Dory did not leave that night.
She sat on the braided rug in Jenna's bedroom with her back pressed against the bed frame, an iron fireplace poker resting across her knees. The doors were locked, the windows latched, and every lamp in the room was burning at maximum brightness.
Between them on the floor lay the five-by-seven photograph.
Dory leaned forward, studying the glossy print under the harsh beam of her smartphone flashlight.
"Five people," Dory murmured, pointing with a polished thumbnail. "Your mom, your dad, the old guy with the glasses, the boy with the eyebrow scar…"
"And the girl," Jenna said.
Dory paused, squinting at the image. "You really think that's you?"
"Look at her jawline," Jenna insisted, leaning closer. "Look at the mole beneath her left collarbone. Look at the way she stands with her hands in her pockets. It's me, Dory. It's me from fifteen years ago."
"That's biologically impossible," Dory said flatly. "You were eight years old in 2005. This girl is seventeen. If she's anyone, she's an older sister your parents never told you about."
"Have you ever seen an older sister in our house?" Jenna asked bitterly. "Did you see any baby pictures? Any birth certificates?"
"No," Dory admitted. "Have you ever seen her outside this photograph?"
Jenna hesitated, her fingers tightening around her knees. "Yes."
"Where?"
"In my dreams. On the roof. In the antique shop window. In the room upstairs."
Dory didn't laugh. She didn't roll her eyes. The memory of her own voice echoing down the stairwell was too fresh, too terrifying.
She picked up the photograph and held it closer to her face.
Her breathing hitched.
"Wait," Dory said, her voice dropping to a whisper.
"What?"
"There were six people."
Jenna frowned, leaning over Dory's shoulder. "What are you talking about? There are five. Count them."
"I looked at this five minutes ago, Jenna! There was a second man standing behind the boy. Tall, wearing a gray fedora, with his face turned toward the trees. I swear to God there were six."
Jenna grabbed the photo from Dory's hands.
There were five people. The space behind Elias Vale was empty, showing only the peeling white siding of the Victorian porch.
"He's gone," Dory whispered, her hands beginning to tremble violently. "I swear I saw him."
The overhead bulb flickered.
The filament buzzed loudly, flared with blinding orange intensity, and died.
The room went black, saved only by the narrow beam of Dory's phone flashlight cutting through the gloom.
From the hallway, just outside the bedroom door, came a sound like bare feet sliding across varnished wood.
Then:
"Dory?"
The voice was Jenna's—warm, cheerful, perfectly ordinary.
Dory stared at Jenna in the flashlight beam, her eyes wide with terror. "You didn't say that."
Jenna shook her head, tears of frustration and terror spilling over her lashes. "No."
"Dory, come here," the voice said from the threshold. "I want to show you the cellar."
Neither girl moved. Jenna gripped the kitchen knife; Dory raised the iron poker. They sat in the dark for forty-five minutes, their breath mingling in cold clouds, until the footsteps finally retreated down the stairs and faded into the foundation.
At dawn, Dory picked up the photograph from the floor.
She looked at it for a long time, her expression troubled, distant, and hollow.
"There are five people," she said softly.
"You said you saw six," Jenna reminded her.
Dory didn't look up. "I think I'm starting to forget what I saw. Maybe my eyes were playing tricks on me in the bad light."
Jenna stared at her friend. "Or maybe the house is doing to you what it did to them."
Dory didn't answer. She gathered her keys, her backpack, and left before breakfast.