“Mummy?” Emma looked up suddenly, doll clutched tight. “Is it bedtime?” Lucy forced a smile, stepping inside. “Almost, love.” But as she knelt to tuck the toy away, her gaze lingered on the wall, half expecting the plaster to ripple with whatever hidden rhythm Emma seemed to know.
That night, Lucy lay awake, replaying the scene. The doll had faced forward, not the wall—perfectly innocent play. Still, Emma’s whispers echoed in her mind, blurring the line between child’s fancy and the house’s buried secrets. Fear twisted ordinary moments into something she couldn’t unsee.