the house at number 17

Chapter 1 — The Photograph The rain had been falling since late afternoon. By nine o’clock, the streets were almost empty, and the neighborhood had disappeared beneath a thin curtain of mist. Porch lights glowed behind wet windows. Cars sat quietly in driveways. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rolled across the sky. Amara sat on the floor of her bedroom, surrounded by boxes. She had never understood why her mother kept so many old things. Books with broken spines. Clothes that hadn't been worn in years. Birthday cards from people Amara had never met. Receipts, letters, photographs—little pieces of a past her mother rarely talked about. Tonight, Amara had been asked to sort through some of them. “Keep the useful things,” her mother had said earlier. “Throw away anything you don't need.” Amara smiled to herself. That sounded simple. It wasn't. She picked up another dusty box and opened it. Nothing interesting. A collection of old magazines. A broken picture frame. Three envelopes. She sighed and reached for the next box. Then she noticed the book. It was a dark green hardcover with no title on the front. The edges were worn, and several pages had turned yellow with age. Amara picked it up. “Definitely useless,” she muttered. She opened it anyway. The first few pages were blank. The next pages contained old handwritten notes, most of them faded beyond recognition. She flipped through them quickly, until something slipped from between the pages and landed on the floor. A photograph. Amara bent down and picked it up. At first, she didn't understand what she was looking at. Five people stood in front of an old house. The photograph was faded and slightly torn along one edge, but the house was unmistakable. It had tall windows, a wide wooden porch, and a stone entrance pillar. On that pillar was a number. 17. Amara stared at it. She had seen that house before. Not in a photograph. In real life. Number 17 stood at the end of the next street, behind a tall iron fence. It was the house everyone in the neighborhood avoided talking about. Amara turned the photograph over. There was writing on the back. Three words. Don't tell her. Her stomach tightened. “Tell who?” She looked at the five people again. Four of them were strangers. The fifth person wasn't. Amara's breath caught. She brought the photograph closer to the light. There was no mistake. The young woman standing on the far left had the same eyes, the same small smile, and the same distinctive mark near her eyebrow. It was her mother. Amara slowly sat down on the floor. Her mother had always told her that she had grown up somewhere else. She had never mentioned Number 17. She had never mentioned these people. And most importantly, she had never mentioned this photograph. Amara checked the date printed faintly in the corner. 2005. She did the math. Her mother had been twenty years old. Amara looked at the photograph again. “Why would you lie about this?” A floorboard creaked outside her bedroom. Amara froze. Someone was standing in the hallway. “Amara?” Her mother's voice. Amara quickly turned the photograph face down. “Yeah?” “Are you almost finished?” “Almost.” Silence. Then her mother said, “Don't stay up too late.” Her footsteps moved away. Amara waited until she could no longer hear them. Then she looked back at the photograph. Something about it bothered her. Not just the fact that her mother was there. It was the way everyone in the picture was standing. The four strangers were looking directly at the camera. Her mother wasn't. She was looking toward one of the upstairs windows. Amara studied the window carefully. At first, she saw nothing. Then lightning flashed outside. For half a second, the dark glass reflected the room. And Amara noticed a shape behind the window. Someone. She dropped the photograph. Her heart began beating faster. She picked it up again and examined it under the lamp. The figure was barely visible. It could have been a curtain. A shadow. Anything. But Amara couldn't shake the feeling that someone had been watching the people taking the photograph. She turned it over again. Don't tell her. Who had written it? And who was “her”? Amara grabbed her phone and took a picture of the photograph. She hesitated. Then she opened her messages and selected her best friend, Nia. Before she could type anything, a sound came from downstairs. A door closing. Amara stood still. “Mom?” No answer. She stepped into the hallway. The house was quiet. She walked downstairs and found her mother standing in the living room. Her mother wasn't looking at her. She was looking at the front window. Amara followed her gaze. Across the street, behind the rain-covered glass, Number 17 stood in the darkness. One upstairs window was lit. Her mother whispered something Amara couldn't hear. “What?” Her mother turned. For the first time that night, Amara saw fear in her eyes. “Where did you get that?” Amara looked down. She was still holding the photograph. “I found it inside an old book.” Her mother's face went pale. “Give it to me.” “Why?” “Amara.” “Mom, who are these people?” “Give me the photograph.” “Why are you scared?” Her mother crossed the room and took the photograph from her hand. She stared at it for several seconds. Then she folded it carefully and placed it inside her pocket. “You need to forget you ever saw this.” Amara stared at her. “You know what Number 17 is.” Her mother said nothing. “You lived there, didn't you?” Still nothing. “Mom?” Her mother finally looked at her. “Stay away from that house.” “Why?” “Because some things are better left buried.” She walked toward the stairs. Amara followed. “You've never told me about any of this.” Her mother stopped. Without turning around, she said quietly, “Because I was hoping you'd never have to know.” Then she walked upstairs. Amara remained at the bottom of the staircase. Outside, thunder shook the windows. She looked through the front glass again. Number 17 was still there. But the upstairs light had gone out. Amara's phone suddenly vibrated in her pocket. She pulled it out. A message from an unknown number. There was no greeting. No name. Just one sentence. You should have left the photograph where you found it. Amara stared at the screen. Another message appeared. Now they know you're looking. She slowly looked toward the dark house across the street. And for the first time, she wondered if Number 17 had been watching her long before she ever noticed it. Then, behind one of the upstairs windows, a light came on. Amara stopped breathing. Someone was standing there. Watching her. And this time, she was certain.