He parked his truck in the driveway and began unloading his tools. The basement work would require good lighting, measuring equipment, and his collection of pry bars and chisels for examining the foundation walls more closely. He’d also brought a digital camera to document everything he found, both for his own reference and to show Kathleen and Jerry exactly what they were dealing with.
The front door opened before he could knock. Kathleen appeared, already dressed in old jeans and a flannel shirt. “You’re an early bird,” she said, holding the door wide. “I just turned on the coffee pot.”
“Getting up early is a habit of a lifetime, and don’t worry about coffee for me. I had a cup before I left home.” Patrick replied, setting his toolbox inside the door. “I’ve been thinking about your foundation issues all week.”
“So have I,” Kathleen said with a sigh. “I hope you can find a cheaper option than tearing down half the walls.”
“We’ll know soon enough,” Patrick told her. “I thought I’d start by clearing some space in the basement. There’s a lot of stored items down there that will need to be moved before I can get a proper look at the foundation walls.”
Kathleen nodded. “Most of that stuff was left by the previous owners. I haven’t had time to go through it all yet. Some of it might be worth keeping, but honestly, I’ve been too focused on the rooms I actually live in.”
After Patrick took another load of equipment out of the back of his truck, he followed Kathleen down the wooden basement stairs. They creaked under their weight, each step announcing their descent into the house’s hidden depths. Unlike some of the rooms on the upper level, the basement had retained a lot of its original character.
“Let’s start with that workbench,” Patrick said, directing his flashlight toward the far corner. “If we can move it away from the wall, I’ll be able to examine that section of the foundation more thoroughly.”
The workbench was heavier than it looked, especially when it was loaded with decades of accumulated tools and paint cans. Patrick and Kathleen worked together to clear the surface, stacking items on nearby shelves and the floor. Some of the tools were genuinely antique—hand planes and chisels that spoke of an era when craftsmen shaped wood with patience and skill rather than power tools.
“This is a beautiful piece,” Patrick said, running his hand along the workbench’s scarred surface. “Whoever built this knew what they were doing. Look at these dovetail joints.”
Kathleen peered around his shoulder, close enough that he caught the faint scent of her shampoo—something floral and clean. “I hadn’t really noticed the construction. I’ve been so overwhelmed by everything else.”
They grasped opposite ends of the workbench and began to slide it away from the wall. The legs scraped against the concrete floor with a grinding sound that echoed in the confined space. As they maneuvered it toward the center of the room, the beam of Patrick’s flashlight swept across the newly exposed wall.
When the workbench was out of the way, Patrick frowned at the exposed wall. “That’s odd. Can you shine your flashlight over here, Kathleen?”
After she’d joined him, Patrick lifted a stack of weathered timber away from the wall.
Kathleen moved closer. “Is that a door?”
Patrick nodded. “From what I remember of the plans, it shouldn’t be there.” The concealed opening was narrow, perhaps two feet wide, and fitted so precisely into the stonework that it would have been hard to see unless someone knew where to look. The door itself appeared to be made of thick oak planks, darkened with age and moisture but still solid.
“Someone went to a lot of trouble to hide the door.” Patrick ran his fingers along the nearly invisible seam where the door met its frame. “Look at the craftsmanship in the stonework.”
The door handle was a simple iron latch, blackened with age. He tested it gently. The mechanism still worked, though it required considerable pressure to overcome years of disuse. The door swung inward with a groan of protest from the hinges.
Both flashlight beams probed the darkness beyond the threshold, revealing a small room carved directly into the earth behind the house’s foundation. The space was perhaps six feet wide and eight feet deep, with stone walls on three sides and the original foundation forming the fourth wall. The ceiling was low enough that Patrick had to duck his head as he stepped inside.
“This is incredible,” Kathleen whispered, following him into the hidden chamber.
The room contained remnants of a life from long ago. Against one wall stood a narrow wooden table. Patrick’s light revealed small glass bottles, their contents long since evaporated or crystallized. Medical instruments lay scattered across the table’s surface—forceps, scissors, and tools that could easily have been used in early medicine.
But it was the opposite wall that made both of them catch their breath. Wooden shelves held tiny garments, carefully folded and preserved despite the room’s dampness. They were baby clothes from another era. Impossibly small gowns with hand-tatted lace, knitted booties no bigger than Patrick’s thumb, and christening dresses yellowed with age.
“These are Victorian,” Kathleen said softly, lifting one of the tiny gowns with reverent fingers. “Look at the needlework. Someone spent hours making them.”
Patrick noticed papers scattered on the floor beneath the shelves, their edges curled and stained from years of moisture. He knelt carefully and gathered several sheets, trying not to damage them further. The ink had run in places, making some words illegible, but he could make out fragments of text.
“I think these are medical records,” he said, squinting at the faded writing. “Birth dates, weights... I can’t make out all of it, but it’s some kind of registry. The first entry on this page is June 15, 1887.”
As Kathleen examined more baby clothes, her flashlight revealed more drawers of tiny garments. “There are so many of them,” she said, her voice filled with wonder and sadness. “Why would someone hide all of this?”
Patrick stood slowly. “If your home was used as a normal hospital, none of this would be hidden. In the Victorian era, most women who were married would have had their babies in their own homes.”
Kathleen sighed. “But unmarried mothers and children born out of wedlock were shunned. This could have been a safe house for pregnant women.”
“That’s what I think, too. Do you know anything about the history of the building?”
Kathleen shook her head. “Not a lot. The same couple owned the house for sixty years before I bought it. I could ask Percy, the Chairperson of the Heritage Protection Society, if he knows anything. Chloe might be able to help us, too. She used to work at The Smithsonian.”
