PART I: THE HOUSE THAT SCREAMED

The Menanza–Albury mansion used to glow.

Not the artificial glow of chandeliers or marble floors polished to perfection, but the warm, living kind—the kind that comes from laughter echoing down hallways, from music drifting out of open windows, from children running barefoot through rooms that felt safe.

That glow died the day Clarice Mendonza Albury died.

A year later, the house still stood—three stories of stone and glass in the hills of Bel Air—but it no longer lived.

It screamed.

The screaming began just after noon on a Tuesday.

The 37th nanny ran.

She burst through the front doors with a sound somewhere between a sob and a scream, her uniform torn at the shoulder, streaks of green paint dripping down her gray-streaked hair. One shoe was missing. Her purse dangled uselessly from her arm.

“I’m never coming back to this hell!” she shouted at the security guard, who fumbled with the electronic gate. “Not for all of his money!”

The gate slid open. She didn’t look back.

Inside the house, six girls watched from the top of the staircase.

Their faces were pale, their expressions unreadable.

Except for the oldest.

Marianne Albury, twelve years old, stood with her arms crossed and her jaw clenched tight. Her dark eyes followed the fleeing woman with cold satisfaction.

“That makes thirty-seven,” she said quietly.

Behind her, the twins—Beatrice and Bianca, six and identical down to the mischievous tilt of their heads—giggled in unison.

“She didn’t even last two days,” Bianca whispered.

“We said she wouldn’t,” Beatrice replied.

Laura, ten, stood slightly apart, her fingers twitching toward her hair. She resisted the urge—barely.

Julia, nine, hovered near the wall, her chest rising and falling too fast, as if the chaos itself stole her breath.

Sophia, eight, hugged her stuffed bear so tightly its seams strained.

And at the bottom of the stairs, barely visible from above, little Isabella—three years old—sat silently on the floor, clutching a one-armed doll and staring at nothing at all.

No one cheered.

No one celebrated.

They never did.

Because this wasn’t victory.

It was survival.

Richard Mendonza Albury watched the nanny’s taxi disappear through the gates from the window of his home office.

Thirty-six years old. Billionaire founder of Mendech. Featured on magazine covers. Praised for his vision, his discipline, his control.

And utterly powerless inside his own home.

“Thirty-seven,” he murmured.

His voice sounded strange to his own ears—empty, hollow.

He turned away from the window and looked at the framed photograph on his desk.

Clarice.

Her smile hadn’t faded with time. Long dark hair. Gentle eyes. One arm wrapped around Isabella, the other pulling the older girls close. Alive. Radiant.

“What am I doing wrong?” he whispered. “They won’t let anyone near them. They won’t let me near them.”

His phone buzzed.

Augustus, his personal assistant.

Richard answered without enthusiasm. “Yes?”

There was a pause on the other end. Then Augustus spoke carefully. “Sir… the last nanny agency has declined.”

Declined was a polite word.

“They said the case is… how did they put it?” Augustus hesitated. “Impossible. And potentially dangerous.”

Richard closed his eyes.

“So that’s it,” he said quietly. “We’re officially out of professional nannies.”

“Yes, sir.”

Silence stretched between them.

“However,” Augustus added, “there is one alternative.”

Richard rubbed his temples. His head throbbed constantly these days—lack of sleep, constant worry.

“I’m listening.”

“A domestic housekeeper,” Augustus said. “Not a nanny. Someone to clean, organize. No childcare responsibilities. Just… restore some order while we reassess.”

Richard glanced again out the window.

The garden was a mess. Toys abandoned in the grass. Clothing caught on bushes. Evidence of chaos everywhere.

“Do it,” he said finally. “Hire someone. Anyone willing to walk into this house.”

Two hours later, across the city, Louisa Olive caught her third bus of the morning.

She was twenty-five. Dark-skinned, with tight curls pulled into a practical bun. Her jeans were worn but clean. Her backpack—frayed at the seams—held notebooks, cleaning gloves, and a psychology textbook marked with neon sticky notes.

Her alarm had gone off at 5:30 a.m.

It always did.

Louisa worked days cleaning houses and studied child psychology at night. Tuition was overdue again. Rent loomed. Sleep was optional.

Her phone buzzed.

Unknown number.

“Hello?”

“Louisa? This is Maribel from the agency. We have an emergency placement. Mansion in Bel Air. Double pay.”

Louisa hesitated.

Bel Air was far. The buses alone would take nearly two hours.

But double pay meant she could cover her next tuition installment.

“What kind of work?” she asked.

“Housekeeping only. The client needs someone today.”

Louisa stared out the bus window at the city rushing past.

“Send me the address,” she said. “I’ll be there.”

She had no idea she was walking into a war zone.

The taxi stopped in front of iron gates taller than anything Louisa had ever seen.

Menanza–Albury Estate.

She stepped out, adjusting the strap of her backpack, feeling suddenly small.

The house loomed ahead—beautiful, imposing, and strangely… quiet.

The security guard eyed her with a mix of pity and disbelief.

“You the new one?” he asked.

“Yes,” Louisa replied calmly.

He pressed the button to open the gate. “Good luck.”

Inside, six pairs of eyes watched from behind the staircase railing.

“Another one,” Marianne muttered.

“She looks younger,” Bianca whispered.

“Poor thing,” Beatrice added.

“She won’t last till lunch,” Marianne said flatly.

Richard met Louisa in his office.

He barely explained anything.

Just that the house needed cleaning. That the children were… difficult. That the pay would be triple her normal rate.

“I want to be clear,” Louisa said gently. “I’m not here as a nanny.”

“Of course not,” Richard replied quickly. “Just cleaning. Nothing more.”

As she signed the temporary contract, a loud crash echoed from upstairs, followed by laughter.

Louisa looked up. “Your daughters?”

Richard nodded, exhaustion flickering across his face.

“They lost their mother last year.”

Something tightened in Louisa’s chest.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly.

Richard looked at her, surprised by the sincerity in her voice.

The moment he left, the silence shifted.

Louisa felt it before she saw them.

Six girls stood on the staircase like sentries.

“Hello,” Louisa said. “I’m Louisa. I’m here to clean.”

No response.

“I’m not a nanny,” she added. “I won’t tell you what to do.”

Marianne stepped forward.

“Thirty-seven,” she said coldly. “You’re number thirty-eight.”

The twins grinned.

Louisa nodded once. “Then I’ll start with the kitchen.”

As she walked away, she heard Marianne whisper:

“Prepare the spider.”

Louisa smiled—not in fear.

But in recognition.

She had seen those eyes before.

In the mirror.

PART II: THE GIRL WHO NEVER SCREAMED

The kitchen was too big for grief.

Granite counters stretched like airport runways. Two ovens built into the wall. A refrigerator taller than Louisa. Cabinets that looked like they belonged in a showroom—if showrooms could somehow smell like sour milk and old takeout.

It wasn’t just messy.

It was abandoned.

Louisa set her backpack on the floor and stood still for a second, letting her senses map the room. The air carried a heavy sweetness—spilled soda, something rotting in the trash. A sticky film clung to the counter. There were crumbs everywhere, like the house itself had started to crumble and no one cared enough to sweep.

She pulled on rubber gloves.

Then she noticed the photographs.

They were stuck to the refrigerator with magnets shaped like little stars and hearts. A woman with long dark hair and a gentle smile hugged six girls on a beach. Another photo showed the same woman in a hospital bed, cheeks hollowed, still smiling—still holding Isabella like she was the last safe thing in the world.

Louisa leaned closer and read the name scribbled in neat handwriting beneath one of the magnets.

Clarice.

Louisa swallowed.

Even in pictures, Clarice seemed… present. Like the kind of mother who didn’t just love her children, but saw them—held them—anchored them.

And now she was gone.

The kitchen felt colder because of it.

Louisa started working.

She didn’t rush. Didn’t sigh dramatically. Didn’t mutter complaints like other cleaners did when they thought no one listened. She moved with quiet purpose, as if cleaning wasn’t humiliation but a kind of order she could bring into chaos with her own two hands.

She filled the sink with hot water and soap. Started with dishes. Plates crusted with dried pasta. Cups with sticky rings. Plastic containers with lids missing.

A sound came from the doorway.

Louisa didn’t turn immediately.

She already knew someone was there.

Small feet. No shuffle of impatience. No giggle.

Just… stillness.

Louisa rinsed a plate, then glanced over her shoulder.

Isabella stood in the doorway.

Three years old. Too thin. Hair slightly tangled. Her eyes were large and dull—not curious, not mischievous. Just tired in a way children should never be.

She didn’t speak.

Louisa softened her voice. “Hi, sweetheart.”

Isabella blinked once.

Louisa didn’t try to coax her closer. Didn’t do the usual adult thing—Smile! What’s your name? Do you want to help?—the kind of forced brightness that can feel like an attack when your heart is hurting.

Instead, Louisa simply went back to the sink.

“You can stay,” she said. “I don’t mind.”

Isabella stayed.

Minutes passed. Ten. Fifteen.

Louisa cleaned steadily, letting the sound of running water fill the silence like a blanket.

Then she noticed something taped to the side of the fridge.

A list.

Old paper, yellowed at the edges. Handwriting so delicate it looked like it had been written with love.

Girls’ Favorites

Marianne: grilled cheese + tomato soup, extra pepper

Laura: spaghetti with basil, no mushrooms

Julia: mac and cheese, cut small

Sophia: chicken rice soup, warm

Beatrice & Bianca: pancakes, syrup on the side

Isabella: banana pancake, teddy bear shape, chocolate syrup

Louisa’s chest tightened again.

A mother made that list. A mother who memorized the way each child needed food to feel safe.

Louisa looked at Isabella again.

The little girl’s gaze was fixed on Louisa’s hands, like she was watching someone build something fragile.

Louisa washed her hands, dried them, and opened the cabinets.

There was flour. A half-empty carton of milk. Bananas bruising in a bowl.

Louisa didn’t announce what she was doing.

She simply began.

Mash banana. Mix batter. Heat pan.

The smell of warm banana and butter slowly pushed out the stale odor of neglect.

Isabella’s nostrils flared slightly.

Louisa made two pancakes, carefully shaping the second one into a teddy bear with rounded ears.

When she finished, she placed the plate on the table—teddy bear pancake in the center, a small swirl of chocolate syrup on top.

Then she walked away.

On purpose.

She went back to wiping cabinets, as if the plate didn’t matter.

Out of the corner of her eye, she watched.

Isabella didn’t move at first.

Then—slowly—she stepped forward.

She climbed into a chair with careful effort, like her body wasn’t used to deciding anything. She leaned close to the pancake and sniffed.

Her tiny fingers touched the edge.

She pinched off a piece.

For a second, Louisa thought she might drop it.

But Isabella brought it to her mouth.

Bit down.

Chewed.

Swallowed.

Louisa didn’t gasp. Didn’t rush over. Didn’t clap.

She simply kept cleaning, blinking hard as emotion pressed behind her eyes.

Because she understood what that bite meant.

It wasn’t food.

It was trust.

Upstairs, the twins were preparing their trap.

They had done this so many times it was almost a ritual.

Beatrice tiptoed through the hallway, holding a giant plastic spider with legs long enough to make even an adult recoil. Bianca carried the cleaning bucket they’d stolen from the laundry room.

They crouched in the bathroom together, whispering.

“Put it at the bottom,” Beatrice said.

“No, on top,” Bianca replied. “So she sees it right away.”

“Bottom is better,” Beatrice insisted. “She’ll put her hand in and scream.”

Bianca giggled. “Okay, bottom.”

They placed the spider inside the bucket, covered it with a rag, and hid behind the open door.

They waited.

Waited.

Finally, footsteps approached.

Soft, steady footsteps.

The door creaked open.

Louisa entered, humming quietly—something low and gentle, like a lullaby from far away.

The twins stiffened.

She set the bucket down, lifted the rag—

And saw the spider.

The twins held their breath.

This was the moment.

The scream. The panic. The adult weakness.

But Louisa didn’t scream.

She didn’t even flinch.

She simply stared at the spider for a second as if examining a curious object.

Then she lifted it out.

Turned it over in her gloved hand.

And smiled—small and almost amused.

She walked to the door, not looking behind it.

She spoke softly, but not in a sweet baby voice. A real voice.

“You know,” she said, “this one’s pretty convincing.”

A pause.

Then she added, “But I’ve been afraid of worse things than plastic spiders.”

Behind the door, Beatrice and Bianca froze.

Louisa stepped closer.

“You can come out,” she said calmly. “I’m not mad.”

There was no way she could know exactly where they were—

And yet she did.

Slowly, the twins peeked out.

Their identical smiles wavered when they saw Louisa holding the spider like it was nothing.

“Aren’t you scared?” Bianca blurted.

Louisa crouched to their eye level and handed the spider back.

“I can be scared,” she said gently. “But I don’t let fear make my decisions.”

Beatrice narrowed her eyes. “Everyone’s scared.”

Louisa nodded, as if that was the most obvious truth in the world.

“Yeah,” she said. “Especially people who pretend they aren’t.”

The twins stared at her like she’d said something dangerous.

Something that hit too close.

Louisa stood up, still calm.

“You can keep your spider,” she added. “Just don’t leave it where someone might slip and get hurt. Deal?”

The twins didn’t answer.

They just watched her walk away.

And for the first time in two weeks, they didn’t laugh.

Late afternoon, Louisa was scrubbing paint stains off the hallway wall when she heard footsteps behind her.

Not the twins.

Heavier. Slower.

Marianne.

“You’re still here,” Marianne said.

Louisa didn’t turn immediately. “It’s only four.”

Marianne’s voice tightened. “They always leave before the day ends.”

Louisa finally looked at her.

Up close, Marianne looked older than twelve. Not because she was tall—she wasn’t—but because grief had sharpened her face. Her eyes held a kind of exhausted authority. Like she’d been forced to grow teeth just to survive.

Louisa wiped her hands on her apron. “Do you want something?”

Marianne scoffed. “I want you to go.”

Louisa nodded like she’d heard this before. “Okay.”

Marianne blinked, thrown off. “Okay?”

“I mean,” Louisa said, voice steady, “I hear you. You want me to go.”

Marianne’s eyes narrowed. “Then why aren’t you leaving?”

Louisa’s gaze softened.

Because there was an answer Marianne wasn’t ready for.

Not yet.

So Louisa gave the truth, but in a way that didn’t force Marianne to hold it all at once.

“Because I’m not here to replace anyone,” Louisa said. “And I’m not here to fight you.”

Marianne’s jaw clenched. “You don’t get it.”

Louisa nodded again. “Maybe not all of it.”

A beat.

Then Louisa added quietly, “But I know what it’s like to lose someone and feel like the world keeps moving like it didn’t matter.”

Marianne’s expression flickered. Just a crack.

“You don’t know anything about my mom,” she snapped.

“No,” Louisa agreed, “I don’t.”

She turned back to the wall.

“But I know what grief does to a house.”

Marianne didn’t respond.

She stood there a moment longer, then stormed away.

But her footsteps were less confident than when she’d arrived.

At 5:15, Louisa packed up.

The kitchen shone. The trash was out. The sticky film was gone from the counters. The air smelled like clean soap and something faintly sweet—banana and butter.

As she walked toward the front door, she felt eyes on her again.

All six girls stood by the staircase.

Even Isabella.

The twins looked confused, like their usual weapons weren’t working.

Laura’s fingers hovered near her hair, but she didn’t pull. Not right then.

Julia’s shoulders were raised with tension, but her breathing was slower than earlier.

Sophia clutched her bear. Her cheeks were pink—shame, fear, both.

And Marianne stood front and center, chin lifted, trying to look like a soldier.

“You’re leaving,” Marianne said.

“Yes,” Louisa replied. “I have class.”

Marianne’s eyes flashed. “So you’re not coming back.”

Louisa paused, then answered simply.

“I’ll be here at eight tomorrow.”

Something moved across the staircase like a wave.

Hope, quickly disguised as suspicion.

The twins exchanged glances.

Sophia’s grip on her bear loosened slightly.

Isabella stared at Louisa like she couldn’t believe adults could come back on purpose.

Marianne swallowed.

“It won’t matter,” she said, voice hardening again. “No one stays.”

Louisa stepped closer—not too close, not invading.

She met Marianne’s eyes.

“Some people understand pain better than others,” Louisa said softly.

Then she added, like a promise, “See you tomorrow, Marianne.”

The oldest girl flinched slightly—almost invisible.

Because Louisa had said her name like it mattered.

Not like a problem.

Not like an enemy.

Like a person.

Louisa opened the door and walked out.

The gate closed behind her with a quiet mechanical hiss.

In the taxi, as Bel Air disappeared in the rearview mirror, Louisa stared at her hands.

They were sore. Her back ached. She would get maybe four hours of sleep before waking up for class again.

But her chest felt… strange.

Heavy.

And alive.

Because she’d seen it—beneath the cruelty, beneath the traps, beneath the screaming.

Six girls drowning in the same ocean.

And one man watching from a window, helpless.

Louisa leaned her head back against the seat.

She whispered to no one, “Clarice… they miss you so much.”

And somewhere deep inside, where her own grief lived like an old scar, something shifted.

Not healed.

But awakened.

Back at Mendech, Richard sat through a board meeting with his phone face up beside him.

He waited for the inevitable call.

The security guard’s hurried voice. Augustus apologizing. Another resignation.

But the phone stayed silent.

Hour after hour.

No call.

No disaster.

At 6:40 p.m., he finally couldn’t take it.

He ended the meeting early.

Drove home.

When he opened the front door, the smell hit him first.

Not smoke.

Not chaos.

Food.

Something homemade.

Something that reminded him of Clarice cooking late at night while humming to herself.

Richard walked into the kitchen and froze.

It was clean.

Not showroom-clean. Not artificial.

Real clean. Lived-in clean. Peaceful clean.

And on the table, he saw a plate with a half-eaten banana pancake.

A teddy bear shape.

His throat tightened.

He didn’t understand why this broke him more than all the screaming ever had.

But it did.

Then he saw Louisa.

She was wiping her hands, ready to leave.

“Good evening, Mr. Mendonza,” she said softly. “The house is in order. I… made something simple. I hope you don’t mind.”

Richard stared at her like she was a mystery he couldn’t solve.

“You cooked?” he managed.

Louisa shrugged. “The fridge was almost empty. But Isabella… she ate.”

Richard’s breath caught.

“She ate?”

Louisa nodded, her eyes calm, but something gentle glowed there.

“Just a little,” she said. “But she chose to.”

Richard opened his mouth.

No words came out.

Because thank you didn’t feel big enough.

And yet it was all he had.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

Louisa nodded once, like she accepted the gratitude without needing it to become a performance.

“I’ll be back tomorrow at eight,” she said.

Richard watched her leave.

And for the first time in a year, he realized something dangerous.

Something hopeful.

Maybe this house didn’t have to stay a grave forever.

Maybe… someone had finally walked in who wasn’t trying to fight his daughters.

Someone who was simply—quietly—staying.