The porcelain doll hadn't moved. And yet, as Maya stood in the doorway, she could swear its eyes followed her. One glass orb was fractured, the jagged lines spider-webbing across its pale face. It looked too clean, too deliberately placed, as if someone had left it there as a message.
Rourke crouched beside the chair, his gloved fingers brushing along the edge of the seat. "No dust. Someone's been in here recently."
"But who?" Maya asked. "This door hasn't been opened in years."
She stepped into the room, instantly regretting it. The air was thick, as though something had once suffocated here and left behind its breath. Her eyes darted to the wallpaper—delicate roses now faded and peeling like skin. One patch had been ripped away, revealing scratched wood beneath.
"What is this place?" Rourke murmured.
"I don't know," Maya whispered. "My mom never talked about it. She just called it the room that watches."
Rourke raised a brow. "Comforting."
Something shimmered in the corner of Maya's vision. She turned sharply—nothing. Just shadows. Still, the feeling stayed, like someone—or something—was waiting.
Her gaze returned to the doll. Against all reason, she knelt before it. A name was stitched into the hem of the doll's dress in faded red thread: Eliza.
Her heart skipped. "Eliza," she said aloud.
Rourke stood, his expression unreadable. "Same name from the photo."
"Do you think she was real?"
"She was someone," he said. "Your mother was hiding her. Maybe protecting her. Or hiding from her."
Maya shivered. "I need answers."
Rourke nodded. "Let me check in with the department. I'll see what I can dig up on Eliza. You—just don't go into any more creepy rooms alone, alright?"
She gave a weak smile. "No promises."
After he left, Maya remained in the doorway, staring at the rocking chair. It hadn't moved. Yet somehow, the doll's head looked ever so slightly turned.
She backed away and shut the door, locking it behind her.
Downstairs, the fog had thickened again, swallowing the windows entirely. It pressed against the glass like a living thing, pulsing in and out. She tried the back door. It groaned, jammed by warped wood. She was trapped—at least for now.
Her phone buzzed. A text. Unknown number.
"You shouldn't have opened the door."
Her breath caught. She stared at the screen, rereading the message.
Another ping.
"She remembers you now."
Maya's hands trembled.
The phone slipped from her grip, clattering to the floor. Somewhere upstairs, the sound of a soft creak echoed through the silence.
The rocking chair was moving.