Sarah found the cabin through a handwritten flyer tacked to a gas station wall. Four hundred dollars a month. Remote. No questions asked. Directions appeared in her mailbox the next day with no stamp and no return address.

She didn't ask questions either. When you're running from a man like Daryl, you take what the universe offers.

The cabin sits in a mountain hollow so deep the sun only reaches it four hours a day. Across the creek, a ruined church sags into the earth. The rent checks keep coming back uncashed. The landlord, A. Johnson, doesn't seem to exist.

The hauntings start immediately. Cabinets opening. Glasses sliding off counters. A kitchen chair that drags itself across the floor to face the church, like it's keeping watch.

Jessica, twelve years old and more perceptive than any child should need to be, figures it ...