The house was thirty thousand under market. Three bedrooms, good schools, a backyard with a swing set. The previous owners left everything behind—furniture, clothes, their whole lives.
The realtor said they'd had financial troubles. People do strange things when they're desperate. On the second day, his daughter found the radio. An old art deco thing, shoved in the back of her closet, dark wood and yellowed fabric, cord so frayed it couldn't possibly work.
Lily was four. She thought it was pretty. He let her keep it. The singing started on a Thursday. A woman's voice, soft and lilting, a lullaby that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere.
Lily said the lady lived in the radio. Said she came out at night. Said she touched her hair and it felt cold but nice. The nanny cam showed something that wasn't quite a shadow bending over his daughter's bed. Lily was getting paler. Thinner.
Something was feeding on her.
And every night, the lullaby got louder.
