Chapter 1 - The Haunted House
The front door of my own house did not feel like an entrance; it felt like a portal into a nightmare.
The heavy, humid air of a Kansas City summer clung to the porch, but the moment I pushed the slightly ajar door open, a cold, stale draft hit my face. The house smelled sour—a mixture of spoiled milk, unwashed laundry, and the heavy, sweet scent of air freshener used to mask something decaying.
I stood in the entryway, the plastic bag from the local bakery crinkling in my hand. Inside were the almond croissants Hannah loved, the ones she would eat slowly with her morning tea while we talked about our future. Beside it, the small green blanket I had bought for Owen felt incredibly light, almost weightless, in my grip.
"Patricia, I’m telling you, she’s just dramatic," a voice drifted from the living room, muffled by the loud, rhythmic blare of a daytime talk show on the television. It was my sister, Courtney. Her laugh was sharp, grating, and entirely devoid of warmth. "She’s been whining about her stitches for three days like she’s the only person to ever have a baby."
"She wanted attention, Courtney," my mother’s voice replied, smooth and dripping with that slow, calculated satisfaction I had spent my entire life mistake-making for love. "She thought if she cried enough, Ethan would fly back and ignore his job. I raised two children without a single complaint. She’s weak. That’s what happens when you marry a girl with no family values."
My knees felt weak, but my heart was beating like a trapped bird against my ribs. I dropped the bakery bag onto the small table in the hallway. The dull thud was lost beneath the television's noise.
I took three slow steps forward, rounding the corner into the living room.
The sight was sickening.
The beautiful, sunlit living room Hannah had spent months decorating with soft white pillows and framed prints of the Rocky Mountains had been turned into a trash heap. Empty takeout containers were stacked on the mahogany coffee table, grease soaking into the wood. Dirty mugs and half-empty soda cans littered the floor.
On the sofa, my mother, Patricia, sat with her feet propped up on a pile of Hannah’s clean, folded baby clothes. Courtney was curled up under a plush blanket—the very blanket my grandmother had knitted for Owen—scrolling lazily on her phone.
Neither of them heard me approach.
"Where is Hannah?" I asked.
The voice didn't sound like mine. It was hollow, low, and vibrating with a cold, rising terror.
Courtney shrieked, dropping her phone onto the carpet. Patricia flinched, her hand flying to her chest as her head snapped around to face me. For a fraction of a second, a flicker of genuine, unadulterated guilt flashed across her wrinkled face—before she instantly smoothed it over with her practiced, maternal smile.
"Ethan!" Patricia gasped, quickly lowering her feet from the clean baby clothes. "Oh, sweetheart, you frightened us! Why didn't you call? We weren't expecting you until tomorrow!"
"Where is my wife, Mom?" I repeated, stepping closer. I didn't look at Courtney, who was scrambled to sit up, her face pale. I kept my eyes locked entirely on my mother. "And where is my son?"
"They're upstairs, darling, sleeping," Patricia said smoothly, standing up and reaching out to touch my arm. Her fingers felt cold, like ice. "Hannah was feeling a bit overwhelmed this morning, so I told her to go lie down. I’ve been taking care of everything. You know how emotional new mothers can be. She’s just... fragile."
"She’s not fragile," I said, pulling my arm away from her grip. "I talked to her yesterday, Mom. She was crying. She begged me to come home."
"Oh, you know how she is," Courtney chimed in, her voice rising in a defensive, nervous pitch as she adjusted her blanket. "She’s been locking herself in the room all day, refusing to let us help. We tried to feed Owen, we tried to clean, but she’s just so incredibly stubborn. She’s been acting like we’re trying to poison her."
I didn't answer.
I turned away from them, my boots slamming against the hardwood floor as I ran toward the stairs. Every step felt like a mile. My chest was so tight I could barely breathe. Behind me, I heard the hurried, heavy footsteps of my mother trying to keep up.
"Ethan, wait!" she called out, her voice losing its sweet tone, replaced by a sharp, commanding edge. "Don't go up there and wake them! They need their rest! Ethan, listen to your mother!"
I ignored her. I reached the top landing, my eyes locking onto the door of our master bedroom at the end of the hall.
The door was closed.
I grabbed the brass handle and turned it. It was locked from the outside—a small brass latch had been installed on the frame. A latch that had never been there before.
My breath hitched. "What is this?"
"We had to, Ethan!" Courtney shouted from the bottom of the stairs, her voice laced with a desperate, panicked lie. "She was wandering around the house in the middle of the night, delirious! She almost dropped the baby on the stairs! We did it for Owen's safety!"
With a roar of pure, animalistic fury, I threw my shoulder against the heavy wooden door. The wood groaned. I threw myself against it again, the latch snapping off the frame with a loud, splintering crack.
May you like
The door flew open.
And my world shattered.
