Elara didn't sleep for the rest of the night.
She sat on the edge of her bed, the drawing still in her hand, her eyes fixed on the dark hallway outside her door. Every creak, every settling groan of the old house kept her suspended between dread and disbelief. The face Isla had drawn of her screaming in silence haunted her. She stared at the shadowy figure behind it, trying to convince herself it was just art. Just Isla's dramatics. But the ink felt frantic, desperate. The red handwriting wasn't just a message; it was a cry for help.
"I tried to tell you."
Tell her what?
Morning brought no relief.
The sunlight slanted weakly through the curtains, the sky outside still soaked in grey. The entire house felt reluctant as if it resented being awake. Elara wandered downstairs barefoot, her head aching from exhaustion.
The kitchen was empty. Her mother had probably gone out for groceries or might be hiding in the garden with a cigarette, as she often did. The silence inside the house felt heavy, pressing in from the walls, not just quiet but hollow as if something essential had been drained away.
She poured herself black coffee, bitter and hot. The cup shook slightly in her hand as she moved to the living room.
She wasn't sure what she was looking for. Clues, maybe. An explanation. Isla's life in this house had become a mystery. Elara was no longer sure she had the right to solve it, but her gut told her the police had stopped too soon. Something about Isla's death didn't fit.
And Elara wasn't leaving until she understood why.
The living room was neat. Too neat. Their mother had scrubbed the grief out of the place with bleach and order. The photos on the mantel remained, though. Elara approached them slowly.
There they were, Isla and Elara, at five years old, smiling with missing teeth. At fourteen, with matching haircuts they both hated. At nineteen, hugging outside the train station, the day Elara left for college.
Behind the photos sat a thin candle, recently burned. Probably her mother's attempt at mourning. Or maybe guilt. Elara couldn't tell anymore.
She crossed to the bookshelf. Dust lingered there. She traced a finger along the spine of old novels, yellowed encyclopedias, and a few journals tucked sideways. One caught her eye. Black cover, and no title.
She pulled it down.
It wasn't a book.
It was a sketchpad.
Elara settled onto the couch and elegantly flipped it open, her curiosity piqued by what lay inside.
More drawings.
Some were familiar portraits of people from town, classmates, and even one of her mother in soft watercolors. But as the pages turned, they shifted. Isla had drawn herself, again and again. In some, she looked hollow-eyed. In others, she stood in forests, staring at dark silhouettes hiding between trees. One showed her looking into a mirror, and the reflection wasn't her own.
Elara's breath quickened. These weren't just drawings. They were symptoms. Pleas.
One page was mostly blank, just a small phrase in the corner, barely legible:
"She walks at night."
Elara flipped to the next page and stopped.
A figure stood outside a window. The room inside was detailed, and unmistakably, it was Isla's room. The figure was watching. No face. Just eyes, too many of them.
She slammed the book shut.
Elara decided to search Isla's room again, properly this time.
Back upstairs, she opened the closet. Clothes hung neatly, skirts, sweaters, paint-stained jeans. On the floor was a plastic bin full of art supplies. Another bin held notebooks and tangled cords. She dug deeper.
At the very bottom, behind a stack of unused canvases, was a small wooden box.
It was locked.
Elara examined its old oak with a brass latch. There was a name carved into the side in jagged letters: MARA.
Her stomach flipped.
Mara. The name had been in the back of her mind for days. A ghost from childhood. Isla's imaginary friend, or was it Elara's? She couldn't remember.
She needed to open it. She searched Isla's drawers for a key. Jewelry box? No. Desk? No. She pulled open the bottom drawer.
It stuck halfway.
She tugged harder, and it slid open with a thunk.
Inside was a small camera.
A digital Canon. Old, dusty.
Elara powered it on.
It still had the battery.
The screen flickered to life. Photos loaded.
Click.
Isla is in front of a mirror, half-smiling.
Click.
A paintbrush close-up, the color blurred.
Click.
The window at night.
Click.
The window again, this time, a shape outside.
Elara's breath caught.
She zoomed in.
The image was grainy, but unmistakably a figure. Not tall. Not far. Standing just outside, facing the house.
Click.
Another shot. Closer.
Click.
Blurry movement, taken in a rush. Shaky. Out of focus.
Click.
A final photo. A shadow inside the room. Inside.
Elara's hands trembled.
She opened the closet and shoved the camera deep into her jacket pocket. She needed time to process. To think. Maybe to get out of the house. Breathe.
And then she saw it.
Behind the closet door, taped to the wood, was a note in Isla's handwriting.
"If you find this, I wasn't crazy. Look under the stairs."
Elara stood in the hallway, staring at the stairwell as if it might bite her.
Under the stairs.
She descended slowly, one hand on the rail, the other gripping the note.
The hall closet sat beneath the stairs. Coats and boots filled the space. A vacuum, a broken lamp. Junk, mostly.
She crouched and began pulling things out.
Behind a stack of boxes, her hand hit something hard.
A board. Loose.
She pried it up.
A small cavity.
Inside was an old phone. Dusty. Cracked.
She powered it on. The battery light blinked red.
By luck, a charger was still in the wall from an old lamp. She connected it.
The phone came to life.
No passcode.
There were only a few things on it. No apps. No contacts. Just a file folder labeled:
"LISTEN."
She opened it.
Voice memos.
Elara sat on the floor, back against the wall, and hit play.
Isla's voice crackled to life.
Entry one. I'm recording this because I don't trust my memory anymore. Things disappear. I hear things I'm not sure are real. But I know something's wrong.
Click.
Entry four. Elara, if you ever hear this… please believe me. Mom knows something. She's hiding it. I think someone's been in the house. I keep locking my door, and it's unlocked in the morning.
Click.
Entry ten. I saw her again. Mara. She was standing in the hall. I swear to God, she looked like you. But… different. Wrong. She smiled.
Click.
Entry fifteen. If anything happens to me… if they find me in the lake… it wasn't an accident.
Click.
"It's not in my head. I'm not crazy."
Silence.
Elara sat frozen. The final memo echoed in her skull.
"I'm not crazy."
She clutched the phone tightly.
There was no way Isla would have gone into the lake willingly. No way she'd have left behind all this if she'd meant to die. Something someone pushed her toward the edge.
And whatever it was… might still be in the house.
That night, Elara locked her door.
She shoved a chair under the handle, just in case.
And still, she didn't sleep.
Because at 3:17 a.m., she heard footsteps outside her door.
Slow. Careful.
They stopped. Right. Outside.
And then…
A whisper.
"You shouldn't have come back."