The Hartwell bungalow never slept.
Even at midnight, it shimmered—marble floors catching moonlight, chandeliers breathing gold into silence, glass walls reflecting the manicured gardens like mirrors polished by money. The driveway curved in a perfect arc, where Amelia Hartwell's black luxury sedan rested beneath a canopy of rain. The car ticked softly as its engine cooled, a gentle sound swallowed by the estate's vastness.
Amelia stepped inside and locked the door.
The lock clicked twice.
She paused.
It always clicked once.
She shook the thought away and walked deeper into the bungalow, heels echoing across stone that had been imported from Italy, the kind that promised permanence. Wealth had a smell—clean, floral, expensive. Tonight, something else threaded through it. Something old. Something damp.
She shrugged off her coat and glanced at the wall of framed photographs—gala nights, champagne smiles, a life that looked complete. One frame caught her eye. A reflection, perhaps. A blur where her face should have been.
The lights flickered.
"Power's stable," she muttered, reaching for her phone. No alerts. No storms scheduled. Still, the chandelier above the living room dimmed, brightened, dimmed again—like a slow blink.
The house exhaled.
Amelia felt it then: a pressure against her ears, the sensation of being observed without a direction to point at. She crossed the living room and climbed the staircase, fingers trailing the banister. Halfway up, the pressure sharpened into cold.
A whisper slid along the corridor.
Not words. Breath.
She froze.
The corridor stretched long and polished, doors closed in their perfect symmetry. The guest room. The study. The master suite at the end, its door ajar like a mouth that hadn't finished speaking.
"Hello?" Her voice sounded too loud, too alive.
No answer.
She moved again, faster now, heart tapping against her ribs. The master suite welcomed her with soft lamplight and silk curtains swaying—though the windows were sealed. The air smelled faintly of rain and iron.
Her mirror caught her reflection—Amelia Hartwell, composed, immaculate. Then the reflection lagged. A fraction of a second. Long enough to feel wrong.
She turned.
Nothing.
A thud sounded from the walk-in closet.
Amelia's hand tightened around her phone. "This isn't funny," she said, though there was no one to laugh. She crossed the room and pulled the closet door open.
Her dresses hung in perfect rows.
At the back, a footprint bloomed on the carpet.
Wet.
It faced outward.
Another appeared beside it.
Then another.
Amelia stumbled back, breath tearing free as the closet lights snapped off. Darkness rushed in, thick as velvet. Her phone vibrated in her palm.
Unknown: You still keep the red dress in front.
Her throat closed.
No one knew that. No one had been here since—
She slammed the closet door and backed away, nearly tripping over the bed. The lamp flickered, died. The room dimmed to moonlight and shadows.
A presence gathered behind her.
She felt it without touch: heat at the nape of her neck, a familiarity that scraped against memory. The whisper returned, closer now, shaping itself into a sound she had once loved.
"Amelia."
She turned, scream caught in her chest.
A man stood near the window, half-formed from shadow and silver rainlight. His suit was immaculate, tailored, expensive—wrongly so, like an old habit worn after death. His face refused the light, features shifting, as if the room rejected him.
"Don't," she whispered. "Don't come closer."
He smiled. She couldn't see it, but she felt it—felt the curve of it in her bones.
"I missed this house," the figure said softly. "You made it beautiful."
Her knees weakened. "Who are you?"
A pause. A tenderness that cut.
"Do you really want me to answer that?"
The lights surged, bursting to life. The figure vanished, leaving the room pristine and empty. Amelia collapsed onto the bed, sobbing, fingers digging into silk. She fumbled for a number she trusted.
Oliver Kingsley answered on the second ring. "Amelia?"
"Come over," she said, voice breaking. "Please."
"I'm on my way."
She didn't notice the faint smear on the mirror—like a hand dragged across glass from the inside.
Sebastian Crowe watched from the stairwell.
The bungalow remembered him. It remembered his footsteps, the weight of his anger, the way he had loved too hard, too wrong. He had died for his sins—blood on asphalt, rain washing nothing away. Death had not loosened his grip.
Love had sharpened it.
He drifted through rooms that bowed to him, strength swelling as Amelia's fear soaked into marble and silk. He could feel her heartbeat now. He could time his breaths to it.
"She's mine," he whispered, the house carrying the vow.
Outside, Oliver's car swept into the driveway, headlights slicing the rain. Sebastian's smile widened.
"Let's see how much you're willing to lose," he said to the night.
The chandelier above the foyer flickered—once.
Twice.
And then the bungalow locked itself from the inside.