The return to Apartment 3B was silent. The small studio, which had felt cozy and cheap just twenty-four hours ago, now felt small and stifling—a cage.
Nicole sank onto her mattress, the exhaustion a physical weight pinning her down. She was exhausted, yet her mind was racing, cold and clear. She was no longer Nicole. She was the consciousness that inhabited Nicole's body, and the first thing it felt was contempt. Contempt for the soft, frightened girl whose skin it wore, and contempt for the fragile, pathetic people living on the property below.
Rene, meanwhile, moved with an unnatural efficiency. She was organizing her suitcase, folding clothes with perfectly sharp creases. She paused by the window and looked out at the rose garden, which was struggling for life in the damp earth. A slow, thin smile spread across her face, not of happiness, but of anticipation.
"Why didn't they hurt us?" Nicole's voice, the real voice, finally cracked.
Rene turned. Her eyes were flat, like polished stones. "They did, Nic. They changed the lock."
"What?"
"The lock on the door," Rene said, walking toward her. "We were locked out of ourselves. They just—handed us the keys to our prison." She knelt by Nicole's face, and the closeness was unbearable. There was no warmth, only a freezing certainty. "But it's fine. This space… this body… it's far more useful now."
That night, Nicole didn't sleep. She was trapped inside her own head, a horrified, screaming spectator. She could feel the new tenant of her body watching her fear, drawing strength from it.
Rene, however, slept deeply. Around 3 AM, a sound woke Nicole—a low, grating noise that scraped against the quiet. Rene was lying on her stomach, and the sound was emerging from her throat: a series of clicks and whistles, mixed with the deep, liquid vowels of the chanting man from the altar room. It was the language of the pit, now whispering secrets into the cotton sheets of Drennin.
The next morning, the change was immediately visible to the other tenants, if not yet understandable.
In the main house, Gigi was holding court—a coffee, a cigarette, and the central bay window of the communal living room. Vin, her younger brother, perpetually trying to impress her, was telling a story about a potential new job.
Nicole and Rene walked in to use the communal Wi-Fi, their movements synchronized, their faces identically pale and serene.
Rene stopped by Vin. "Oh, Vin," she said, her voice unusually resonant. "Did you finally hear back from the accounting firm? The one that told Gigi you barely passed your entry exams? The one you won't get, because you always quit when things get difficult?"
Vin froze. His mouth went dry. Gigi's eyes narrowed, not at the cruel accuracy of the statement—she knew it was true—but at the casual, surgical malice in Rene's tone. It was a precise strike, designed not just to wound Vin, but to undermine Gigi's authority over him.
"Stay out of our business, Apartment 3B," Gigi snapped, putting her coffee down.
Nicole stepped forward, smiling sweetly. "But we're all family here, aren't we, Gigi? You've made this house your sanctuary. Your throne room. It must be so hard to watch it all crumble around you. All your pathetic, fragile dependents."
The barb hit Gigi harder than any physical blow. The house was her sanctuary, and these girls, in less than twenty-four hours, had poisoned the air.
The first major battle, however, was waged in the kitchen.
Rickus and Sheree were attempting to share the space. Sheree was tense, chopping vegetables; Rickus was standing by the stove, stirring a pot of soup with aggressive energy. They had an ancient, unspoken hostility that they managed by strict, silent division of labor.
Rene sauntered in, humming, and deliberately leaned against the counter divider, right in the middle of Sheree's workspace.
"You know, it's amazing how you two pretend to live together," Rene mused, not looking at either of them. "The way you manage to hate each other without screaming. You're like a passive-aggressive diorama of a failed marriage."
Sheree stopped chopping, her knife hovering over a carrot. "I don't know what you're talking about, Rene."
"Oh, you do," Nicole chimed in, walking in with a bag of groceries. She placed the bag right on top of Rickus's carefully organized spice rack. "It's about the money, isn't it, Rickus? The money you kept when you left her the first time. The money that Sheree secretly believes you're still hoarding, saving for a life that doesn't include her."
Rickus's face, usually pallid and calm, flushed crimson. He dropped the ladle into the soup with a clang.
"What the hell did you just say, Nicole?" he demanded, his voice shaking.
"The truth, Rickus," the thing using Sheree's voice replied, her eyes wide and innocent. "The thing you two can't stand."
Sheree whirled around, her own composure finally breaking. "You did keep it! I knew it! All those excuses, all those months, you were lying to me, weren't you?"
"No!" Rickus roared, stepping toward her. "She's lying, Sheree! They're trying to turn us against each other!"
The possessed girls watched the inevitable implosion with cold, detached satisfaction. They didn't need fire or lightning; they just needed to hold a mirror up to the existing flaws of Drennin and watch the occupants tear themselves apart.
They exchanged a quick, alien look—a silent promise of the hell that was just beginning. They had found the cracks in the foundation, and they were ready to widen them.