The Ropes of Wisteria County
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Chapter 1: Inherited Walls
Lina Delos Reyes wasn't sure if the house was watching her, or if she was simply watching it.
It stared back in silence. White paint, long faded to gray. Vines of wisteria clung to its bones like old memories—twisting, blooming, dying, and blooming again. Its attic window—high and square—reflected nothing but overcast skies and questions.
"It's... definitely old," her mother said from behind her, forcing a smile that didn't reach her eyes.
"It smells like someone died here," Lina muttered under her breath.
Her father didn't respond. He was already halfway up the porch, keys jingling as he unlocked the door to their "fresh start." That's what he called it after the fallout from the last city—after Lina's panic attacks, after her teachers started asking too many questions, after the neighbors looked too closely at the bruises and the silences.
A fresh start, in an inherited house they knew nothing about.
"Well?" her mother said sharply. "Are you going to stand there all day, or help with the boxes?"
Lina stared at the attic window once more.
A soft wind rustled the wisteria.
She could've sworn she saw something shift behind the glass.
A girl.
Or maybe just a shadow.
She blinked. It was gone.
The house was colder inside than it looked. Stale air. Faint mildew. Dust as thick as silence. Every floorboard creaked with memory.
The living room still held remnants of an older generation: faded wallpaper, porcelain dolls in a glass cabinet, an ancient music box sitting still on the mantel.
"That's vintage," her mom noted, running her finger across the music box and frowning at the layer of dust. "Must've belonged to whoever owned this place before."
"It belonged to us," her father said. "My grandfather's family."
Lina tilted her head. "Wait, what?"
He didn't elaborate. He never did.
That night, Lina stood in the hallway outside the attic door.
It was locked.
The only door in the house that didn't open.
She wasn't trying to go inside—at least, that's what she told herself. But she was standing there. Barefoot. In her pajamas. The hallway cold. The wallpaper peeling.
And then—
The faintest sound.
Not a creak.
Not footsteps.
A voice.
High. Soft. Singing.
"Hush now, Dove, don't make a sound...
The ropes still whisper underground."
Lina stepped back.
Her breath caught.
No one else heard it.
Not her mother. Not her father.
Only her.