The next two nights passed without incident. Too quiet. Raj slept. No wandering. No murmuring at the clock. Brett almost convinced himself the bathroom episode had been exhaustion. Stress. Something explainable. On the third night, the scream shattered that illusion. It wasn't a nightmare sound. It was raw. "Dad! DAD!" Brett jolted upright, heart slamming against his ribs. "Raj!" He threw the blankets aside and ran to his son's room. Empty. The window locked. The sheets cold. Another scream — sharper now. "HELP!" It echoed strangely through the house. "Raj, where are you?!" Brett shouted, panic rising fast. The voice seemed close. Then distant. Then above him. He stood still for one second, forcing himself to listen. It was coming from the attic. He sprinted upstairs, nearly slipping on the last step. The attic hatch was slightly open — just enough to show darkness beyond. "Raj!" he yelled, pulling it down and climbing up. Dust filled the air. Boxes. Old frames. Shadows. But no Raj. The screaming continued. Loud. Desperate. Yet the attic was empty. Brett spun in place, pulse roaring in his ears. "How—?" "DAD!" The voice cracked, now sounding below him. He scrambled back down, nearly falling off the ladder. His hands were shaking. He stood in the hallway, trying to think. The attic had been empty. But he had heard him. Clearly. The only place left— The basement. Brett didn't even pause. He ran. As he reached the basement stairs at full speed, something slammed into his chest. He stumbled backward in shock. The painting. The old hallway painting of the two boys. It hung directly in front of the basement entrance. Not crooked. Not fallen. Hung. Suspended from a thick cord tied to a ceiling beam, blocking the staircase like a curtain. Brett stared at it, breath ragged. It hadn't been there. He would have noticed. The boys in the painting looked the same as always. But in the dim light, their expressions seemed… sharper. Intent. "DAD!" The scream cut through him again. Without thinking, Brett shoved the painting aside and pushed down the stairs. The basement light flickered weakly. The air smelled damp and stale. "Raj!" A muffled sob answered him. From the far corner. Behind the old junk the previous residents had left — broken furniture, rotting wood planks, rusted tools stacked carelessly. Brett's heart dropped. Raj's small hand was visible between the gaps. "Dad! I'm stuck!" Brett rushed forward, yanking planks aside, throwing debris across the floor. Nails scraped his palms. Dust choked his lungs. "Hold on! I'm here!" Raj was wedged awkwardly behind the pile, as if he'd crawled in and the wood had shifted afterward. Or been shifted. Brett pulled the final plank away and grabbed him. Raj clung to him immediately, shaking violently. "I couldn't get out!" Raj sobbed. "I couldn't get out!" "It's okay, it's okay," Brett breathed, lifting him fully into his arms. Raj's heart pounded against his chest. His breathing was sharp and uneven, almost hyperventilating. Brett carried him upstairs quickly, not looking back at the basement. Not looking at the staircase. Not looking at where the painting had been. In Raj's room, Brett sat him on the bed and knelt in front of him. "Why would you go down there?" Brett asked gently but firmly. Raj's eyes widened. "I didn't." "You were in the basement, Raj." Raj shook his head rapidly. "I went to sleep in my bed. I woke up and it was dark and I was already there." His voice trembled. "I thought you put me there." The words sent a cold spike down Brett's spine. "I would never do that," Brett said quickly. Raj swallowed hard. "I tried to climb but the wood fell. I couldn't breathe." Brett pulled him into a tight hug. "It was sleepwalking," he muttered, more to himself than to Raj. "That's all. You must've walked down there." Raj didn't respond. After a while, his breathing slowed. Brett laid him back on the bed and pulled the blanket up. That's when he saw it. A sheet of paper near Raj's pillow. He picked it up absentmindedly. It was a drawing. Lisa. Perfectly recognizable. Her long hair, her calm expression. But she wasn't standing. She was lying down. Eyes closed. Arms stiff at her sides. The details were disturbingly precise — shadows under her cheekbones, faint lines around her lips. It didn't look like a child's sketch. It looked studied. Brett's throat went dry. "Raj," he asked quietly, "when did you draw this?" Raj looked at it. And frowned. "I didn't." The room felt colder. Brett stared at the paper a second longer. Then slowly folded it once. Twice. And slipped it into his pocket. He didn't throw it away. He didn't mention it again. But that night, long after Raj fell asleep, Brett sat awake in the dark. Because he knew something with absolute certainty now. Raj hadn't just wandered into the basement. And the painting hadn't moved on its own. Something in the house was rearranging things. And it was getting stronger.
Next afternoon, Brett went to meet the shookeeper again. He has had enough. He decided that. Brett didn't drive carefully. He drove fast. Too fast. The clock shop was nearly closed when he burst through the door, breath uneven, eyes wild. The old shopkeeper looked up from behind the counter. "You," he said, startled. "What happened?" "You knew," Brett snapped, slamming his palm against the glass display. "You knew something about that house." The shopkeeper's face drained of color. "I warned you the clocks shouldn't run." "My son is screaming in the walls!" Brett shouted. "Things are moving. He wakes up in places he didn't go. He's changing." The old man stood slowly. His voice dropped. "How old is the boy?" "Seven." The shopkeeper closed his eyes briefly. Then he walked around the counter, grabbed Brett's wrist, and pulled him toward a narrow office at the back of the shop. He shut the door behind them. Then he looked up at Brett and said quietly: "She wasn't mad." Brett frowned. "What?" "The mother," the old man clarified. "She wasn't insane." A pause. "She was terrified." The words settled heavily in the small office. "The neighbors thought she was abusive," the shopkeeper continued. "They reported screaming. Crying. Objects breaking. They said she locked the girl away." "Didn't she?" Brett asked. The old man shook his head slowly. "I delivered one of the clocks myself," he said. "Years ago. Before the fire." Brett leaned forward. "I saw the girl." "And?" "She wasn't in a cage," he replied carefully. "She was… contained." "Contained how?" The shopkeeper's voice lowered. "All the mirrors in the house were covered with thick cloth. Even the small ones. Bathroom. Hallway. Every reflective surface." Brett felt a chill. "Every clock," the old man continued, "was turned inward. Facing the walls. As if time itself wasn't meant to look at her." He swallowed. "The walls had markings carved into them. Symbols. Circles. Repeated phrases scratched deep into the paint. It didn't look decorative. It looked defensive." "Defensive from what?" Brett whispered. The shopkeeper met his eyes. "From something trying to get out." Silence pressed in around them. "The mother wasn't imprisoning her daughter," he said firmly. "She was trying to suppress something." Brett's pulse thudded in his ears. "And the fire?" he asked. The shopkeeper exhaled slowly. "The mother's body was found near the hallway. That part was reported." Brett nodded faintly. "But here's what wasn't." He leaned closer. "She wasn't burned completely." Brett's stomach tightened. "There were bruises on her wrists," the old man said. "Dark, distinct. As if she had been restrained." "Restrained?" Brett echoed. "Yes." "By who?" The shopkeeper didn't answer immediately. "That detail was never made public," he continued instead. "Official reports simplified everything. They called it a tragic domestic fire." "But—" "Officially," the old man interrupted gently, "they claimed the second body was too damaged to identify." Brett stared at him. "There was no second body," the shopkeeper said quietly. None. The word felt heavier than a confession. "I spoke to one of the officers who handled the scene," he went on. "Off the record. He told me plainly — there was only one body recovered." "The mother," Brett said. "Yes." "And the daughter?" The shopkeeper's gaze hardened. "Gone." The air in the room seemed to thin. "But the case was closed anyway," he continued. "No investigation beyond the fire. No search. No public concern." "Why?" Brett asked, almost afraid of the answer. "Because people were afraid," the shopkeeper replied. "Afraid of the story becoming something else. Afraid of whispers about cults. Possession. Rituals." He shook his head slowly. "So they labeled it 'tragic loss.'" "And moved on." Brett sat back in his chair, heart racing. "The bruises," he said slowly. "If she was restrained…" "The implication," the shopkeeper finished, "is that she was trying to destroy something." "The painting," Brett breathed. "Yes." "And she was stopped." The room fell silent. Brett's mind raced through every moment in the house. The clocks. The covered mirrors he'd never noticed before because they'd long been removed. The painting surviving fire. Raj's voice in empty rooms. "She wasn't a monster," Brett murmured. "No," the shopkeeper said firmly. "She was a mother who realized too late what her daughter had become." "And she tried to end it." "Yes." "And failed." The old man's eyes darkened. "She didn't fail," he corrected softly. "She delayed it." That sentence landed like a final piece sliding into place. Brett stood abruptly. "If there was no second body," he said slowly, "then the daughter walked out of that fire." "Yes." "And years later…" "She walked back in." The silence between them confirmed what neither wanted to say aloud. Lisa. The calmness. The acceptance when fired. The way she'd looked at the hallway. The way Raj said, She listens better. The shopkeeper spoke one last time before Brett reached the door. "If you're going back," he said gravely, "remember this." Brett paused. "The mother used sound and time to suppress it. Mirrors to prevent reflection. Symbols to confuse attachment." "And the painting?" Brett asked. "That is the anchor," the old man said. "If it remains intact, the presence remains stable." "And if I destroy it?" The shopkeeper held his gaze. "Then whatever is inside your house will have nowhere left to hide."