The Staged Crime Scene

"Jordana Calls," I read aloud, my voice echoing slightly in the quiet of my car. I was parked outside the leasing office, trying to calm my breathing after the garage incident. It was Thursday morning. I had called in sick to the medical device company, citing a migraine that felt less like a lie and more like a premonition.

My phone buzzed in my hand. A call from an unknown number.

I stared at it. Usually, I let unknown numbers go to voicemail. It was a rule. But today, the rules felt... suspended.

I swiped right. "Hello?"

"Thea Minter?" The voice was sharp, efficient. A woman. "This is Jordana bright. I'm the listing agent for 104 Hydrangea Lane."

I sat up straighter. "I didn't authorize a listing."

"I'm aware of the... tenant situation," Jordana said, her tone implying that my existence was a clerical error she intended to correct. "But the open house is scheduled for Sunday at 1 PM. I'm calling to confirm you'll be off the premises."

"I have a lease," I said, my voice shaking. "Gary can't just kick me out for a day."

"Check your lease, honey. Clause 14B. 'Tenant agrees to vacate for showings upon 24-hour notice.' You signed it."

I closed my eyes. I hadn't read Clause 14B. I had skimmed the lease, desperate for a place that didn't require a co-signer, and signed where Gary pointed.

"Sunday doesn't work for me," I lied. "I'm... sick. Contagious."

"That's unfortunate," Jordana said, not sounding sorry at all. "But Elowen Vance has already done the staging. The photos are live. We have forty RSVPs. You don't want to be there, Thea. Trust me."

"Why?" I asked. "Why don't I want to be there?"

There was a pause on the line. A heavy, weighted silence.

"Because the last tenant who tried to stay during a showing didn't... handle it well," Jordana said. Her voice dropped, losing its professional sheen. "Look, I'm just the agent. I get paid to sell the house. But if I were you, I'd take a long drive on Sunday. Go to the mountains. Get out of the zip code."

"What happened to the last tenant?" I asked. "Maya?"

"Who told you about Maya?" Jordana's voice snapped back to sharp.

"I found her locket. In the attic."

"Listen to me," Jordana said. "Don't go digging in the attic. And don't be there on Sunday. Gary is... motivated. He needs this sale. And Elowen? She doesn't like clutter."

The line went dead.

I sat there, the phone warm against my ear. *Don't be there.* It sounded less like advice and more like a warning.

I looked up at the leasing office. It was closed. A sign on the door said *Back at 2 PM.*

I drove home. I needed to see the lease. I needed to see Clause 14B.

When I pulled into the driveway, I saw a white van parked in front of my house.

*Locksmith.*

I hadn't called a locksmith.

I got out of the car and ran up the walk. A man in blue coveralls was kneeling by my front door, drilling into the lock.

"Hey!" I shouted. "What are you doing?"

The man looked up. He had a bored, tired face. "Work order. Changing the cylinders."

"I didn't order a lock change," I said. "I live here."

"Landlord ordered it," he said, returning to his work. "Said the current tenant lost her keys."

"I didn't lose my keys!" I pulled my key ring out of my pocket and jangled it. "I have them right here!"

The locksmith shrugged. "Talk to Gary, lady. I just do what the ticket says."

"You can't change the locks while I'm living here!" I grabbed his arm. "That's illegal!"

He stood up, wiping grease on his pants. "Look, I'm done anyway. New keys are in the lockbox."

He pointed to the railing.

There, clamped tight to the wood, was a brand new, black lockbox.

"I don't have the code," I said.

"Gary said he texted it to you," the locksmith said. He picked up his tool bag and walked toward his van.

"Wait!" I yelled. "You can't just leave me locked out!"

He got in the van and drove away.

I stood on the porch, staring at the black box. My own house, and I was locked out.

I checked my texts. Nothing from Gary.

I checked my email. Nothing.

I checked the smart-lock app.

*User 'Thea_Minter' access revoked.*

I tried the door. Locked.

I walked around to the back. Locked.

I went to the garage. Locked.

I was trapped outside.

I sat down on the porch steps, putting my head in my hands. The "Clean Linen" smell drifted out from the dryer vent, taunting me.

My phone buzzed.

A notification from eBay.

*Message from Buyer: M_B_88.*

I opened it.

*The locket is beautiful, Thea. But you forgot to clean the inside.*

Attached was a photo.

It was a close-up of the locket I had sold. It was open.

And inside, stuck to the velvet lining, was a tiny, white pill.

It looked like an aspirin. Or a sedative.

I stared at the photo. I had cleaned that locket. I had polished it. There was no pill inside when I shipped it.

I typed a reply. *Who are you?*

The typing bubbles appeared instantly.

*I'm the one who knows what happened in the nursery.*

My heart hammered against my ribs. The nursery. The room Elowen had staged. The room where Maya had lived.

I looked up at the window of the guest room.

The blinds were closed.

But as I watched, one of the slats moved.

Just a fraction.

Like someone was peeking out.

I stood up and backed away from the house. I needed to get in. I needed to see who was in there.

I looked around the yard. A loose brick from the garden border.

I picked it up. It was heavy, rough in my hand.

I walked to the back door. It was a glass pane door.

I didn't hesitate. I smashed the brick through the glass.

The sound was shattering, loud enough to wake the dead. I reached through the jagged hole and unlocked the deadbolt.

I pushed the door open and stepped into the kitchen.

It was quiet. Too quiet.

"Hello?" I called out.

No answer.

I walked to the hallway. The stairs creaked above me.

*Thump. Thump.*

Someone was upstairs.

I grabbed a heavy cast-iron skillet from the drying rack. It was a ridiculous weapon, but it was heavy.

I walked up the stairs, my bare feet avoiding the creaky spots I knew by heart.

I reached the landing. The nursery door was closed.

I reached for the handle.

Locked.

"Open the door!" I shouted. "I know you're in there!"

Silence.

Then, a soft, rhythmic sound.

*Rocking.*

The creak of a rocking chair. Back and forth. Back and forth.

I kicked the door. "Open it!"

The rocking stopped.

"Thea," a voice whispered from the other side.

It was soft. Childlike.

"Thea, come play."

I swung the skillet at the doorknob. Once. Twice. The wood splintered.

The door swung open.

The room was dark. The blinds were drawn.

But in the center of the room, illuminated by a single shaft of light from the gap in the curtains, was the rocking chair.

It was moving. Slowly.

And sitting in the chair was a doll.

A porcelain doll with a cracked face and one missing eye.

I recognized it. It was one of the dolls I had packed in a box in the garage. One of the dolls I was going to sell.

But it was wearing something.

Around its neck, tied with a piece of ribbon, was a key.

A shiny, brass key.

I walked over to the chair. I reached for the key.

The doll fell forward.

Its porcelain head hit the floor and shattered.

And out of the hollow body spilled a dozen white pills.

Identical to the one in the locket photo.

I stared at the pills scattered on the rug.

And then I saw it.

Written on the wall above the crib, in what looked like red crayon.

*She never woke up.*

I backed away, my hand over my mouth.

The closet door creaked open.

I spun around, raising the skillet.

Standing in the closet, hidden in the shadows of my old winter coats, was a figure.

It wasn't Elowen. It wasn't Gary. It wasn't Marcus.

It was a girl.

She was pale, thin, with dark circles under her eyes. She was wearing a grey sweatshirt that looked two sizes too big.

She looked exactly like the girl in the locket photo.

Maya.

She stepped out of the closet. She didn't look like a ghost. She looked... solid. Real.

And terrified.

"You have to help me," she whispered. "He's coming back."

"Who?" I asked, my voice trembling.

"The landlord," she said.

And then, from downstairs, I heard the sound of the front door opening.

And the heavy tread of work boots on the hardwood floor.

"Gary," I whispered.

Maya nodded. She pointed to the window.

"Run," she said.

"Run now."