Jordana Calls

"The CO Detector," I muttered, staring at the little white disc on the kitchen counter. It wasn't where it was supposed to be. It was supposed to be mounted on the hallway ceiling, a silent sentinel against the invisible killer. Now, it was sitting next to the toaster, face down, looking like a dead beetle.

I had just rushed home from the coffee shop, my heart pounding a rhythm that felt entirely too fast for a Tuesday afternoon. The house was empty. Silent. But the smell—that cloying, artificial "Clean Linen" scent—was still hanging in the air, a chemical ghost of whoever had been here.

I picked up the detector. It felt light. Too light.

I turned it over and popped the battery compartment.

Empty.

The two AA batteries were gone.

A cold prickle of unease started at the base of my neck and crawled upward. Why would someone take the batteries? If they were staging the house, surely a working CO detector was better than a dead one? Unless... unless it was beeping.

"Maybe it was low," I whispered to the empty room. "Maybe it was chirping and driving them crazy."

But if it was low, why not replace them? Why leave it on the counter like a piece of trash?

I looked up at the ceiling where the detector usually lived. The mounting bracket was there, a lonely plastic ring. I dragged a kitchen chair over to the hallway and climbed up to inspect it. No dust. The area around the bracket was clean, while the rest of the ceiling had a fine layer of grey fuzz. Someone had wiped it down.

I climbed down and went to the junk drawer—the one drawer I hadn't let Elowen Vance organize yet. I dug through the tangle of rubber bands, take-out menus, and mysterious keys until I found a fresh pack of Duracells.

I popped them into the detector. It chirped once, a loud, piercing sound that made me jump. The green light flashed.

*Working.*

I set it back on the counter. I should put it back up. But something stopped me. A feeling. A memory of a forum post I’d read three hours ago.

*The house has 'bad energy.'*

Maya. The previous tenant. The girl who had vanished.

I looked at the detector again. Carbon monoxide. The silent killer. Headaches. Dizziness. Confusion.

I thought about the last few weeks. The headaches I’d been attributing to staring at screens all day. The way I sometimes felt like I was walking through water. The way Marcus kept telling me I was "forgetting things."

"You're spiraling, Thea," I said aloud. "It's just a dead battery. It's just a coincidence."

But the house didn't feel like a coincidence. It felt like a trap.

I walked into the living room. My grey sectional was back in its place, but I couldn't relax. I kept looking at the corners, at the shadows. I kept expecting to see a camera lens glinting in the dark.

I needed to know more about Maya. I needed to know why she left.

I went back to the kitchen and grabbed my laptop. I opened the browser and typed "Maya B 88 Atlanta" into the search bar.

Nothing. Just the forum post I’d already found.

I tried "Maya tenant 104 Hydrangea Lane."

Nothing.

I tried "Missing woman Buckhead 2023."

A few articles popped up, but none of them matched. No Maya.

It was like she had never existed. Like she had been erased, just like my office had been erased in the Zillow photos.

I closed the laptop, frustration burning in my chest. I looked at the CO detector again. The green light blinked at me, steady and reassuring.

*Blink. Blink. Blink.*

I decided to leave it on the counter for now. I’d put it up later, when Marcus came home. Maybe he’d help me. Maybe he’d stop gaslighting me for five minutes and actually listen.

I went upstairs to change. The master bedroom felt suffocating. The "Clean Linen" smell was strongest here, masking the scent of my own perfume, my own life. I opened the window, desperate for fresh air, for the smell of the humid Georgia night.

I changed into my pajamas—an old t-shirt and shorts—and crawled into bed. It was only 8 PM, but I was exhausted. The fear, the adrenaline, the constant second-guessing... it was draining me.

I closed my eyes, listening to the sounds of the house. The hum of the refrigerator. The creak of the floorboards. The distant wail of a siren.

And then, I heard it.

*Chirp.*

I opened my eyes. It was faint, coming from downstairs.

*Chirp.*

The CO detector.

I sat up, my heart hammering. Was there a leak? Was the house filling with gas right now?

I ran downstairs, my bare feet slapping against the wood. I reached the kitchen and grabbed the detector.

The green light was still blinking. Steady. Normal.

It hadn't made a sound.

"I'm losing my mind," I whispered. "I'm actually losing my mind."

I put the detector back on the counter. I stared at it for a full minute, daring it to make a noise.

Silence.

I turned around to go back upstairs.

And then I saw it.

On the floor, by the back door.

A small, black object.

I walked over and picked it up. It was a battery. A Duracell AA.

I looked at the counter. The detector was still there.

I picked it up again and flipped it over.

The battery compartment was empty.

I froze. I had just put batteries in. I had heard it chirp. I had seen the green light.

I looked around the kitchen. The back door was locked. The windows were closed. I was alone in the house.

Or so I thought.

I looked down at the battery in my hand. It was cold.

Where was the other one?

I scanned the floor. Nothing. I checked under the cabinets. Nothing.

And then I looked up.

On top of the refrigerator, nestled in the dust, was the second battery.

Someone had taken them out. Someone had put them there.

Someone was in the house with me. Right now.

"Who's there?" I screamed, grabbing the steak knife again. "Show yourself!"

Silence.

Then, a soft *thump* from the living room.

I spun around.

My grey sectional.

One of the mustard-yellow pillows had been moved. It was now sitting on the floor, in the center of the rug.

And on the pillow, resting like a perverse offering, was a piece of paper.

I walked toward it, the knife trembling in my hand. I reached down and picked up the paper.

It was a page torn from a magazine. *Southern Living.*

It showed a beautiful, organized living room. White couches. Beige rugs. Cream pillows.

And in the center of the photo, circled in red marker, was a carbon monoxide detector mounted on the wall.

Written in the margin, in a neat, looping script, were three words.

*Safety First, Thea.*

I dropped the paper. I backed away, my breath coming in short, jagged gasps.

They weren't just staging the house. They were staging me.

I ran to the front door. I fumbled with the locks, my fingers shaking so hard I could barely turn the deadbolt.

I threw the door open and ran out onto the porch.

The night air was thick and humid, but it felt like freedom. I ran down the steps, into the driveway.

I looked back at the house.

The lights were all off. It looked dark. Empty.

But in the upstairs window—the window of the nursery that didn't exist—I saw a flash of light.

Like a camera flash.

*Click.*

And then, nothing.

I stood there in the street, barefoot and shivering, realizing that the house wasn't just a building anymore. It was a weapon. And someone was aiming it right at me.

I looked down at my hand. I was still holding the battery.

I squeezed it tight, the metal edge digging into my palm.

"You want a fight?" I whispered to the dark window. "I'll give you a fight."

But as I turned to get in my car, I saw something else.

Parked across the street, under the cover of the oak trees, was a silver sedan.

The engine was off. The windows were dark.

But I could see the silhouette of a person in the driver's seat.

Watching.

I took a step toward the car.

The headlights flashed on. High beams. Blinding white light.

The car roared to life and peeled away, tires screeching on the asphalt.

I watched it go, the red taillights disappearing into the night.

I looked back at my house.

The front door was still open.

And standing in the doorway, illuminated by the porch light, was Marcus.

He was holding the CO detector.

"Babe?" he called out, his voice sounding confused. "Why are you outside? And why is this thing on the floor?"

I stared at him.

"You were here?" I asked. "You were inside?"

"I just got home," he said. "I came in through the garage. What's going on?"

I looked at the detector in his hand.

"Check the batteries," I said.

He flipped it over. "It's empty, Thea. You probably forgot to put them in."

"I put them in," I said. "I put them in an hour ago."

He shook his head, walking toward me. "You're tired. You're stressed. Come inside. I'll make you some tea."

I looked at him. I looked at the house.

"No," I said. "I'm not going back in there."

"Don't be ridiculous," he said, reaching for my arm. "It's your house."

"It's not my house," I whispered.

"It's hers."