We got the house for almost nothing. The agent said the price was low for a reason, then waited until we'd signed to explain. Every family who lived here stopped talking eventually. "Not moved away," she said. "Stopped speaking. All of them." That first night, my sister Mara and I sat in the empty living room. Whenever we spoke, the house went very still. Like it was leaning in to hear.

I decided we should just leave. I started packing the car that same night. But every time I said the word "go" out loud, the front door swung shut on its own. By the third time, I stopped saying it. And that, I realized too late, was exactly how it started for everyone else.

I stopped saying "go," but I could still write it. I texted Mara from the driveway: GET OUT NOW. She came running with two bags, and we threw them in the car. The door tried to slam a fourth time, but we were already on the road, mouths shut tight until the house was miles behind us.