In the summer of 1986, a hoarder house on Firebrush Lane in Floyd County, Indiana, became the center of national headlines when three neglected siblings were rescued by authorities. Their parents were arrested, the home was condemned, and the children were taken into protective custody. But hidden in the background of one photograph taken that day was something no one could explain—a barefoot girl, half-shadowed near the porch steps. She wasn’t one of the Dawson children. She wasn’t mentioned in any reports. And after that day, she simply vanished.
Nearly four decades later, May Dawson, one of the rescued siblings, returns to the house that defined her childhood trauma. She’s drawn back not by nostalgia, but by a discovery—an uncropped version of that old newspaper photo. For the first time, she truly sees the girl. And this time, she can’t ignore the feeling that something about her is familiar.
The Dawson house still stands, though barely. The walls are rotted, the roof bowed like a broken spine. As May steps onto the sagging porch, memories flood back: the smell of decay, the shouting, the hands that pulled her and her siblings through piles of trash. She examines the spot where the mysterious girl once stood. There, beneath warped floorboards, she discovers a faint seam. A hidden door.
Using a crowbar, May pries it open. Beneath the porch is a shallow, pitch-black crawl space. The air reeks of mold and something far older. She shines her flashlight inside and freezes. Nestled among tattered blankets and doll fragments is a single pink canvas shoe—a child’s, dirty but intact. Along the inside wall, scratched into the wood, are four chilling words: “I am the fourth.”
The discovery sets off a chain reaction. Local police arrive, led by Detective John Howerin, a lifelong Floyd County officer who remembers the 1986 case. Forensic teams begin combing the property, and soon they uncover more than anyone expected. Beneath the porch lies a makeshift room—a dugout pit lined with claw marks, old bedding, toys, and a wooden sign reading “Princess Pit.” The walls bear desperate scratches, carved in groups of four. Whoever stayed there didn’t hide. They were kept.
The evidence begins to paint a disturbing picture: a child named Calla, erased from records, tethered to a stake in the yard, and subjected to something far darker than neglect. Among the discoveries are a crayon-written note hidden in a vent—“Dear May, you knocked back. Thank you.
I’m still waiting. I’m still here.”—and a cassette tape hidden in the walls. The recording features a man’s voice—May’s father—coldly documenting “Subject 4’s” defiance and “reinforcement cycles,” accompanied by the chilling chant of children reciting a rhyme: “One for food and two for light, three for sleep, and four for night.”
Calla wasn’t forgotten by accident. She was erased.
The deeper May digs, the more resistance she faces. Anonymous messages warn her to stop. Her brother Mark’s evasive responses suggest he remembers more than he admits. Forensics uncover a network of hidden rooms and tunnels beneath the house—spaces designed for isolation, not shelter. The truth emerges piece by piece: Calla was cataloged on index cards, marked as “unnamed” and “unregistered.” She was part of the family, but never meant to leave the house alive.
For May, this isn’t just about solving a cold case. It’s about confronting the childhood she buried, the lies she was told, and the sister whose existence was stolen. As the investigation unfolds, Floyd County faces a reckoning with a past it allowed to fade into obscurity. Detectives are reopening the case, searching for Calla’s remains, and reviewing how an entire community overlooked a child living beneath their feet.
In the end, the old Dawson house gave up its secrets—but not without a cost. For May Dawson, the discovery has rewritten everything she thought she knew about her family, her childhood, and the night she was rescued. Calla was the fourth. And she was never meant to be remembered.
