Sarah and Mike bought the 1892 Victorian in upstate New York for $187,000—half what anything comparable cost in Westchester. Everyone said they stole it. The realtor smiled too wide when she handed over the keys and said, “Previous owners left in a hurry.” That night, unpacking in the foyer, Sarah found a yellowed Polaroid wedged behind the radiator: five people in 1970s clothes standing exactly where she stood now, staring straight at the camera with hollow, terrified eyes. On the back, someone had scrawled in frantic red ink: “THEY’RE IN THE WALLS. GET OUT BEFORE IT FINISHES THE PATTERN.” Mike laughed, called it a prank, and tossed it in the trash. At 3:17 a.m., the baby monitor crackled though they had no baby yet. A child’s voice whispered, “You threw away our warning.”
