Alice kept getting the voice in her head, even after the call had dropped.
Stop digging, Alice. Some graves don't want to be opened.
She stood there frozen with the phone in her hand. She felt her knees weak and sat down on the couch to think. Nora's eyes flickered between Alice and the window. The dark figure they had seen disappeared into the night. There was no noise of movement except the ticking sound of the clock.
Nora rose slowly. "What did they say?"
Alice didn't answer immediately. Her throat had gone dry. Her body felt detached, like her spirit had floated two feet above her skin. "They… they told me to stop digging. They used my name."
Nora's face hardened, worry sharpening into fear. "That's not random. That's not a prank."
"I know."
They both turned toward the window at the same time. Nothing but empty glass. And yet, Alice had the distinct feeling she wasn't alone. That whoever had made the call wasn't far. That they had been watching longer than she realized.
And they know my name.
She moved toward the curtains and yanked them shut in one fluid motion. The soft fabric did little to block out the paranoia. "I don't think this is about David anymore," she whispered. "This is bigger."
Nora nodded. "You need to stay here tonight. Don't go home. We'll figure this out in the morning."
But Alice didn't sleep. Not even as the apartment fell into silence. Not even when Nora finally passed out, curled up like a cat on the loveseat. She sat awake on the floor, her laptop open, a mug of cold tea by her knee, and a browser filled with fragments—obituaries, court cases, archived family registries—all pointing to a woman who had been carefully erased.
Cassandra Thompson.
Mother. Wife. Mystery.
Alice read the same single line over and over again, the only mention of Cassandra's death in the Thompson Foundation's internal documents:
> "Tragic, untimely. Mental instability suspected. Closed casket."
She whispered the words aloud, and they sounded worse every time.
"Who are you really?" Alice asked the screen. "And why is everyone trying to cover your story up?"
At around 4:00AM Alice was already so tired from not sleeping all night, Nora was squinting her eyes trying to open them because of the light which was still on .
"You didn't sleep?" she asked in low sleepy tone.
"No."
Nora sat up. "Do you need anything?"
Alice didn't answer. Her eyes were fixed on a new lead—an obituary for a man named James Everett. The name meant nothing. But the place of death did: Valemont Private Clinic, upstate.
She clicked, heart thudding.
Valemont was a now-defunct psychiatric institution. Shut down nearly fifteen years ago after a patient allegedly jumped from the rooftop during a storm. No name, no report. Only speculation.
And one line buried deep in a forum post from an old nurse:
> "There was one patient they never listed. Rich family. Closed wings. The woman in room 12."
Alice scrolled faster.
> "She sang lullabies in French. Never spoke. Just sang. And every night, someone came to visit her. A man in a silver watch."
Alice's chest tightened. "Oh my God."
"What?" Nora rushed to her side.
Alice turned the screen toward her. "What if Cassandra didn't die at home? What if she was institutionalized—and hidden?"
"You think she was the patient?"
Alice nodded. "Everything matches. The timeline. The secrecy. Even the watch—the man in the photo with her is wearing one."
"And the clinic was shut down, meaning no paper trail."
Alice sat back, the dots connecting too quickly. "I need to go there."
"Now?"
"I have to."
Nora's brows furrowed. "Alice… what if this is what they want? What if the call was a warning because they know you'll chase it?"
"I can't sit by idly, I need to know the truth ," she said. "If I stop now, I'll feel like a part of me is missing something."
Nora hesitated, then grabbed her keys. "Ok fine. Let's go together."
The drive to Valemont took nearly two hours. Past city lines, through sloping hills and abandoned farm roads. The sky darkened as they drove—like clouds were gathering in silent agreement with their mission. The GPS marked the final location with a cold blue pin: Valemont Private Clinic, CLOSED.
They found it nestled behind a thicket of trees, barely visible from the road. The gate was rusted open, vines curling around the bars like greedy fingers. Alice stepped out of the car first, boots crunching on gravel.
The building loomed ahead—grey, silent, forgotten.
"Why do I feel like we're walking into a horror movie?" Nora whispered.
"Because we probably are."
Still, they pressed forward.
Inside, the air was stale and damp, carrying the faint scent of mildew and something older—dust, maybe. Or memories.
The hallway stretched ahead like a spine of shadows. Peeling wallpaper. Broken tile. And a strange quiet, like the building was holding its breath.
They moved together, every footstep echoing louder than the last.
Room 12 was down the west wing, door slightly ajar.
Alice reached for the knob.
"Wait," Nora said, her hand trembling. "If there's something in there—"
Alice pushed the door open.
The room was empty.
Just a single iron bedframe. A broken mirror. And wallpaper that had peeled in long vertical strips, like claw marks.
But then Alice noticed something near the bed.
A child's drawing.
She picked it up.
A stick figure family. A woman with long black hair. A man in a suit. And a boy with brown eyes standing in the middle.
Above it, in shaky handwriting:
"Mama, Papa, and D."
"David," she whispered.
She turned the page over.
There was a number scrawled on the back. A phone number, perhaps. Or a code.
Nora peered over her shoulder. "You think she drew that?"
"She must've. Or David did. Maybe when he visited her."
"And someone left it behind?"
Alice nodded slowly. "No one ever really checks the walls of the forgotten, do they?"
Back in the car, Alice dialed the number.
It rang once.
Then disconnected.
She frowned and tried again.
This time, a voice message played.
The voice was old. Raspy. Male.
> "If you've found this number, you're already in danger. The woman you seek was never crazy. She knew too much. And she paid for it."
Then a beep. The line ended.
Alice stared at the phone like it might combust.
"She wasn't mentally ill," she whispered. "They just said she was. To silence her."
Nora leaned forward, hand trembling. "Then who's still covering it up?"
Alice's gaze drifted to the trees lining the road.
There—just for a moment—she saw it.
A car.
Parked far back, engine off. Windows dark.
Watching.
"We're not alone," she said.
Nora didn't ask. She started the engine.
As they drove, the car behind them waited ten seconds.
Then followed.
Back in the city, Alice's mind raced through everything—Cassandra's hidden past, the clinic, the threats, the shadow in the photo.
And something else.
The man who gave her the envelope at the pier. His limp. His eyes. The familiarity in his voice.
She pulled out the photograph again.
The man circled.
Behind David.
Behind Cassandra.
Behind everything.
And then she noticed—faint, nearly erased—a second figure in the far background of the photo. Just a shoulder. A fragment of a face. Barely noticeable.
She scanned the image under her desk lamp, holding it at an angle.
Nora leaned over her shoulder. "Wait… is that…"
Alice grabbed her phone and snapped a photo, enlarging it.
A woman's figure. Black coat. Red scarf. Standing half-turned.
Alice's blood ran cold.
"I've seen her before."
"Where?"
Alice swallowed. "Her frame was at the company."
"You sure?"
"I felt her."
They stared at the enhanced photo. But the face was just out of frame.
Alice turned to her laptop and began a facial recognition search using the cropped image. It wasn't perfect, but it pulled up one name—an archived guest list from a Thompson charity event five years ago.
Attendee: Cassandra E. Thompson. Deceased.
Nora's eyes widened.
"No," she said. "No way. That's impossible."
Alice stared at the screen, her heart pounding.
Alice whispered, voice shaking: "What if she's not dead?"
The room fell silent.
And then—
A kno
ck at the door.
One.
Two.
Three slow raps.
Nora and Alice froze.
Another knock.
Alice stood.
She moved to the peephole.
Her breath caught.
A woman stood there.
Black coat.
Red scarf.
And her eyes—
They looked just like David's.