Trevor adjusted the last box on the shelf in the garage, stepping back with a tired grunt. The late afternoon sun filtered through the cracked windowpanes, casting soft light across the dust still hanging in the air. Outside, the wind rustled the trees lining the gravel driveway—tall, gnarled things that seemed older than the town itself. "That’s the last of it," he muttered, brushing off his hands. From inside the house came the muffled cry of his daughter, followed by his wife’s voice, gently trying to soothe her. He paused, listening. It had been like that more and more lately—His wife’s voice was always on edge, stretched thin with worry. Ever since the move, she'd started triple-checking the locks, leaving night lights on in every room, and giving him that look whenever he dismissed her concerns about “feeling watched.” Trevor sighed and turned toward the back door. The house—an old, two-story Victorian they snagged for a suspiciously good price—creaked with every step. It still smelled faintly of old wood and something else… something musty, like wet stone or forgotten places. He chalked it up to bad insulation and years of neglect. As he stepped into the kitchen, the baby monitor on the counter crackled to life with a soft static hiss. Trevor frowned. "Is that thing acting up again?" His wife didn’t look up from where she stood, rocking their daughter. Her eyes were distant. "She started crying all of a sudden," she said softly. "I think something startled her." He raised an eyebrow. "You mean a squirrel on the roof, or the ghost of the furnace?" Her jaw tightened. "I’m serious, Trevor. I... I think this house is—" He held up a hand, trying to keep the peace. "We’ve been through this. It’s old. It makes noise. You’re just tired. We both are." Outside, the wind picked up, rattling one of the upstairs windows just enough to make it sound… almost like a whisper. Trevor didn’t notice. But his wife did. And so did the baby—who turned her wide eyes to the ceiling and started to cry again.