I didn't want to be adopted, not really.
But when you've been moved between six homes in a year, you stop having preferences.
You stop expecting anything at all.
So when the Marrow family pulled up in their glass-windowed black car, I didn't smile.
I just packed.
The Marrows were rich.
Not movie-rich. Not mall-rich, old money rich.
Their house sat on the top of Alder Lane in Ashridge like it had always been there—four stories, iron gates, stone lions, and windows that didn't reflect light the way they should.
It was the kind of place people whisper about but never visit, I knew, the second I saw it, that secrets lived in the walls.
But for the first time in a while… So did me.
Regina Marrow, the mother, had cheekbones like knives and eyes that didn't blink enough.
She called me "dear" in a tone that meant stray.
Dorian Marrow, the father, was a corporate ghost—tall, cold, spoke in sentences that ended like boardroom decisions. He asked me what I liked to read, then handed me a 700-page biography of "Churchill, the Fighter."
They had two biological children:
Isla, sixteen, always sketching things in a notebook and never letting anyone see
Grant, thirteen, who smiled too much and asked too many questions that didn't sound like questions
"You'll like it here," Regina said during dinner, her voice soft but sharp.
"No noise. No mess. We like quiet things."
They told me I could have the entire attic floor.
It had a bed, a desk, a window that faced the woods and one door that didn't open, i asked once.
Dorian said, "Some places in the house are best left to adults."
Then he smiled, like a dare, the house had rules.
More than the foster homes:
No walking after 10 p.m.
No locked doors (except theirs)
No visitors unless approved
Don't ask about the west wing
Never touch the piano in the drawing room
No talking about what came before
The last one wasn't written. But I heard it loudest.
At first, I followed the rules.
Mostly, i went to school, i did my chores.
I said thank you when Regina handed me things with her cold, thin fingers.
But I couldn't stop the dreams, Mom still came to me.
Dirt in her mouth, Blood down her dress.
"She's proud of you," she'd whisper.
"This is your reward."
"But gardens grow anywhere, Mclainvic… even here."
Then the house started whispering.
Not words, movements, footsteps behind walls.
Floorboards creaking when no one walked.
Knocks behind mirrors.
And sometimes, the sound of piano music—soft, broken, incomplete.
I asked Isla once.
She paused, and then said, "The house is old. Old things settle."
She didn't believe it, neither did I?
One night, I heard something in the walls above me.
A scraping. Like nails dragging against plaster, It led to the locked door in my attic suite.
This time, it was open, inside was a nursery.
Untouched. Dustless.
Blankets folded, a crib with a name stitched on the side:
Lydia!
But there was no Lydia in the family.
I turned and found Regina standing in the doorway.
No smile, no words. Just eyes like dry paper, she closed the door slowly.
Locked it and walked away.
At dinner, no one mentioned it.
No one ever would.
But that night, a single ribbon was tied to my doorknob.
Not red, white, i don't know what I'm supposed to be in this house.
A son? A replacement? A witness? All I know is that secrets don't stay buried.
They grow roots, they bloom where they shouldn't. Just like in WhiteHorse.
And sometimes, when the lights go out, and I'm all alone on the top floor…
I swear I hear someone humming through the walls.
Rich neighborhoods always look the same:
Identical hedges, quiet sidewalks, houses that look like they were printed from the same machine.
Everything in place, everyone in line.
But if you stay long enough—if you watch—you see the cracks.
And Alder Lane?
It had cracks that smiled back, it started with a missing cat.
The Culvers at Number 11 put up flyers for "Pickles," their fluffy orange tabby.
Mrs. Culver stood on the corner calling his name every night at 7:30 like she was performing grief.
But three days later, the cat came back.
Different.
Same fur, same green eyes, but it wouldn't let anyone touch it.
Wouldn't come inside, it just sat on the Culvers' roof.
Staring at the Marrow house, a week later, Grant tried to feed it.
The cat hissed and spoke.
I swear to God, One word: "Leave."
He ran inside, didn't sleep for two nights.
When I asked him what he heard, he said, "Nothing," but wouldn't stop scratching his wrists.
The real shift came during the Neighborhood Preservation Committee meeting.
It was held at the Marrow house.
Everyone showed up in pastels and pearls, pretending they liked each other.
There were lemonade and fruit tarts, i wasn't supposed to be there.
But curiosity is louder than rules, i hid behind the parlor curtains.
Listened.
They weren't talking about zoning permits or landscaping.
They were talking about "the Boundary."
Regina whispered, "It's moving again."
Someone else replied, "Then we'll have to re-anchor it."
Another: "We can't keep doing this. Not since the McNally boy wandered out."
The word containment came up more than once, and then Dorian said something I'll never forget:
"We built this place to hold it. You know that.
That's the price for peace, for silence."
Later, when I asked Isla what "the Boundary" was, she didn't flinch.
She said, "Do you ever wonder why the sun sets early here?"
I told her that didn't make sense.
She just smiled. "Exactly."
That night, I stole Regina's key ring, the brass one with the tree engraved in the handle.
I waited until everyone was asleep, crept down to the west wing—the wing no one ever entered, the hallway that was always cold.
I unlocked the second door on the left, inside was a study.
Bookshelves, dusty furniture, and a wall map, but not a normal one.
This map showed Alder Lane and the surrounding blocks.
Except… there were no street names, no labels.
Just symbols, Circles. Runes. Etchings in red ink.
And one glowing pin, right where the Marrow house would be.
I touched it, the wall pulsed, the window fogged.
And then… I saw them. Eyes!
Not in the glass.
In the reflection of the glass, rows and rows of them.
Watching!
I slammed the door and ran, didn't sleep that night.