The Day the House Held Its Breath
The alarm went off at six, sharp as always. Mara rolled over, half-expecting Elena to be already dressed, hair combed, that perfect-child rhythm in motion.
But Elena was still in bed. Her eyes were open, fixed on the ceiling, unblinking.
"Come on," Mara muttered, nudging her. "We'll be late."
Elena didn't move. Her voice came quiet, flat:
"I'm not going."
Mara frowned. "What do you mean you're not going?"
"I said, I'm not going." She turned her head, eyes glassy. "School doesn't matter today. Nothing matters today."
Mara's chest tightened. Elena never skipped. She was the one who lectured Mara about responsibility, who tutted at her undone homework. Now her voice sounded like it came from far away, as though borrowed from someone else.
Mara tried again. "You're scaring me."
But Elena just pulled the covers tighter, shutting her out.
By nine, the house was silent except for the tick of the hallway clock. They sat at the kitchen table with bowls of cereal gone soggy, untouched. Mara kept glancing at her sister, who stared out the window as though something in the distance had her tethered.
"Elena," Mara said softly. "Talk to me."
Her twin blinked, finally turning her head. The smile she gave was wrong—crooked, fragile, an imitation.
"Don't you feel it?" Elena asked. "The house is listening. The walls know we're here. That's why it's so quiet."
Mara froze, spoon halfway to her mouth.
"Elena—"
"Shh," she whispered, pressing a finger to her lips. "You'll wake it."
The day dragged. The hours bent. Mara tried distracting herself—sketching, flipping through TV channels—but every so often Elena would murmur something that made the air colder.
"The ground is humming."
"The shadows move when you're not looking."
"They're waiting for us under the tree."
By late afternoon, Mara's nerves felt frayed raw. She wanted to scream, to shake her sister, to beg her to stop. But something in Elena's face—detached, almost holy—kept her silent.
At six, the front door slammed open. Their parents burst in, voices sharp with anger.
"Where have you been? Why aren't you at school?" their mother barked.
Elena didn't flinch. "Because it doesn't matter."
"Excuse me?"
She stood, meeting their mother's eyes with a coldness Mara had never seen. "You care about grades. Appearances. Useless things. But you don't see what's under us. You don't hear what I hear."
Their father's voice rose. "Enough of this nonsense!"
But Elena's laughter cut him off. It wasn't her laugh. It was brittle, jagged, like glass breaking in the dark.
Mara stepped between them, trembling. "Stop it, all of you—please!"
Her words only seemed to deepen the chasm. Their parents shouted, Elena spat venom back, and Mara's heart pounded until she couldn't tell which side she was on.
Then Elena spun, storming toward the door.
"Mara," she said, her voice suddenly low, almost tender. "Come with me."
Mara hesitated, but when her sister stepped into the night, she followed.
The air outside was heavy, the sky bruised with clouds. The neighborhood lay quiet, but Mara's skin prickled with the sense of being watched.
Elena walked ahead without looking back, her steps sure, her shoulders squared. Mara trailed after, pulse thundering, until she realized where they were going.
The oak tree.
It loomed at the edge of the neighborhood, its silhouette jagged against the fading light.
And for reasons she couldn't name, Mara didn't stop her. She only followed.