In the span of just fourteen days, thirty-seven nannies fled the Whitaker mansion perched in the hills above San Diego. Some left with tears streaming down their faces. Others slammed car doors and shouted that no amount of money justified surviving what went on inside that house.

The last nanny stumbled through the gates with her shirt torn, streaks of green paint glued into her hair, and terror in her eyes.

“This house is hell!” she screamed at the security guard when the iron gates rolled open. “Tell Mr. Whitaker he needs an exorcist, not a nanny!”

From the third-floor office, Jonathan Whitaker watched her taxi disappear down the long driveway. At thirty-six, he was the founder of a tech company valued at well over a billion pesos. In magazines he appeared confident, composed, almost untouchable. But right then, with his unshaven jaw and hollow eyes, he looked like a man completely out of his depth.

He turned toward a photo on the wall—his late wife Maribel beaming in the sunlight, surrounded by their six daughters.

“Thirty-seven in two weeks…” he muttered. “What am I supposed to do now, love? I can’t reach them. Not one of them.”

His phone buzzed. A message from his assistant, Steven:

“Sir, the last nanny agency has officially blacklisted us. They call the situation unmanageable and potentially unsafe.”

Jonathan closed his eyes slowly.

“That’s it, then. No more nannies.”

“No, sir,” Steven replied. “But we could hire a house cleaner for now. At least the house won’t fall apart while we figure out something else.”

Jonathan glanced out the window. The garden below looked like a battlefield—clothes shredded in the grass, toppled toys, and plants ripped from the soil.

“…Do it,” he said quietly. “Anyone willing to set foot in this house.”

Across the city, in a small apartment in National City, twenty-five-year-old Nora Delgado tied her curly hair into a messy bun. The daughter of immigrant parents, she spent her days cleaning homes and her nights studying child psychology at the university.

At 5:30 PM, her phone rang.

“Nora, emergency job,” her agency manager announced. “Huge mansion in San Diego. Double pay. They want you today.”

Nora looked at her worn-out sneakers and the overdue tuition bill taped to her refrigerator.

“Send the address,” she said. “I’ll be there in two hours.”

She had no idea she was walking into a house where no professional had survived longer than a day.

From the outside, the Whitaker mansion looked like something from a glossy real-estate magazine—floor-to-ceiling windows, three stories, a fountain, and a panoramic view of the city. But the guard opened the gate with a look that was somewhere between pity and warning.

“Good luck, miss,” he muttered. “Hope you make it out.”

Inside, Nora was met with the smell of spoiled food and dried paint. The walls were scribbled on. The kitchen counters were buried under dishes. Toys, clothes, and half-eaten snacks were everywhere.

Jonathan greeted her in his office. He looked exhausted, his shoulders slumped instead of squared.

“The house needs a deep clean,” he said. “And… my daughters are going through a difficult time. I’ll pay triple. But I need you to start today.”

“I’m a cleaner,” Nora replied firmly. “Not a babysitter.”

“Just cleaning,” he insisted. “The last nanny left… suddenly.”

A loud crash shook the ceiling, followed by uneasy laughter—not the innocent kind, but sharp and chaotic.

“Your daughters?” she asked.

Jonathan nodded, his expression a mix of shame, fear, and sorrow.

Moments later, six girls appeared at the top of the staircase, standing like a formation.

— Hazel (12), arms crossed, chin raised like a commander.
— Brooke (10), hair uneven as if cut with kitchen scissors.
— Ivy (9), staring with restless, calculating eyes.
— June (8), smelling faintly of urine and old paint.
— Cora & Mae (6), twins with cherub faces and unsettling smiles.
— Lena (3), clutching a one-armed doll.

Nora offered a soft smile.

“Hello. I’m Nora. I’m here only to clean.”

Silence.

“I’m not a nanny,” she added gently.

Hazel stepped forward.

“Thirty-seven before you,” she said with an icy, almost proud smile. “You’re number thirty-eight. We’ll see how long you last.”

The twins giggled, and the sound sent a cold ripple down Nora’s spine.

She didn’t respond. She went straight to the kitchen.