When Amber Hall walked into the four-bedroom house in Centennial, Colorado, she thought she’d finally found everything she’d worked her life for:
space for her children, a yard for her dogs, and the sense of security that only a first home can bring. After weeks of searching, she felt a spark of hope the moment she stepped inside. But that hope began to flicker the day she started unpacking. One of her dogs froze—body low, eyes fixed on a small patch of wall near the garage door. Amber knelt beside him, expecting a spider. Instead, she watched two serpentine bodies slide upward through tiny holes in the drywall, disappearing like smoke. Her stomach dropped. This wasn’t a housewarming. It was a warning.