It's late October in the small town of Cedar Falls, Tennessee, and Luna's friend Marie has just moved into an old farmhouse on Dogwood Lane. The house has a screened-in porch that no one uses, a root cellar that smells of damp earth, and an attic door that refuses to stay latched. Marie laughs it off at first—old houses settle, wood expands, nothing to worry about. But then the handprints start appearing. Not dusty smudges from a previous occupant, but wet prints, as if pressed from the inside of the wall. They appear on the attic door frame, on the bathroom mirror, on the back of Marie's bedroom door. Luna comes to stay for a weekend, and together they try to trace where the moisture is coming from. There's no leak, no pipe, no source. On the last night, Luna sits up alone in the dark living room and watches the door to the attic slowly push open, a thin trickle of water running down the steps. She doesn't go up. She doesn't need to. She knows that whatever is in that attic has been waiting, patient and wet, for someone to finally leave the door unlatched for long enough.