Mara didn't pick up the photo. It lay on the attic floor, her father's hollow eyes staring up through the gray dawn light, the burlap sack clutched in his hand like a promise.
The red stitch in the muddy footprints gleamed wetly, a thread of color that didn't belong, and she backed away, her boots scuffing against the wood.
Ellie's words—our father, he's coming for me—looped in her head, a refrain she couldn't silence.
Her father, alive in 1999, twisted into something monstrous. It couldn't be true, but the evidence was piling up, heavy and undeniable.
She grabbed the ladder, descending fast, the rungs cold under her palms. Her arm throbbed, the scar a living thing beneath her sleeve, and her breath came in short, sharp gasps.
The hallway greeted her with its peeling walls and cracked mirror, but it felt different—narrower, the shadows deeper, as if the house had exhaled and drawn itself tighter.
She stumbled to the bedroom, slamming the door, and sank onto the bed, the quilt rough against her skin.
The phone rang again, faint and distant, but she didn't move. She couldn't face Ellie—not now, not with her father's face burned into her mind.
She pressed her hands to her ears, trying to block it out, but the sound seeped through, insistent, until it stopped on its own.
The silence was worse, thick with anticipation, and she lowered her hands, trembling.
Her eyes caught on the dresser across the room. It was wrong—older, its wood darker, the handles tarnished brass instead of the chipped plastic she'd seen yesterday.
She stood, slow and cautious, and ran her fingers over its surface. The dust was gone, replaced by a faint sheen, like it'd been polished.
A memory flickered—her grandmother's dresser, the one she'd kept in this room in '99, heavy and ornate.
But that was gone, sold years ago. This shouldn't be here.
The window rattled, the wind picking up outside, and Mara turned to it, her reflection faint in the streaked glass.
The yard beyond was sharper now, the fog thinning, revealing the shed in stark detail—its door ajar, swaying slightly.
She hadn't noticed that before. Her gaze dropped to the bed, and her stomach lurched.
The quilt was different—faded blue patchwork, not the plain gray she'd slept under. It was hers, from '99, the one she'd hated for its scratchy seams.
She backed away, her heel catching on something soft. She looked down—a rug, woven with red and yellow flowers, sprawled across the floor.
It hadn't been there an hour ago. Her bedroom in '99 had that rug, a thrift store find her grandmother loved.
Mara's chest tightened, her breath shallow. The house was changing, sliding backward, pulling pieces of her past into the present.
The phone rang again, louder this time, cutting through the haze. She bolted from the room, down the stairs, needing to stop it—to stop her.
The dining room was a blur, the diary still open on the table, her name scrawled in its pages.
She ignored it, climbing to the attic, her hands shaking as she snatched the receiver mid-ring.
"Ellie, what's happening?" Mara demanded, her voice raw. "The house—it's different. Things are moving, changing—"
"Mara, listen!" Ellie's tone was urgent, brittle. "He's outside again, by the shed. I can see him from the crawlspace window—he's just standing there, staring at the house. I need you to warn Mom, tell her to leave before he—"
"Mom's dead," Mara snapped, cutting her off. "She died in '98, Ellie. A car accident. You can't—"
"No!" Ellie shouted, desperation cracking her voice. "She's alive here, Mara! It's June '99—she's in the kitchen, making dinner. He's going to hurt her, I know it. You have to tell her to get out!"
Mara's head spun, the words crashing against her reality. "That's impossible. She's been gone for years. I was alone here with Gran—"
"You're wrong!" Ellie sobbed. "You're forgetting, or you're lying, but she's here. Please, Mara, go back, warn her—I can't lose her!"
The line went dead, static hissing in its wake. Mara dropped the phone, her knees buckling.
She sank to the floor, the attic spinning around her. Go back? Warn her mother? It didn't make sense—her mom was a gravestone, a memory, not a living woman in this house.
But Ellie's plea clawed at her, and the shifting furniture, the rug, the dresser—they whispered a truth she couldn't face.
She stumbled downstairs, clutching the banister, and froze in the kitchen doorway. The sink was different—white porcelain, not the chipped stainless steel she'd used yesterday.
A radio hummed on the counter, static-laced voices fading in and out, a relic from her childhood.
And there, on the table, was a letter—yellowed, creased, addressed to her in her mother's neat cursive. She hadn't seen it before.
Her hands shook as she opened it, the paper brittle under her fingers. June 20, 1999. Mara, I'm worried about your father. He's not himself lately—stays in the shed all night, won't talk to me. I think he blames us for something. Stay close, okay? Love, Mom.
Mara's vision blurred, tears burning her eyes. The house groaned, a low, mournful sound, and the lights flickered, casting the letter in shadow.
Outside, the shed door banged shut, the sound sharp and final.