It wasn’t paranoia.
It was a warning.
I stood up barefoot.
I grabbed my phone.
Put it on silent.
Turned on the flashlight at its lowest brightness.
Then I walked toward the wardrobe.
The wall looked perfect. Smooth.
But now I knew where to search.
I slowly ran my fingers along the paint until I felt a tiny seam—almost like a crack.
I pressed where Daniel had pressed.
Nothing.
I tried again, higher.
Nothing.
My palms were sweating.
Then I noticed something near the baseboard: a small mark, like someone had scratched it repeatedly.
I slipped my finger underneath.
Pushed.
Click.
The panel opened like an old wooden sigh.
The smell hit me immediately.
Dampness.
Mold.
Dust.
And something else.
A chemical scent.
Chlorine.
Like someone was cleaning far too much down there.
I peered inside.
The corridor was narrow and sloped downward, like a throat leading to the stomach of the house. Broken concrete steps and old pipes lined the sides.
I went down.
Each step felt like it was screaming even though I made no sound.
In the flashlight’s glow I noticed writing on parts of the wall.
Names.
Dates.
Arrows.
At the end of the corridor I heard something.
