Lucy Moore had always prided herself on keeping her home in order.
Even when George abandoned them, even when Gemma's silence had cut the family like a knife, she forced herself to cook, to clean, to arrange the curtains neatly at dawn as though routine could hold the world together.
But lately, the house itself seemed to resist her.
The clock in the hallway ticked a second too slow. The curtains she ironed in the morning looked creased again by noon. Doors that she swore she had shut stood open when she turned around. Small things, but relentless. The more she tried to keep control, the more everything slipped through her fingers.
And then there was Gemma.
That girl. That silent, unblinking girl.
Lucy couldn't look at her daughter without feeling her stomach twist into knots. Gemma sat at the table, ate with calm movements, walked upstairs with measured steps, scribbled those strange words in her notebook — and never said a word. Eight years of silence had turned Lucy's anger sour, curdled it into something brittle and desperate.
That night, George tried to soothe her.
"Lucy," he said gently, sitting at the edge of their bed. "You have to let go. You keep blaming Gemma for things she—"
"Don't say her name to me!" Lucy snapped, whirling on him. Her voice cracked, shrill, as if it barely belonged to her anymore. "Don't you see what's happening? The school is falling apart, children are missing, teachers collapsing, and still she sits there like she knows everything but won't say a word!"
George flinched, but his eyes hardened. "You're letting paranoia eat you alive. Gemma is our daughter, Lucy."
Lucy's laugh was broken, ugly. "Our daughter? No, George. She's something else now. Don't you hear it at night? Don't you feel it when she looks at you?"
He opened his mouth to argue, but Lucy turned away sharply. She couldn't stand the pity in his voice.
Later, when the house was quiet, Lucy went downstairs for a glass of water. She stopped in the kitchen, staring at the reflection in the darkened window. Her own face looked pale, strained. Older than she remembered.
That was when she heard it.
A whisper.
So faint she thought it was her imagination at first.
"Why didn't you stop it?"
Lucy's throat closed. She spun around, her breath trembling, but the kitchen was empty. The fridge hummed. The clock ticked.
She gripped the counter with both hands, knuckles white. "Who's there?"
Silence.
Then again, closer. A breath against her ear.
"Why didn't you stop it?"
Lucy gasped, stumbling backward, nearly dropping the glass. She could feel the presence of something in the room, not seen but heavy, pressing in the air.
Her mind flashed to Gemma's face. Those stone-like eyes. That silence.
Lucy sank to her knees, clutching her head. "It's not my fault," she whispered. "I didn't— I couldn't—"
But the whisper came again, cruel and soft:
"You let it happen."
Tears blurred her vision. She pressed her hands over her ears, rocking slightly, her breath sharp and uneven. For the first time in years, Lucy Moore—sharp-tongued, iron-willed—looked utterly broken.
When George came down minutes later, he found her sitting on the floor, glass shattered beside her, muttering words he couldn't understand.
And when he reached for her shoulder, Lucy jerked violently, eyes wide and wild, and screamed:
"Don't touch me!"
Her voice echoed through the house, a sound so raw it made even Gemma stir upstairs, pausing mid-step as if she had heard something familiar in it.