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 told myself I'd leave in the morning instead. But by morning the word "go" felt heavy and strange in my mouth, like it belonged to someone else. I tried to say it to Mara and couldn't. She looked at me, then tried to say it too, and couldn't either. We sat down at the kitchen table and didn't get up.