They never lived there again. But the Broaddus family couldn't let go. Derek drove by the house every few weeks. He never stopped, never got out. Just circled slowly like a man orbiting a wound that refused to close. The new owners weren’t public about what happened. But whispers spread through the neighborhood. Contractors were seen tearing out drywall on the second floor. A local electrician claimed the wiring in the master bedroom had been “cut from the inside.” As if someone had been crawling through the walls. Then came the open house. The property sat on the market too long. The bank insisted on showing it. They staged it. Lit candles. Soft music. Real estate agent smiling. Curious couples wandered through like tourists in a haunted cathedral. One woman—a single mother with a baby in a stroller—left suddenly. Pale. Shaking. She refused to say what she saw upstairs. Just whispered something about a man in the mirror who wasn’t there when she turned around. That night, the agent found a letter under her car windshield. “You brought strangers into my temple. The house does not forget. The house does not forgive.” Two weeks later, the listing was removed. The house vanished from the MLS. As if it had never been for sale. People still report seeing things. A light that flicks on in the attic even though the power was cut. A child’s voice calling out late at night, “I’m in the walls. Come find me.” Then the letters returned. To other houses now. Not just 657. The same handwriting. The same taunts. “I see you looking. Do you think the house is the only thing I’ve claimed?” One letter was delivered to a teacher at the local elementary school. Another to a mailman. And one—to a couple in a nearby town who had never even heard of Westfield. Each letter ends the same way. “I am still watching. I always will be.” --- This is Curell’s AI Entertainment. Subscribe—before your mailbox becomes the next chapter.