The officers at the precinct hadn't found anything unusual either. An old house with ghost stories wasn't exactly groundbreaking—people even said the White House was haunted, and those politicians still fought tooth and nail to live in it.
Three days later, in the morning, Charlie brought his family of four to meet Dr. Harmon again to finalize the deal. The contract was signed. Bought.
"...Wonderful. This is truly exhilarating news," Dr. Harmon said, looking genuinely relieved. Even Mrs. Harmon—who had worn a constant gloom—finally managed a smile.
They were a typical traditional American family. Only Dr. Harmon worked, but as a psychiatrist, he was firmly in the high-earning bracket. Under normal circumstances, his income alone would have been more than enough.
But moving the children from Boston to Los Angeles, house-hunting, renovations, and new furniture—combined with the complete collapse of their marriage—had drained their savings dry. Selling the house was the only way forward; otherwise, they would be trapped there, resenting each other more with each passing day.
Dr. Harmon was eager to be done with it and loosened on the price. The final sale closed at $250,000. Notarization fees, inspections, insurance, and the maze of transfer paperwork were all handled by the real estate agent. Neither side had to worry about the details.
"I didn't expect we'd get to live in such a big house... Which room do you want?" Natasha whispered to Bella.
Bella rolled her eyes, looked around theatrically, and drawled, "Yes, yes... such a huge house... I'll take the north-facing room on the second floor."
"No! You have to change. I want that one."
"Fine, fine. Then I'll take the room Dr. Harmon's daughter is using now."
Natasha lifted her chin, thinking. "Why haven't we seen his daughter even once? Does she have some kind of personality disorder? Doesn't like meeting strangers?"
Bella replied with absolute confidence, "Maybe she's just not very good-looking. Too embarrassed to show her face? I mean, compared to my beauty, it would be awkward. Totally understandable."
Natasha pursed her lips. Her bargain-bin older sister's extreme narcissism was truly something else. This flaw really needed treatment while she was still young.
After saying their goodbyes, the four of them left, simply waiting for the agent to finish processing the paperwork. The Harmon couple also felt a surge of relief—the house was finally gone.
That night, they slept in separate rooms, each thinking about the future. The house was silent.
The elderly woman from next door slipped in through the back door, moving as if it were her own home. She passed through the kitchen side entrance and descended into the basement.
Even beneath layers of makeup, her skin was deeply wrinkled. The colorful dress didn't make her look lively at all—if anything, it made her seem grotesque.
The basement was empty. Aside from her slightly hurried breathing, there wasn't a sound.
"How long do you plan to keep hiding?" she hissed. "Disaster is already at the door. Have you all grown this dull?"
Her voice was low, sharp with irritation.
"You think the threat comes from that detective couple? And even if it did—so what?"
Another old woman, dressed like a maid, came down the stairs. The Harmons knew of her; they had always assumed she was just the housemaid. Whenever Charlie and Samantha visited, the old maid had deliberately avoided them.
Her right eye was cloudy—completely blind.
She let out a cold laugh. "Go ahead. Let that detective couple find my corpse and dig up your old crime. Wouldn't that be perfect, Mrs. Constance Langdon?"
Constance snorted with contempt. "Is that so? You wretched hag. You're only able to linger here because of me. The only reason you're not rotting with your body is because I allowed you to remain in this house!"
The old maid snapped back without mercy. "I would've rather died back then than become this abomination!"
Footsteps echoed—thump, thump, thump—and a young man in his twenties entered the basement, holding the hand of a teenage girl.
The young man wore a playful, mocking smile; the girl beside him looked tense and uneasy.
Constance lifted her chin arrogantly. "My dear son—and Miss Harmon. You're here to laugh at me too, aren't you? Thinking I look ridiculous?"
The young man replied with a grin that didn't reach his eyes. "That's your problem. If your crime gets exposed, you'll spend the rest of your life in prison—oh, sorry, I forgot your age. At most ten years. You'll die of old age before you ever leave. We won't have to see your wrinkled face again. Maybe you can brag to your cellmates about your glorious past and see if they'll 'take care' of such an important person."
He deliberately stressed "important person," dripping with sarcasm.
The old maid watched openly, savoring the moment. Constance's misery was clearly her greatest pleasure.
Miss Harmon stood stiffly, her delicate face filled with confusion. She tried to understand what they were saying—but couldn't.
Constance burst into a shrill laugh. "Yes! Yes! I am that important person! I have far more insight than you ignorant fools! Let me tell you!"
She pointed at the three in front of her—and then at the empty air around them. "And all of you who think this has nothing to do with you—listen carefully!"
She raised her chin, straightening her back. Even though her ankles and knees could no longer tolerate high heels, she still clung to her lofty posture.
"Unlike you, I've seen things—met people with abilities you can't imagine. People who can kill ghosts. They're called mediums!"
Her eyes widened. "You're all truly unlucky. The elder daughter of that detective couple is a medium—and a very strong one. She noticed all of you the moment she walked in. I watched her expression carefully. She looked at you the way a child looks at toys."
The basement, once spacious, began to crowd.
A woman and a child, their bodies covered in severe burn scars.
A noble lady in an elegant dress, a bullet hole in the back of her skull.
A surgeon wrapped tightly from head to toe.
A boy gripping a baseball bat, his face splattered with blood.
A deformed man who could only crawl along the floor.
One by one, strange, twisted "people" filled the room.
Miss Harmon's face drained of color. Her legs shook, her head tilted—and she fainted.
Constance laughed coldly. "My dear son, it seems your sweetheart doesn't know the truth yet. You didn't tell her, did you? She's already dead."