MADISON

The new psychological horror from Manuel S. Romero—told in first-person—about dementia, inheritance, and a house that remembers more than the people who live in it.

No one talks about Grandma Rose’s last months in Millbrook: the whispers, the walls, the way she spoke to corners like someone was there. They called it dementia—dying brain, broken memory.

I’m seventeen-year-old Madison Cross, and I don’t get that excuse.

When my family moves into Rose’s crumbling house to outrun debt, I tell myself it’s just pipes, paint, and a damp basement. But rooms feel occupied. Objects shift. And some nights, I wake in the hallway holding things I don’t remember touching.

Photos lose faces. Journals lose pages. Dad forgets conversations. Mum clings to optimism like a life raft.

The house isn’t haunted by ghosts. It’s haunted by versions.

Everything on Rose’s shelves is a container—of memory, guilt, someone else’s life. Touch the wrong one and something drains out of you and settles into the house.

I’m not losing my mind. I’m being rewritten.

Millbrook isn’t a dying town. It’s an archive.

And this house isn’t where we came to heal. It’s where we came to be filed, labelled, and slowly forgotten.