No one was outside.

I closed it.

“Stay away from the window.”

Emma nodded.

Then she looked at Lily.

“Who is Emma?”

My heart stopped.

Lily stared at her.

“I don’t know.”

Emma frowned.

“The girl in the picture.”

I froze.

She had seen it.

I hadn’t realized.

She pointed toward the photograph still in my hand.

“Who’s that girl?”

I looked at Sarah.

Sarah was staring at Emma.

Her face had changed.

She looked terrified.

Not because Emma had asked the question.

Because of what Emma had said next.

“She looks like me.”

Nobody spoke.

Then the lights went out again.

This time, every light in the house.

Complete darkness.

Emma grabbed my hand.

Lily grabbed Sarah’s.

And somewhere downstairs, a door slammed.

Then came a man’s voice.

Calm.

Close.

Almost familiar.

“You should have remembered sooner.”

I froze.

Sarah whispered:

“No…”

The voice continued.

“Now you have two children who need answers.”

I pulled the girls behind me.

“Who are you?”

Silence.

Then:

“You already know.”

Footsteps began climbing the stairs.

Slowly.

One step.

Then another.

Sarah was trembling.

I reached for my phone.

No signal.

The footsteps continued.

Emma squeezed my hand.

Lily was crying.

Then the man stopped outside the bedroom.

The door handle moved.

Once.

Twice.

Then stopped.

A piece of paper slid underneath the door.

I stared at it.

My name was written across the front.

I picked it up.

There were only four words.

“Ask Sarah about the twins.”

I looked at my sister.

She collapsed against the wall.

“No.”

“What twins?”

She shook her head.

“Please.”

“What twins?”

Her eyes filled with tears.

“Don’t make me say it.”

I stepped closer.

“What twins?”

She looked at Emma.

Then Lily.

Then me.

And whispered:

“They were never cousins.”

The house went silent.

I stared at the two girls.

Sarah’s voice broke.

“They’re sisters.”

I couldn’t breathe.

Then the bedroom door slowly opened by itself.

And the man outside whispered:

“Now you’re finally ready to hear the truth.”