Chapter 5
The note in Olivia's hand shook as she read it again.
"We buried her to save ourselves.
But she won't rest.
Not until the truth is spoken.
If you find this—
RUN."
The edges were torn and yellowed with age, the ink faded in some places as though someone had tried to scrub it away. But the desperation behind the words was unmistakable. Olivia could almost feel the tremor of the hand that had written them—one of the girls in the photograph, perhaps. A warning too late, written too quiet, and hidden too deep to stop the storm that was already coming.
But running wasn't an option now.
She'd seen Scarlett's eyes. She'd felt the breath in the floor. This house… this land… this truth—it wasn't going to let go.
Not anymore.
⸻
Downstairs, the rest of the house was finally asleep.
Or so she thought.
When Olivia crept into the hallway, she found Lila sitting at the top of the stairs, knees pulled to her chest.
"She showed me again," Lila whispered, not looking up. "Scarlett. In my dream."
Olivia sat beside her. The stairs were cold beneath them, even through their clothes.
"She took me into the woods behind the house. Past the rusted gates, deeper than I've ever gone. There was this old well covered in vines. And then she whispered, 'That's where they drowned me first.'"
Olivia blinked. "Drowned? But… she was buried under the floor—"
"She wasn't meant to live through it," Lila said bitterly. "But she did. And they panicked."
They sat in silence, hearts breaking for a girl they'd never truly met.
Until Lila added, almost inaudibly, "She was our mother's best friend."
That truth landed hard.
All this time, they'd been piecing together memories, letters, photographs. But hearing it aloud? Knowing their mother—Eleanor Hawthorne—had not only been part of this secret, but at the center of it, drove a knife deep into Olivia's ribs.
"They tried to erase her," Olivia said. "Even from us."
"But she remembered," Lila whispered. "And now… so do we."
⸻
The next morning, the air felt heavy, like the house itself was holding its breath.
Marlene was packing again, but this time slower. Something had shifted. After seeing the pendant and hearing the rhyme, even she had begun to question the reality they thought they knew.
Henry had pulled out every family photo album they could find, spreading them across the kitchen table. The same four names kept appearing again and again—always with their mother, always smiling, always hiding something.
In one photo, their mother was laughing beside three girls in matching dresses. A picnic. The forest in the background.
Olivia flipped it over.
Ashford, Cordero, Finch, Hawthorne – Summer 1978.
Scarlett wasn't in the photo. But the unease was. Lurking behind the smiles, the shadows were stretched too long, the trees behind them too dark. Someone had been watching them when the photo was taken.
Then Henry found the old journal.
It was buried behind a row of antique cookbooks, wrapped in plastic, protected as if someone knew it held dangerous truths. The name written inside the cover: Mabel Finch.
Lila's breath caught.
"I know that name. She used to visit mom once a year. Dressed in black. Never stayed long."
Henry started reading aloud, his voice dry with tension.
"August 3rd, 1979. The woods were colder than they should've been. We were supposed to meet by the well and tell the truth. But Eleanor changed her mind. Said it would destroy her family. Said the silence was safer."
"We were sixteen. Scarlett had written letters—dozens of them. She begged us not to tell. Begged us to protect her from her father. But when she went missing, we all knew it wasn't just a runaway story. We knew she was dead."
"We found her by the well. Still breathing. Barely. The mud was thick. The water colder than anything I've felt. Eleanor screamed. Marlene ran. Lila passed out."
"And I… I just watched. Watched as Eleanor picked up the rock."
They all went quiet.
Marlene's face had gone completely white. "She wasn't talking about me. That Marlene… it was my aunt."
Olivia turned slowly toward her. "Your aunt was named Marlene Cordero too?"
Marlene nodded numbly. "I was named after her. She died when I was little. Car crash. At least… that's what I was told."
Lila's voice broke. "What if all of us… were named after them?"
They looked at each other, as realization dawned.
Lila Ashford.
Marlene Cordero.
Mabel Finch.
Eleanor Hawthorne.
It wasn't just a coincidence.
They were born to carry the names of the guilty.
But why?
⸻
That evening, the house began to speak again.
Not with words.
With songs.
Music played from nowhere. A warped music box tune drifted through the hallways, looping, faltering, cracking with age. Olivia followed it, heartbeat matching the broken rhythm. It led her to the attic door.
A place no one ever went.
The attic had always been locked. But tonight, the door was open.
Inside was dust. And silence. And one small chair beneath a hanging bulb.
On the chair sat another photograph—Scarlett again, only this time alone. Face bruised, one eye blackened, dress torn. She looked no older than fourteen.
Written on the back: "Before the well. After the screams."
And then, just below that, something newer. Something fresh.
"If you want to find the rest, dig where the roses rot."
Olivia's breath caught.
The garden.
The one their mother had refused to let them play in. The one she had tended obsessively, even as her mind declined. Always pruning. Always digging. Always planting new white roses every time one wilted.
They had thought it was grief.
It was guilt.
⸻
Nightfall.
They gathered in the garden with shovels and flashlights, hands dirty with fear and resolve. Olivia found the spot easily. The roses there had turned black.
They dug.
Hours passed.
Then—
A thud.
Wood.
They cleared the soil until the lid of a box revealed itself. A child-sized chest, rotted at the corners, bound with a rusted chain. Inside, there were letters. So many letters. Scarlett's handwriting filled every page, each one dated, each one addressed to a different girl—Lila, Mabel, Marlene, Eleanor.
They were diaries. Confessions. Pleas.
And at the bottom of the box—bones.
Tiny ones.
Animal bones. Dolls. A lock of red hair tied in ribbon.
Sacrifices.
Henry held one letter in shaking hands and began to read:
"You told me to stay silent. You said no one would believe me. That if I told, I'd be taken away. But I see what you did to Mabel's dog. What you buried in the woods. What you chant when the full moon rises. You called it a game. But it wasn't. It never was."
Olivia felt her soul fracture.
This wasn't just a cover-up.
It was a ritual.
⸻
And then the screaming began.
From inside the house.
Lila was the first to run.
The sound came from the library.
Books flying. Paintings cracking. The photograph wall shattered, glass spraying like shrapnel. And in the center, a figure.
Scarlett.
Olivia froze.
She was no longer the fragile girl from the dreams. Her eyes were voids. Her body flickered, half-light, half-blood. And she was pointing.
At Olivia.
"You carry her name," she hissed.
"Who? Eleanor?"
Scarlett stepped forward, a shadow behind her crawling along the floor. "You carry their guilt. But you are not them. That's why I chose you."
The house groaned.
The lights above them exploded.
Scarlett's form flickered violently, her voice rising like wind through broken glass.
"One of you must die… for the silence to break."
And then she vanished.
Leaving only the cold.
And the hollow.