I should have left then. Should have grabbed my daughter and driven away and never looked back.
But I had to see.
"Where is he?" I asked.
Patricia's eyes lit up. "You believe me?"
"Show me."
She led us upstairs, past more photographs, more toys preserved like museum pieces. At the end of the hallway, a closed door.
"He's in there," she whispered. "Waiting."
Daniel grabbed my arm. "Rachel, don't. This is insane. She's sick. We need to leave and get help."
"I need to see," I said.
I opened the door.
The room was perfect. A child's bedroom from forty years ago—blue walls, race car bed, shelves lined with books and toys. Clean. Dusted. Preserved.
And empty.
No child. No ghost. Nothing but memories and madness.
"He was just here," Patricia murmured behind me. "Michael? Michael, baby, where are you?"
Ava slipped past me into the room. She walked to the corner, knelt down, and began talking softly to empty air.
"It's okay," she whispered. "They're not mad. They just didn't know."
I fell to my knees. My daughter, my beautiful daughter, was playing with someone I couldn't see.
And for one terrible moment—just one—I almost believed.
