Chapter 2: The Boy Who Wasn't Upstairs
Marcus didn't move.
His eyes remained fixed on the staircase while the bedroom handle continued turning.
A soft metallic click.
A pause.
Another click.
Then silence.
Jordan stepped closer to his father.
“Dad, we should call the police.””
Marcus nodded.
“Get your phone.””
Jordan reached into his jacket pocket.
His fingers were shaking so badly that he almost dropped it.
Denise kept one arm around Maya while using her free hand to unlock her own phone.
But before either of them could make a call, a voice came from the upper hallway.
“Jordan?””
The boy froze.
It was his voice.
Not something similar.
Not a distant imitation.
It sounded exactly like him.
Same pitch.
Same slight rasp.
Same way of stretching the final syllable.
Jordan slowly looked up.
“Dad...””
Marcus raised a finger to his lips.
The voice came again.
“Jordan, come here.””
Jordan's mouth fell open.
“That's not funny.””
“Jordan,” Denise whispered, “don't answer it.””
The voice laughed softly.
It was a familiar laugh.
Jordan's laugh.
Then it said something that made his knees weaken.
“Bring your green jacket.””
He looked down at the jacket he was wearing.
His mother noticed.
“Jordan?””
He slowly pulled the jacket tighter around himself.
“That's what I was wearing when I went upstairs earlier.””
Marcus's expression hardened.
“Take it off.””
“What?””
“Take off the jacket.””
Jordan immediately unzipped it and let it fall onto the couch.
For several seconds, nothing happened.
Then the voice upstairs whispered:
“Thank you.””
A cold draft swept through the living room.
The curtains moved even though every window was locked.
Maya pressed her face against her mother's shoulder.
“It's pretending to be him.””
Marcus looked at her.
“What makes you say that?””
She lifted her head.
“Because it always does.””
Denise turned toward her daughter.
“What do you mean, sweetheart?””
Maya hesitated.
Then she reached into the pocket of her hoodie and pulled out a folded piece of paper.
The edges were wrinkled.
There were small crescent-shaped marks where her fingernails had pressed into it.
She handed it to her father.
Marcus unfolded it.
His expression changed.
Written in thick black marker were six words:
*IF IT SOUNDS LIKE JORDAN, DON'T ANSWER.*
Below them were three uneven circles.
Marcus looked at Maya.
“Where did you get this?””
“Under my pillow.””
“When?””
“Yesterday morning.””
“Who wrote it?””
“I don't know.””
Jordan picked up the paper.
“Why didn't you show us?””
“I tried!””
Maya's voice broke.
“I put it on the kitchen counter yesterday, and when I came back, it was gone.””
Denise stared at the handwriting.
“Maybe somebody's playing a cruel joke.””
Maya shook her head.
“Mom, there's something else.””
She reached into her hoodie again.
This time, she pulled out a small photograph.
It showed the four members of their family standing outside their house.
Marcus.
Denise.
Jordan.
Maya.
They were smiling.
It looked like an ordinary family photograph taken during the previous summer.
But someone had drawn a black circle around the upstairs bedroom window.
And inside the circle, barely visible behind the glass, stood a fifth figure.
A little girl.
Denise brought the photograph closer to the lamp.
Her breathing stopped.
“Marcus...””
He looked at it.
Then he looked at the upstairs window.
“Where did this come from?””
Maya answered quietly.
“It was on my bedroom floor.””
Jordan shook his head.
“This is getting ridiculous. There isn't anybody in that picture.””
Marcus held the photograph toward him.
“Look closer.””
Jordan did.
His face changed.
The figure in the window was wearing a pale dress.
Its hair hung over its face.
And one hand rested against the glass.
Jordan took a step backward.
“Who is that?””
Nobody knew.
Then, from upstairs:
“Jordan?””
The voice sounded impatient now.
“Why did you leave?””
Jordan turned toward the ceiling.
“I didn't go anywhere!””
The moment he spoke, every light in the living room flickered.
The wall clock stopped.
Its second hand froze between two numbers.
Then a loud bang came from upstairs.
Maya screamed.
Denise pulled her toward the kitchen entrance.
Marcus grabbed a heavy flashlight from the side table.
“Everybody into the kitchen.””
Jordan picked up his jacket.
Marcus stopped him.
“Leave it.””
“But—”
“Leave it.””
They moved together, keeping the staircase in view.
The kitchen was only a few steps away, but the house suddenly seemed much larger.
The hallway looked longer.
The shadows seemed deeper.
And the upstairs whispering had stopped.
Marcus entered first.
He turned on the kitchen lights.
They worked normally.
“Stay here,” he said.
Denise grabbed his arm.
“Marcus, don't.””
“I need to check the back door.””
“Why?””
He pointed toward the dark window above the sink.
“Because if someone is inside this house, I want to know how they got in.””
He checked the lock.
It was secure.
The deadbolt was in place.
The window was locked.
He looked at the back door again.
Then he noticed something strange.
A muddy footprint.
Right beside the kitchen table.
Marcus crouched.
It was small.
Barefoot.
The heel pointed toward the kitchen.
The toes pointed toward the staircase.
He looked at the floor.
Another footprint appeared several inches away.
Then another.
A trail of muddy footprints led from the staircase to the kitchen.
But there were no footprints leading back.
Marcus stood slowly.
“Denise?””
She approached him.
“What?””
He pointed.
Her hand flew to her mouth.
Maya stepped forward.
“I told you.””
Marcus looked at the children.
“Stay behind your mother.””
He followed the footprints toward the living room.
They ended directly in front of the staircase.
Then he noticed something else.
A wet handprint on the wooden banister.
Small fingers.
Five of them.
The print looked fresh.
Marcus touched it.
The wood was ice-cold.
Behind him, Jordan whispered:
“Dad?””
Marcus turned.
Jordan was staring at the bottom step.
“What?””
Jordan pointed.
There was a second handprint.
Not on the banister.
On the wall.
At exactly the height of a little girl's head.
And beneath it, someone had written a sentence in the dust.
*YOU LET ME IN BEFORE.*
Marcus felt his stomach tighten.
He turned toward his wife.
“Denise, have you ever seen this before?””
She shook her head.
But her expression suggested something different.
Marcus stepped closer.
“Denise?””
She looked at the writing.
Then at the photograph in his hand.
Her lips trembled.
“I've seen that dress.””
Everyone turned toward her.
Maya whispered:
“What dress?””
Denise stared at the upstairs hallway.
“The little girl in the photograph.””
Jordan frowned.
“Mom, how?””
Denise closed her eyes.
For a moment, she looked like she was trying to remember something she had spent years forcing herself to forget.
Then she spoke.
“When I was a little girl, my grandmother lived in a house just like this.””
Marcus lowered the flashlight.
“What does that have to do with anything?””
Denise swallowed.
“There was a bedroom upstairs. And my grandmother always told us never to answer if somebody called our name from an empty room.””
Maya's eyes widened.
“What happened?””
Denise looked at her daughter.
“My cousin answered once.””
The house creaked.
A sound traveled through the ceiling.
Then Denise continued.
“She disappeared for three days.””
Jordan stared at her.
“Disappeared? How?””
“Nobody knew. They searched the whole neighborhood. The police came. They even checked the woods.””
“And?””
Denise's voice dropped.
“They found her inside the upstairs bedroom.””
Marcus looked toward the staircase.
“Where was she hiding?””
Denise shook her head.
“She wasn't hiding.””
A tear slipped down her cheek.
“She was standing in the corner, facing the wall. She wouldn't speak. Wouldn't eat. Wouldn't even look at anybody.””
Maya whispered:
“What happened to her?””
Denise looked directly at the upstairs doorway.
“She kept saying there was another little girl in the room.””
The light above the staircase buzzed.
Then the voice returned.
This time, it came from directly behind them.
“Denise?””
She spun around.
Nobody was there.
The voice whispered again.
“It's been a long time.””
Denise dropped her phone.
Marcus raised the flashlight.
Jordan grabbed his mother's shoulder.
And Maya stared at the dark kitchen doorway.
Because the voice had not sounded like a little girl this time.
It had sounded like an old woman.
A woman Denise recognized.
May you like
A woman who had been dead for twenty-seven years.
Her grandmother.
