Chapter 4
The floorboards were breathing.
At least, that's how it felt as Olivia knelt in the center of the study. Her palm pressed flat against the old wood, and for a moment—just a moment—she felt warmth. A pulse. As though something beneath the surface was alive.
Lila stood behind her, arms wrapped around herself, still pale from the night before. Henry held a flashlight and a crowbar. His jaw was clenched tight, knuckles white. Marlene hovered near the doorway, unsure if she wanted to witness what was about to happen.
"This is insane," Marlene muttered. "We can't just tear up the floor based on a ghost dream."
Lila flinched, and Olivia's head snapped up.
"She showed her, Marlene. You weren't the one she chose. We don't know why, but we can't ignore it."
Henry didn't wait for anyone else. He wedged the crowbar between the boards and pushed.
The wood shrieked as it split. Dust flew, coating their tongues with age and decay. It took several minutes, but soon they had pried up five wide planks. Beneath them was a shallow crawl space, dirt-packed and choked with cobwebs.
And something else.
A piece of fabric.
Olivia reached for it before Henry could stop her. She tugged. The soil came up in damp clumps, revealing the edge of a tattered white dress.
A small scream tore from Lila's throat, and she turned away.
"No," Olivia whispered. "No, no, no…"
It was a burial. A secret one. The remains of a young girl, still in the dress she had died in. The fabric was stained, but unmistakably lace. A bow still clung to what remained of her hair.
Scarlett Devereux.
Olivia fell back onto her heels, nausea rising in her chest. The weight of it—the reality—was too much. Someone had hidden a body here. Someone they loved. And no one had ever spoken of it.
Henry dropped to his knees, hand trembling as he pushed back more dirt.
"There's something in her hand," he said.
He pulled it free. A small porcelain pendant, cracked and weathered, shaped like a swan. On the back was scratched one word: Silence.
Olivia felt her skin crawl. "What the hell does it mean?"
Marlene shook her head slowly. "I remember… a story. I was five, maybe six. Mom was drunk. She thought I was asleep on the stairs. She told Dad, 'If they ever find her, it'll be the end of everything. The end of the silence.' I didn't understand then. I think I do now."
They were complicit. Their parents. They had kept this secret buried—literally—and built their lives, their family, on top of a grave.
Lila was crying softly. "She didn't want revenge. She wanted to be found. She wanted to be remembered."
"No," Olivia said, voice low. "She wanted justice."
⸻
Later that evening
The coroner arrived silently, like he'd done this before. Henry had called anonymously, unwilling to attach the family name to what they'd uncovered just yet. The team that arrived worked quickly and respectfully, confirming what they already knew: female remains, approximately fifteen to seventeen years old at death, buried in a makeshift grave for over two decades.
The house watched all of it.
Not a single floorboard groaned. Not a light flickered. As though it had been waiting too.
But something else happened after they took her body.
That night, Olivia was the one who saw her.
It began with a knock.
She was in the bathroom brushing her teeth when the first knock echoed through the house. Not the front door. Not a bedroom door. But from inside the walls.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
She turned off the faucet.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
"Henry?" she called out, stepping into the hall. "Lila?"
Silence.
Then the light above her sputtered and went out. The hallway plunged into shadow. She grabbed her phone and turned on the flashlight. The beam trembled in her hand as she moved forward.
The knocking was getting louder now. Faster.
Knockknockknockknock.
It was coming from the library.
Her feet moved on their own. The corridor felt longer than usual, stretching like taffy. She reached the library door, heart hammering, and opened it.
Nothing.
Except—
The books on the far shelf had been pulled out and stacked in a perfect circle on the floor.
In the center of that circle sat a photograph.
Olivia approached it slowly, kneeling down.
It was a black-and-white picture. Four girls sitting on the front steps of the house. One of them was her mother. The others were unfamiliar.
Except one.
Scarlett.
Even in grainy grayscale, Olivia knew it was her. The lace dress. The sorrowful eyes. She looked so much like Lila it hurt.
On the back of the photograph, in faded ink, were four names:
Eleanor Hawthorne
Lila Ashford
Marlene Cordero
Mabel Finch
Olivia dropped the photo, blood draining from her face.
Those weren't just names.
They were the names Scarlett had whispered to them. The ones etched into her letter. The ones the house kept repeating like a prayer.
They hadn't been random.
They had been friends.
The women their mother grew up with. The women who had buried her.
⸻
Morning came too slowly.
Marlene slammed her suitcase down on the dining table.
"I'm not staying here another night," she said. "I don't care what you all want. This place is cursed."
"No," Olivia said. "It's not cursed. It's haunted. There's a difference."
Henry rubbed his temples. "We need to figure out what they did. Why they buried her."
"We already know why," Olivia replied. "They were kids. Maybe she died by accident. Maybe something went wrong. And instead of telling the truth, they buried it. Buried her."
"And it's our job to fix it?" Marlene snapped. "We didn't kill her, Olivia. That wasn't us!"
"No," Olivia whispered. "But we're still paying for it."
Lila came downstairs, holding the pendant.
"I think I remember something," she said softly.
They all turned.
"There was a rhyme. A nursery rhyme mom used to sing. It went—
'Silent girl in hollow place,
Never speaks, she hides her face.
Lace and blood and silver thread,
Keep her quiet, keep her dead.'
I used to think it was a lullaby."
Olivia stared at her.
"It was a confession."
⸻
That night, Olivia couldn't sleep.
She went back to the library, holding the photograph in her hand.
She stared at the names again. Eleanor Hawthorne. Lila Ashford. Marlene Cordero. Mabel Finch.
She'd heard the stories growing up—stories about a group of girls who were inseparable, until one of them disappeared. Everyone assumed she ran away. No body, no funeral. Just silence.
Now she knew why.
She flipped the photograph over once more. Something scratched her finger. She looked closer.
Under the paper's edge, hidden between the layers, was another piece of paper.
She peeled it free.
It was a short note, written in furious handwriting.
"We buried her to save ourselves.
But she won't rest.
Not until the truth is spoken.
If you find this—
RUN."