The House at the End of Mercy Street
A real estate agent finds a house that wasn’t there the day before — and that no one seems willing to acknowledge.
Claire Monahan prided herself on knowing every house in town.
As the top real estate agent for thirty miles, she could tell you the color of every shutter, the year every foundation was poured.
But Mercy Street?
There had never been a number 131.
Until today.
The house stood at the very end of the street, where there should have been a cul-de-sac: a grand, three-story Victorian with black iron gates and gables sharp as knives.
No listing.
No for sale sign.
Just an open door, beckoning.
Curious — and sensing opportunity — Claire approached.
Inside, the house smelled of lilacs and something faintly metallic.
The rooms were perfectly furnished, as if awaiting guests.
On the mantelpiece, she found a dusty photo:
Her.
Standing in the foyer, smiling — holding keys she had never seen before.
Chills crept up her spine.
A sound echoed from upstairs: slow, deliberate footsteps.
Claire backed away, heart hammering.
When she turned to leave, the front door was gone.
Only a blank, endless hallway stretched before her, lined with portraits of herself in clothes she didn’t own, smiling expressions that didn’t reach her eyes.
Behind her, the footsteps grew closer.
The last thing she heard before the lights blinked out was her own voice, whispering from somewhere just beyond the dark:
"Welcome home, Claire."
As the top real estate agent for thirty miles, she could tell you the color of every shutter, the year every foundation was poured.
But Mercy Street?
There had never been a number 131.
Until today.
The house stood at the very end of the street, where there should have been a cul-de-sac: a grand, three-story Victorian with black iron gates and gables sharp as knives.
No listing.
No for sale sign.
Just an open door, beckoning.
Curious — and sensing opportunity — Claire approached.
Inside, the house smelled of lilacs and something faintly metallic.
The rooms were perfectly furnished, as if awaiting guests.
On the mantelpiece, she found a dusty photo:
Her.
Standing in the foyer, smiling — holding keys she had never seen before.
Chills crept up her spine.
A sound echoed from upstairs: slow, deliberate footsteps.
Claire backed away, heart hammering.
When she turned to leave, the front door was gone.
Only a blank, endless hallway stretched before her, lined with portraits of herself in clothes she didn’t own, smiling expressions that didn’t reach her eyes.
Behind her, the footsteps grew closer.
The last thing she heard before the lights blinked out was her own voice, whispering from somewhere just beyond the dark:
"Welcome home, Claire."
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