She grabbed the attic cord and yanked it hard, trying to jam the stairs shut. The whole frame shuddered, then something on the other side yanked back, harder. The cord burned through her palms. Upstairs, wood splintered. A small, pale hand, fingers too long, reached around the edge of the opening and waved hello. Sarah screamed and let go. The stairs slammed down. Four children stood at the top in rotting 1970s pajamas, necks bent wrong, smiling with too many teeth. The fifth spot was empty. They spoke together: “We’ve been waiting for a new mommy who likes to finish projects.” Behind them, the attic bulb flickered on, revealing walls papered with missing-person flyers, every face an adult who’d once owned this house. Sarah’s realtor photo was already taped up, fresh.
