Six months later, the house was sold again. The new owner, a retired man named George, told himself the same thing Elena once had. Stories don't hurt people. Houses don't think. There's no such thing as curses.
But on his first night, he awoke to whispers. Faint at first, but growing louder. Urgent.
And in the attic, the stain waited. It was larger now, its edges writhing like a thousand grasping hands.
The cycle continued.