The night weighed heavily on the city, thick and depressing. The trees outside Anna's bedroom remained motionless, their long branches casting tangled shadows on the closed blinds. A dog growled somewhere deep in the hush before being abruptly silent again, as if the world outside dared to disturb the darkness that lay in her chest.
Anna tossed and turned. Her sheets, once neatly tucked and smooth, were now twisted and damp beneath her. The pillow provided no comfort. Hours had passed since she closed her eyes, yet sleep eluded her. Her skin itched with unease. Her thoughts drifted back to the strange house.
She had tried to forget about the previous incident, but the feeling of something unfinished clung to her.
When her eyes finally closed, it wasn't to relax. It was in memory.
And memory was cruel.
She stood again in that long, dark hallway of the strange house. It stretched far into a place the light wouldn't reach. Her shoes made no sound on the old wooden floor. She didn't remember moving, but she was already inside. The same hallway. The same silence. The air felt heavy. And then a faint voice of an infant—
"Mummy…"
Anna froze. Her chest hitched. That voice—small, soft, unmistakable—stung her ears like a sudden cold wind. She hadn't heard it in years, but she knew it well. She had carried that voice in her bones.
Another whisper. "Mummy…"
She turned and called for Adex. Her voice trembled in the silence, but it was pointless. Adex wasn't there. She was alone in the house, and it recognised her too well.
She turned slowly, eyes searching the dark for the voice. "Gabriel?" she whispered.
A pause. Then again: "Mummy…"
This time, it was louder and echoed more closely.
She couldn't think right. Her feet moved forward. Her hands trembled as she reached for the air before her, as if it could guide her. A second child's voice giggled somewhere ahead, the sound brushing against the walls like wind through brittle leaves. This time, it was lighter, younger—a girl's.
"Sara?" Anna called, her voice full of fear and longing. "Gabriel? "Is Sara with you?"
The hallway did not answer. But far ahead, at what felt like the edge of everything, two shadow shapes sat on the floor, playing with toys. Anna saw the outline of little hands moving blocks and a tiny foot kicking something. Then silence.
Anna hurried forward, each step making the hallway feel longer. It grew colder, and her breath turned sharp.
"I'm sorry," she said as she moved, her voice catching in her throat. "My babies… I didn't mean to leave you. I didn't mean to look away…"
She sobbed, and her legs shook.
"I should've kept you safe… I should've held you longer that morning…"
The hallway didn't answer, and the voice she heard didn't answer. The world was a hush between her sobs.
She slowed, her words reduced to only breaths. "I miss you. Please, say something.
Then the voice returned like a scream that broke free from a nightmare.
A sound reverberated through the hallway. Two children wept, shouting in anguish, their voices hoarse with terror and agony. It wasn't just loud; it clawed at her ears, sharp and rough like glass dragged through skin.
"No-no-no!" Anna dropped to her knees. She clutched her ears, but the sound penetrated through. Her entire body curled in on itself, and her head was buried in her arms.
"Aaaaahhh!" she cried, and the scream she hadn't realised she was holding broke through her chest like a dam burst open.
And then—silence.
Anna woke up.
The room surrounding her was dim; the only sound was a faint hum from the air conditioner. She was soaked with sweat, and her body trembled. Her throat ached. She sat up slowly, her breath ragged, and her arms curled tightly around herself, as if she needed to be held by someone who no longer existed.
Then the tears came. Anna wept quietly, a slow and steady release.
The door creaked open.
When Jill stepped in, the room was half-lit by the hallway light behind her. She didn't speak at first. Then, quietly, she walked across the room and sat beside Anna on the edge of the bed.
Anna turned away, trying to wipe her tears without being noticed. It was useless. Jill saw it all.
"What happened?" Jill's voice was soft.
Anna shook her head. She didn't want to talk—not because she was unable to, but because saying it out loud would only lead to more questions. It was a secret she had buried for years, and now it was finally catching up to her.
After a long silence, Jill leaned in, her eyes fixed on Anna's.
"You can tell me, Anna," she said quietly. "I can see it in your eyes—you're scared. Do you want to talk about it?"
"I saw them," Anna finally whispered, her voice almost gone.
"Who?" Jill asked, her tone low and careful.
"My babies," Anna said softly.
Jill froze, astonished. "You never told me you had children."
Anna laughed quietly and painfully. "I didn't tell anyone."
"Why?"
Anna looked away. The ceiling offered no comfort. "Because I lost them," she said. "And it was my fault."
Jill's breath caught just slightly.
"They died in a house fire," Anna went on. "Gabriel was six. Sara was four. I—I stepped out for just a minute. To take a call. I thought they were asleep. I thought—" Her voice broke. "It was the heater. Old wiring. That's what the fire department said. But none of that matters when you're a mother and know the truth of the incident."
Jill stayed quiet, her eyes fixed on Anna, who cried.
"It's a tragic night I never wanted to recall again," Anna stated.
"I used to dream about it every night," Anna continued. "Then it stopped. When I left the city, I was someone else. I thought the memory was gone for good—until tonight."
She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.
"That hallway brought the memory back. It feels like I'm being haunted—like my kids are still out there, waiting for me to face the consequences of my negligence," Anna said, her voice trembling as she sobbed quietly.
Jill grabbed her hand. She didn't squeeze it. She held it like a string between two cliffs.
"Does anyone else know?" Jill asked.
"My ex-husband does. It broke us. After the funeral, we never really spoke again. I moved away. Changed cities. Changed names. Started over." She paused. "I told myself if I kept quiet, it would stay buried."
Jill nodded slowly. "But it didn't stay buried."
Anna looked at her. "No. It didn't."
They sat that way for a long while—two women with too many ghosts.
Then Anna asked, "Do you think the dead can want something from us?"
Jill didn't answer right away. "I think grief wants things," she said. "Answers. Apologies. Sometimes it wears faces."
Anna turned her eyes to the wall. "Then I think mine wore theirs tonight."
Jill rested with her until sleep came—not deep sleep, not safe sleep, but just enough to keep breathing.
And the hallway still waited far from the room, the clean sheets and soft lamp light.
It never really left.