The CO Detector

"El Elevates," I whispered, the name tasting like artificial sweetener and malice. I leaned back against the granite countertop, the cold stone seeping through my shirt. My house—my sanctuary, my fortress of solitude—had been invaded by a woman whose entire brand was built on making other people feel inadequate about their spice racks.

I scrolled through her feed, my thumb moving with a jerky, caffeinated rhythm. Before and Afters. Pantries. Garages. Nurseries.

Each video was a masterclass in domestic shame. "You deserve peace," her captions read. "Let me help you find the calm in the chaos."

The comments were a chorus of adoration. *OMG goals.* *I need you in my life.* *Can you please come fix my husband?*

I tapped on her bio.

*Elowen Vance. Lifestyle Curator. Atlanta/Nashville/Remote.*
*Featured in Southern Living, HGTV, The Buckhead Buck.*
*Booking Link in Bio.*

I clicked the link. It led to a sleek website with a waiting list that stretched into 2027. Her consultation fee was $500 an hour.

So why was she breaking into my rental house for free?

I went back to the video of my kitchen. I watched it again. And again.

At 0:14, her hand—my watch on her wrist—reached for the dying succulent. She picked it up, turned it around, and then, with a dismissive flick of her wrist, dropped it into the trash.

"It's about letting go of what doesn't serve you," the voiceover said.

I looked at the trash can. I hadn't checked it since I found the receipt.

I walked over, my legs feeling like they belonged to someone else. I opened the cabinet.

There, sitting on top of a pile of coffee grounds, was Survivor. The little green plant was upside down, its roots exposed, dirt scattered across the white plastic liner.

It wasn't a prop. It was a casualty.

I reached in and pulled it out. I brushed the coffee off its leaves. I set it back on the counter, next to the sink.

"You're not dead yet," I whispered.

I looked at the window. The reflection showed me a woman with wild hair, dark circles under her eyes, holding a half-dead plant like a weapon. I looked... messy. I looked like a "before" photo.

I grabbed my laptop from my bag. I needed to know more. I needed to know who Elowen Vance really was, beyond the ring light and the filters.

I opened a new tab. I typed her name into Google.

*Elowen Vance.*

The first few pages were all PR. Interviews about her "philosophy of space." Articles about her line of organizational bins at Target. A podcast episode titled " decluttering the Soul."

But on page four, I found something else.

It was a forum post on a site called *ATL_Renters_Rights*. The thread was three years old.

*Subject: Landlord harassment/illegal entry?*
*User: Maya_B_88*

*Has anyone ever dealt with a landlord hiring a "stager" before you move out? My landlord (Gary P.) keeps sending this woman over. She says she's just "measuring," but things go missing. My keys. My mail. And she keeps asking when I'm leaving. She says the house has "bad energy." Is this legal?*

The thread had zero replies.

Maya.

The name on the locket. The name Jordana had mentioned. The previous tenant.

I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the AC.

I clicked on Maya's profile.

*Last Active: October 14, 2023.*

Exactly three years ago. To the day.

I looked at the date on the Zillow listing screenshot.

*October 14.*

Elowen wasn't just staging the house. She was re-enacting something.

I heard a noise.

A soft, rhythmic *thump-thump* coming from the ceiling.

It sounded like footsteps.

But Marcus had left. I had heard the door slam. I had heard his car start.

I looked up at the ceiling. The master bedroom was directly above the kitchen.

*Thump-thump.*

Someone was walking around upstairs.

I grabbed a steak knife from the block on the counter. It felt ridiculous in my hand—a serrated prop in a slasher movie I hadn't auditioned for.

"Hello?" I called out, my voice trembling.

The footsteps stopped.

Silence. Heavy. Thick.

I walked to the hallway. The stairs loomed ahead, a dark tunnel leading up into the unknown.

I took a step. Then another.

The wood creaked under my weight.

I reached the landing. The door to the master bedroom was closed.

I reached for the handle.

And then I heard it.

A voice. Low. Humming.

It was coming from behind the door.

A woman's voice.

Humming a lullaby.

*Hush, little baby, don't say a word...*

I froze. My hand hovered over the brass knob.

The humming stopped.

"Thea?" the voice whispered.

It sounded like... me.

It was my voice. But distorted. Like it was being played back on a recording.

"Thea, honey, are you home?"

I backed away, the knife shaking in my grip.

"Who is that?" I screamed. "Get out of my house!"

The doorknob turned.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

I didn't wait. I turned and ran down the stairs, taking them two at a time. I hit the bottom and sprinted for the front door.

Locked.

I fumbled with the deadbolt. It wouldn't budge. The smart lock was engaged, the red light glowing like an angry eye.

*Access Denied.*

I ran to the back door. Locked.

I ran to the garage door. Locked.

I was trapped.

I stood in the hallway, my back against the wall, the knife held out in front of me.

The footsteps started again.

*Thump-thump.*

They were coming down the stairs.

I looked up.

I saw a pair of red Converse high-tops appear at the top of the landing.

Then the legs of grey sweatpants.

Then a grey sweatshirt.

And then the face.

It was a woman. She was holding a phone, the flashlight beam cutting through the gloom.

She looked exactly like the woman in the reflection.

She looked exactly like Elowen Vance.

But she wasn't wearing makeup. Her hair was messy. She looked... tired.

She walked down the stairs, her steps silent on the carpet runner. She stopped three steps from the bottom.

She looked at me. She smiled.

It wasn't a nice smile. It was the smile of someone who had just found the last puzzle piece under the couch.

"You really should have taken the hint, Thea," she said.

She raised the phone.

*Click.*

The flash blinded me.

"That's a keeper," she whispered.

And then, she disappeared.

Not like a ghost. Like a glitch.

The lights in the hallway flickered and died.

I was alone in the dark.

But I wasn't alone.

Because from the kitchen, I heard the sound of the smart-scent dispenser hissing.

And the smell of lavender filled the air.