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"Missing?"

I nod slowly.

"Like pages torn out of a book."

Morrow looks toward the photograph.

"And you think I'm part of those missing pages."

I don't answer. Because not knowing scares me more than remembering.

Morrow's expression breaks. Not completely. Just enough.

"Yes. Someone lied."

The simplicity of it hurts. Because he is right. Someone lied. The question is who.

A sound comes from downstairs. A sharp crack. Like something falling.

Both of us freeze.

"Morrow."

"That wasn't the house."

I don't like how certain he sounds.

He whispers:

"Someone opened the front door."

My blood runs cold. The attic stairs are visible from where we stand. The door below is closed. Locked. I know because I locked it. I also know because I checked it twice after the camera incident.

Then the doorknob moves. Slowly. The attic door. Not the front door. The attic door. Someone is trying to open it.

Morrow grabs my arm. His fingers tighten.

"Don't."

The command surprises me.

"What?"

"Don't let it see you."

Every rational part of me wants to ask what that means. Every other part of me already knows I don't want the answer. The doorknob stops moving. Silence.

Then something scratches against the wood. Three slow lines. I stop breathing.

The attic light flickers. The bulb dims. Then brightens.

When it does, there is writing carved into the door. Fresh. Deep. Impossible.

Three words.

YOU REMEMBER NOW.

Morrow and I stare.