Maria Pennick

The hallway was lined with eyes. Not real ones—painted ones. Probably.

Myra dragged her suitcase over a squeaky floorboard. “Thanks, Aunt Vivian. Nothing says ‘welcome home’ like wall-to-wall creepy ancestors.”

A portrait of a stern woman now looked... smug. It hadn’t looked smug a second ago.

Maria narrowed her eyes. “Okay, spooky portrait lady. I see you.”

The lights flickered.

Her phone buzzed: no signal.

“I take it back,” she muttered. “I don’t see you. You win.”