For two years, Emily was more than a roommate—she was a friend. Bright, kind, always humming indie songs and baking late-night treats, she brought warmth to our little house. Then one day, she vanished without a trace. Her phone was off, her car was abandoned nearby, and her purse sat untouched on the counter.
The search began, but answers never came. Time passed; flyers faded. Emily’s parents, crushed by grief, eventually moved away. I stayed, haunted by the silence, trying to live as though life hadn’t split open. Her room remained untouched, a quiet shrine to what once was.
Years later, as I prepared to sell the house, I finally faced her room. Dust clung to the memories: her posters, her favorite mug. While moving her heavy dresser, I uncovered a patch of wallpaper covering a small hole in the wall. Curiosity led me to reach inside—what I found changed everything.
Old Polaroids—first joyful, then horrifying—revealed a terrible truth. Images of Emily bound and terrified, a figure lurking in shadow. The final photo chilled my blood: a sign reading “SHE SHOULDN’T HAVE LOOKED.” That night, I fled. The police reopened the case. Beneath the shed, they found a hidden basement. Emily’s story had never ended—only been buried. But now, it was finally heard.