THE WALLS HAVE VOICES

The moving truck pulled away from our new house on Elderwood Lane, leaving nothing but dust and the promise of fresh starts. I stood on the porch, watching Mom fumble with the keys while Dad carried another box through the doorway. Mia clutched my hand, her small fingers wrapped tight around mine like she always did when she was nervous. "Come on, Mia," I said, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. "Let's go check out our new rooms." She looked up at me with those big brown eyes and nodded once. That was Mia—nine years old and quieter than a church mouse. She'd say maybe ten words on a good day, but I'd learned to read her silence better than most people read books. The house was bigger than our old place, a two-story colonial with creaking floorboards and that smell old houses have—like dust and memories and secrets. Mom was already going on about how much work it needed, but Dad just laughed and said it had "character." I thought it was perfect. Plenty of rooms to explore, an attic, a basement, even a crawlspace behind the water heater that Dad had pointed out during our first walkthrough. "Benjamin! Mia! Come help unpack!" Mom's voice echoed through the empty halls. We spent the afternoon hauling boxes, arranging furniture, and arguing about where the couch should go. By evening, we were exhausted but happy. Dad ordered pizza, and we sat on the living room floor eating straight from the box, laughing about how the movers had almost dropped Mom's antique mirror. "To new beginnings," Dad said, raising his soda can. "New beginnings," we echoed, even Mia, who whispered the words so softly I almost missed them. None of us noticed the door at the end of the upstairs hallway—the one that led to the storage room—standing slightly ajar. None of us saw the shadow behind it, or the figure watching us through the c***k, studying our faces, counting our smiles. Behind that door, in the darkness, something moved. A man—if you could call him that—pressed his eye to the gap and watched our family celebration. His lips curled into something that might have been a smile, might have been a grimace. Then, in a voice like gravel and broken glass, he began to sing: "New family comes with joy and cheer, Not knowing what is waiting here, Behind the walls and under floors, I'll play my games through all your doors." He laughed then—a sound like wind through a graveyard—and retreated deeper into the shadows, pulling the door closed with barely a whisper. The house settled around us with a groan, and somewhere in the walls, something that shouldn't have been there began to plan. We kept laughing, kept unpacking, kept believing this house would be our sanctuary. We had no idea we'd just moved into someone else's playground.