The Key Copy

The notification appeared at 3:14 AM.

I was lying in the guest room—the nursery, whatever—staring at the shadow of the crib against the wall. The room smelled of lavender and fresh paint, a sickly sweet combination that made my stomach turn. Marcus was in the master bedroom, snoring softly, protected by his noise-canceling headphones and his unshakable belief that I was crazy.

My phone buzzed against my chest.

I picked it up, shielding the light with my hand. It was a Zillow alert.

*Price Drop: 104 Hydrangea Lane. Now $825,000.*

Another drop. In less than twenty-four hours.

I opened the app. The photos were still there. The beige rug. The lemons. The keys on the counter.

But there was a new one.

It was the garage.

The same angle as before, showing the neat stacks of boxes and the fresh patch of *Swiss Coffee* paint.

But the shoe—the red Converse high-top—was gone.

And in its place, sitting in the center of the concrete floor, was a cot.

My cot.

The one Marcus had been sleeping on. The one that was supposed to be hidden behind a wall of boxes.

But in the photo, the boxes were gone. The cot was exposed. And lying on top of the sleeping bag was a piece of paper.

I zoomed in. The resolution was high enough to read the bold, black text.

*Eviction Notice.*
*Tenant: Thea Minter.*
*Reason: Unauthorized Occupant.*

I stared at the screen, my heart hammering against my ribs.

They knew.

They knew about Marcus. They knew about the garage.

And they had been in there *tonight*.

I threw the covers off and ran to the window. The street was empty. No black SUV. No silver sedan. Just the quiet, manicured perfection of the cul-de-sac.

I ran downstairs, not caring about the noise. I unlocked the back door and sprinted across the yard to the garage.

The side door was unlocked.

I pushed it open. The smell of paint was gone, replaced by the damp, earthy scent of the Greenbelt.

I flipped the light switch.

The garage was empty.

The boxes were gone. The cot was gone. The paint can was gone.

Even the fresh patch of white paint on the wall was gone, covered up by a layer of grey primer that was still wet to the touch.

It was like Marcus had never been there. Like I had never been there.

I stood in the center of the empty space, my bare feet cold on the concrete.

"Hello?" I whispered.

Silence.

Then, a sound from the corner. A soft, rhythmic scratching.

I turned.

In the corner, where the cot used to be, was a small, metal grate. A ventilation shaft.

The scratching was coming from inside the vent.

I knelt down. The screws on the grate were loose. I pulled it off.

Inside the dark tunnel, something glinted.

I reached in. My fingers brushed against cold metal.

It was a key.

A single, brass key with a piece of masking tape wrapped around the head.

I pulled it out and held it up to the light.

Written on the tape in black marker was a single word.

*Attic.*

I looked up at the ceiling of the garage. There was no attic access here.

The attic door was in the hallway of the main house.

Right outside the nursery.

I ran back to the house. I locked the back door. I ran up the stairs.

I stood in the hallway, looking up at the square panel in the ceiling. A short pull-string dangled just out of reach.

I grabbed a chair from the nursery. I climbed up. I pulled the string.

The panel creaked open. A ladder slid down, the metal groaning in the silence.

I climbed up.

The attic was dark, smelling of dust and insulation. I used my phone as a flashlight.

It was crowded. Boxes upon boxes of "junk"—the stuff I had been selling on eBay.

But in the center of the attic, cleared of all debris, was a small, open space.

And sitting in the middle of that space was a sleeping bag.

A green sleeping bag, unrolled and messy, as if someone had just crawled out of it.

Next to the sleeping bag was a laptop.

It was open. The screen was glowing.

I crawled toward it.

The screen showed a grid of nine video feeds.

The living room. The kitchen. The hallway.

The nursery.

The garage.

And the master bedroom.

I saw Marcus sleeping in our bed. I saw the empty hallway downstairs.

I saw myself, crawling across the attic floor.

I looked up.

In the corner of the attic, hidden in the shadows of the eaves, was a small, blinking red light.

A camera.

I looked back at the laptop.

A chat window was open in the bottom corner of the screen.

*User: El_Elevates.*

*Status: Active.*

*Message: You're getting warmer, Thea.*

I slammed the laptop shut.

I scrambled backward, my heart pounding so hard I thought it would burst.

Someone had been living up here. Living above us. Watching us.

I turned to the ladder.

But the square of light from the hallway was gone.

The panel had been closed.

I heard the sound of a lock clicking into place.

And then, from the other side of the attic, in the deep shadows where the flashlight beam didn't reach, I heard a voice.

It was soft. Maternal.

And it sounded exactly like my mother.

"Did you really think I'd let you sell my things without asking?"