I thought I moved into a billionaire’s mansion to start over, but I’m sharing this house with a "GHOST" who is texting me from inside the walls.

Eric is 36, he's rich, and everyone thinks he's a saint because his wife, Sophia, "ran away" and he's left "broken." Sometimes I feel like Eric brought me here to replace her. After all, I wear her silk robes, drink her vintage wine. I thought I was lucky, and I was finally a billionaire.

But he has this basement "archive" with a private storage room that stayed strictly off-limits. He told me it was for "security." But I saw him tonight, and he wasn’t carrying any papers or antiques. He was carrying strange sketches and some heavy-duty materials.

When I asked, he just gave me a cold, blank look and told me he was working on a “new art installation” that I couldn’t see until it was “perfect.” He says curiosity will ruin my surprise. He’s obsessed with “reproducing perfection,” and I’m starting to think I’m just raw material. My phone just lit up. No caller ID. Just a message: “Someone’s been here all along, observing every move...” My heart skipped a beat.

I sit across from Eric, feeling like I’m going to feeling of intense dread. He pours me a glass of red wine, talking about the “permanence of beauty” with eerie calm. I play the role of the grateful, rescued girl because I have NO OTHER CHOICE. Debt collectors are at my real door; Eric is my security, but it feels like a noose.

Suddenly, a dull thud vibrates across the floor. Eric reassures me, “The foundation is settling, Maye.” Eric goes to take a shower, and my phone buzzes. I open the message and see a photo of the back of my head taken from the vent behind me!!!

Then another message: “HE LOVES A STATUE MORE THAN A GIRL.” I hear the tapping on the pipes and my phone vibrates again: “CODE 1031. BASEMENT. NOW.” I walk down the marble stairs, my bare feet freezing. One. Zero. Three. One. The steel door sighs as it opens.

I burst inside and stop breathing. Sophia stands there under the harsh spotlight. I can barely hold back a scream. She doesn’t move. I touch her hand—damn it, it’s cold silicone!!! A life-size replica. And on the walls are hair and DOZENS of rows of printed photos of me arranged with unsettling precision. Eric isn't a monster; he’s just broken in a way that scares people." Am I the next statue???

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My son became a father at 17—and when he finally admitted it was on purpose, I felt my whole body go cold.

My wife and I lived soul to soul for 30 years — until I caught her with a man young enough to be my son.

Acid rises to unease and suddenly my phone screams. A video call. I press the “Accept” button and see… MYSELF. Live feed from the ceiling. I’M BEING WATCHED. A hoarse female voice breaks through the speaker: “THE WATER HAS STOPPED. Leave now, before it's too late.”

I get out of there, but I need answers. While Eric is in the garage, I search his office. Invoices for “Silicone Face Mold” and “ Hair—Brown No. 4.” My exact shade. Am I going to disappear like Sophia? What is he preparing for?! Over dinner, I ask sharply, “Where is Sophia? Why aren’t you looking for her?” Eric’s face turns to ice.

He slams the table. “DON’T YOU DARE! You’re here because I saved you!” He storms into the basement, leaving his phone behind. I grab him. The last calls: “Sophia.” Three times today. What the hell??? I press the call button. He rings. Once. Twice. Then a melody begins to play—not from the phone, but from the vent above my head. Is it in the walls?!!

I run into the night, barefoot on the gravel, reaching the park before Eric finds me. He wraps his coat around me, his eyes soft with terrible sadness. “It was Arthur, Maya. Sophia’s father. That phone is all he had left. He begged me to build that statue. His daughter was the only joy he had.” SHAME hits me like a physical blow.

I thought he was a monster, but he’s just a man who couldn’t deny his grief. “Come on,” he whispers. “I’ll show you. There’s no obsession here.” He leads me back into the basement. The door opens. He flicks on the light. “See? Just—” He stops. The pedestal is bare. The silicone Sophia is gone. “Eric…” I whisper, my voice breaking into a scream. A figure emerges from the shadows.

Sophia steps into the light, holding her phone. “Did you like the messages, Maya?” she wheezes. She’s not a statue. She’s a ghost in a silk robe, her eyes burning with hatred. “He can’t be happy. Not without me.” She’s staged all of this. She’s lived in blind spots, watching us, terrorizing me with the cloned phone. She didn’t want him to come back; she wanted to see him suffer for moving on. I was the bait, proving he could forget her.

As Sophia stepped forward aggressively, I grab Eric’s hand. We flee, slamming the steel door and locking the “ghost” inside her own monument. We flee into the night, leaving our “perfect” lives behind.

Weeks later, in a new city, Eric is silent, scarred by the realization that his grief was a puppet show. I still check the air vents. I still wince when the phone rings. Sophia has never been found; the secret passages were empty when the police arrived. If you found a hidden door in your house tomorrow, would you open it or leave the ghosts where they belong?