“You don’t belong here,” it snarls.

Jen finds a hidden crawlspace under the stairs. Inside: a man’s belt, a torn piece of a twin’s nightgown, and a journal belonging to David Fletcher. The last entry, dated November 16th, 1987, reads: “She knows. They know. The knocking is her. It’s not a ghost. It’s a warning. If I don’t stop it, I’ll become it.”

A grainy, digital shot of a basement wall. The plaster cracks. Behind it, two small handprints. And a voice—Mira’s—whispering: