As I struggle to drag the heavy box of dishes up the front porch stairs, I see Eliza pulling into the driveway, beeping like a lunatic.

She hops out of her Jeep, nicknamed Jeepers, with messy black curls going in every direction. That girl loves to drive with the top off. I'm unsure how she does it, but her hair looks perfect after a one-handed swipe through her shiny locks. It's annoying. My unruly blonde mop needs a shower and a shit ton of conditioner to get a brush through it.

"Just in time, as always," I shout to her, wiping the sweat dripping into my eyes.

She grabs the other side of the box. "Here, let me help you with that. I'm sorry I'm late. Traffic downtown was worse than usual at this time of day."

I attempt to hide my smirk. This girl is never on time, and her list of excuses keeps getting longer. The traffic excuse is one of her favorites.

"You're here now and just in the nick of time. This box feels like it gained ten pounds since leaving my apartment. Let's get it inside, and we'll have a beer before you start organizing my kitchen. I need a break," I say, wiggling my brows because she hates to organize her shit, let alone help someone else.

If looks could kill, my body would be heading to the morgue. I about lost my grip on the box from laughing so hard at the expression on Eliza's face.

"You know, I'm kidding. Well, except for me needing a break and drinking a beer," I say with a cheesy grin.

She rolls her eyes, which causes me to giggle. "You better be because that's not what I signed up for. The deal was, I unpack while you organize your shit," she says matter of factly.

With the two of us carrying the loaded-down box, it feels much lighter as we go to the kitchen and place it on the floor next to the outdated, light goldenrod-colored counters. Then, I lean against it to catch my breath from the long workday.

"I'm going to look around while you get us drinks," Eliza says before slipping out of the kitchen and into the living room.

I reach into the ancient Frigidaire refrigerator, which matches the color of the counters. The old door squeaks when I open it, and I snatch two beers from the cardboard carrier.

My mind wanders to when I first got the news that my grandmother had passed and she left me her house. A smile forms on my lips as I remember our wonderful family times in this house. It seems like it was so long ago, and so much has happened since then, but one thing that hasn't changed in my twenty-seven years on this earth is this house.

Yes, this house is worn down and makes sounds that I never heard as a child. The floorboards complain each time anyone steps upon them, no matter how much you weigh. But the house has good bones. My grandfather built this home in 1964, so I know he spent a lot of time and love making this home the sturdiest and strongest house of that era.

My favorite thing about this house growing up was the sunflower wallpaper now staring back at me. My grandmother had me convinced that her kitchen was a garden. She told me that the sunflowers had come into her kitchen right before the first snowfall took place and never wanted to leave the warmth of this room. A tear strays down my cheek before I swipe it away with my hand.

I pull myself away from the kitchen and enter the living room, where I find Eliza sitting on the edge of my modern blue sofa, looking down at her phone. Both look out of place in this old home.

"Hey," I say, handing her a beer.

She looks up at me, her dark eyes searching my face. "Why didn't I know that you had a sister? Why would you lie and say that you're an only child since the day that we met in college?"

My eyes go wide in shock. "What the hell are you talking about?"

She looks heavenward, and I can tell she's upset with me because her cheeks are blushing. "Then who is the woman, who could be your twin, introduce herself to me before going upstairs?" Eliza crosses her arms, waiting for an explanation.

I have none. I don't have a sister. My mom could not have any more children after my difficult birth. Then, a thought comes bounding into my head. My birth was difficult because I was one of an identical twin who did not make it. She died during childbirth. They named her Faith, which means trust, because they trusted the angels would care for her soul. They called me Hope, which means to cherish a desire of anticipation.

My beer bottle slips from my grip and crashes onto the hardwood floor. Glass shattering in every direction. I shake my head in disbelief. A feeling of nausea washes over me, the color draining from my face. Eliza's face transforms from confusion to fear as she jumps off the couch to grab me before I fall to the floor.

She sat me on the couch and took my hand. "You're shaking, Hope, are you okay? You look like you're going to pass out."

"I need to lay down," I say, my voice trembling and barely audible.

"Of course." Eliza quickly moves everything off of the sofa onto a nearby box.

This situation doesn't make sense. My parents told me that she died during childbirth. Did they lie? Why would they lie?

I didn't even notice that Eliza left the room until I felt a cold cloth press upon my forehead. After placing it on my head, she kneeled beside the couch and began cleaning up the broken bottle and beer while I lay there with my heart racing.

Leaning back on her hunches, she looks at me and pulls her perfectly arched brows together, the look of confusion returning to her face. "If you don't have a sister, who the hell is upstairs, and why do they look just like you?"

"I had a twin," I whisper.

"What? What do you mean had?"

"Faith, she was my twin sister but died when we were born." My cracking voice sounds foreign to me.

Eliza's face now pales. "Hope, honey, that woman introduced herself as Faith."

I sat up so fast that my head was spinning. "I'm sorry, what?" I scream, unable to comprehend the words coming out of her mouth.

Eliza's eyes widen, and her face morphs into fear as she whispers, "Shhh. She'll hear us."

After regaining my composure, I strongly feel the desire to investigate the upstairs. It's like something is pulling me to go in that direction.

"Where the hell are you going," Eliza hisses. "We should be hauling ass out of here and call the police. Are you crazy?"

I glance back at my friend as I continue to approach the stairs. She doesn't move; she's frozen in fear, and I can't say I blame her. I should be just as scared, but strangely, I'm not. I'm just curious.

"I'll be right back. Don't call the police. Go outside if it would make you feel more comfortable."

Eliza immediately stands and moves towards me. "I'm not letting you go up there alone."

Her newfound strength is appreciated as she clutches my sweaty hand. Her grip is cutting off my circulation, but I don't say anything as we ascend the stairs, stopping every time we hear a step creak.

As we approach the top of the stairs, I hear a sweet, melodic hum from the room I always stayed in when visiting my grandmother. The look on Eliza's face is almost comical; her mouth presses together in a hard line, her eyes are bugging out of her head, and terror is evident on her face. My dear friend bravely nods, encouraging me to continue

We gradually make our way to the threshold. Eliza squeezes my hand before we peek into the room. A woman identical to me turns towards us, and I collapse, crumbling to the ground, darkness engulfing me.