Months passed.
Claire had moved to a small apartment in the city, far from Wicker Lane. Evan lived with her now, slowly healing from the years he lost inside that cursed place. Therapy helped. Sleep still came hard. But they were free.
Or so they thought.
One evening, as rain pattered against the windows, Claire sat by the desk writing in her journal—trying, again, to make sense of everything.
A knock sounded at the door.
She opened it, expecting Evan.
But no one was there.
Just an envelope, soaked but neatly sealed.
Inside was a photo.
Black and white. Grainy. Faded with age.
It was Ashwood House.
Only… this version stood in the middle of a completely different town. A small village miles away from where she grew up.
Scrawled on the back in red ink:
"It remembers new names now."
Claire's heart pounded.
She flipped the photo over again, staring at the crooked house, its windows staring back at her like eyes wide open.
Just then, the lights flickered.
She glanced over at Evan. He was asleep on the couch—but murmuring in his sleep. Whispering.
She leaned closer.
He was saying her name.
Over and over.
"Claire… Claire… Claire…"
Her blood ran cold.
Because the voice coming from his lips wasn't his.
It was the house.
Somewhere, it still listened.
It had followed them.
It always would.
THE END.
—or maybe, just the beginning.