The sweater was in the closet.
Folded neatly, resting on the top shelf like it had been waiting for me to find it. The moment I reached for it, a sharp static shock snapped against my fingertips. I jerked back.
The sweater was red. Not bright red — not festive or cheerful — but deep, almost blood-colored. Heavy wool. Hand-knitted. It smelled faintly of lavender and something older… like cedar and smoke.
I didn't remember seeing it before. Not during my first night, not when I found the notebook.
I pulled it down carefully and held it up.
There was a name tag stitched into the collar.
MARA
Not Liana.
My breath hitched.
Was Mara the "her" Liana had written about in the letter? The one she'd tried to protect?
Why was her sweater hidden here?
I turned the notebook to the second item on the list:
2. Return the red sweater
But return it to who?
I searched the apartment again. Nothing new.
No addresses. No letters. No more photos of Mara — if there ever were any. The only clue I had was the name stitched into the fabric and the way my skin crawled when I touched it.
That night, I placed the sweater on the desk and sat across from it, staring like it might come to life. The room was quiet, almost too quiet. Not even the usual hum from the fridge.
I whispered: "Mara? Are you here?"
No answer.
I picked up the sweater.
The lights flickered.
Then—A voice.
Not loud. Not clear. More like a whisper pressed against the back of my skull.
"Give it back."
I stood up so fast my chair toppled behind me. I scanned the room. Nothing. Still alone.
I held the sweater to my chest. "Tell me where to take it."
Silence.
Then the mirror in the bathroom fogged up — again.
I ran.
This time, the message was longer.
"She died because of me.She followed me here.Give it back… before she takes you."
A drop of red formed on the bottom corner of the mirror.
I blinked. It wasn't blood. It was water — tinted crimson, like the sweater had bled into the glass.
I turned back toward the room.
The closet door was ajar again.
I didn't sleep.
I sat on the bed, sweater beside me, eyes locked on the door.
Every hour or so, something scratched at the walls.
Not mice.
Too slow. Too deliberate.
Once, I saw a hand — pale and thin — slide out from beneath the bed and then retreat when I screamed.
By morning, I was exhausted. My voice hoarse from whispering Liana's name like a prayer.
The mirror had cleared.
But the sweater had moved.
It was no longer on the desk.
It was now folded at the foot of my bed.
Waiting.
I opened the notebook again. Flipped to the back. Some pages had been torn out, but on the last intact page, there was a faint drawing — sketched in pencil.
A house. Small. Rural.
And underneath it: 1639 Briar Hollow Rd.
A real address?
Maybe.
I tore the page out and shoved it in my pocket.
Then I tried the door again.
Still darkness.
Still nothing beyond the threshold.
I stood at the doorway for a long time, holding the sweater, willing myself to step into the void. What if it was a trick? A trap? What if I left the apartment and lost myself completely?
But what if this was the way out?
I stepped forward.
One foot.
Two.
And the darkness opened.
Like a curtain being drawn aside.
Suddenly, I was in a hallway.
The same hallway I'd walked through the day I moved in — except older. Dimmer. The paint was peeling. Light bulbs flickered overhead.
But it was real.
And at the end of the hall, the elevator stood open.
Waiting.
I pressed the button for the ground floor. The elevator groaned, then rattled its way down. Every second felt like it might collapse beneath me.
When the doors opened, I stepped into the lobby — only it wasn't the lobby anymore.
It was a forest.
Fog-shrouded, silent. Trees rising into darkness.
The building was gone. Or maybe I was gone from it.
And in the distance, barely visible through the mist, was a house.
The house.
Same sloped roof. Same windows. Exactly like Liana's drawing.
I started walking, the sweater clutched tightly in both hands.
As I approached the house, the air grew heavier — like it was pressing in on my lungs.
The front porch creaked as I stepped on it. The door wasn't locked. It swung open with a groan.
Inside, the air smelled of dust and something sour.
A picture frame hung crooked near the doorway. I straightened it.
A girl.
Same age as Liana.
Not her.
Mara.
I moved deeper into the house, heart pounding. My footsteps were the only sound.
Then I heard it.
Weeping.
Soft. Raspy. Like the sound had been echoing for years.
It came from upstairs.
I climbed slowly, each step moaning beneath me.
At the top of the stairs was a bedroom. The door opened on its own as I reached for it.
And inside—
A girl sat on the edge of the bed.
Wearing nothing but a white dress, soaked at the hem.
Her hair was wet. Her eyes red-rimmed and empty.
"Mara?" I asked, barely breathing.
She didn't move.
I held the sweater out. "I brought this. For you."
Her eyes snapped to mine.
And she screamed.
A sound like glass breaking from the inside.
The lights flickered. The walls bled shadows. The bed rotted beneath her.
And then—Silence.
She was gone.
But the sweater was no longer in my hands.
It lay folded neatly on the bed.
Returned.
Suddenly, I was back in the apartment.
Same room. Same closet. Same flickering light.
No forest.
No house.
But something was different.
The air was lighter.
The buzzing stopped.
And the notebook now had a line drawn through the second item.
2. Return the red sweater
I closed it slowly, hands still trembling.
One item down.
Four to go.