Out of pure curiosity, I opened a cabinet and found a drawer full of old coins, a fan made of real feathers, and a broken silver compact with something dark crusted in the hinge.
“Yeah, that’s gonna be a no from me.” I shut the drawer carefully.
My wine was dangerously low, so I headed back down to the kitchen for a refill. “Ah. Stainless steel.” I sighed as I walked in. “My modern friend.”
I refilled my glass, then took the bottle with me so I wouldn’t have to come back to the kitchen for the next refill.
“Field research requires hydration,” I told my phone. The flashlight was still on, though it was bright enough in here without it. I knew I couldn’t resist poking through the rest of the house, even as my heart rate ticked up a bit more with each room I explored.
The next hallway I found was so narrow I had to turn sideways to pass through it. “Was everyone a waif in the seventeen hundreds?”
My hand brushed the wallpaper. The pattern was faded, and underneath I could just make out the outline of a cross someone had painted over. My shoulders tensed.
“Okay, that’s not creepy at all,” I said, and instantly drank more wine.
At the end of the hall, I found a narrow staircase with a frayed rope instead of a railing. The air was colder here. My phone’s flashlight cut a weak beam through the dust.
“This feels like another solid life choice,” I muttered, taking another long sip before putting the bottle under my arm. The stairs groaned as I climbed, the sound echoing. My heart pounded, but my mouth wouldn’t stop running.
The attic was a time capsule of every horror trope I’d ever laughed at from the safety of my couch. Trunks stacked like coffins. Dolls with cracked faces. A wedding dress draped over a chair, yellowed and stiff with age.
“Exhibit A,” I said into my phone, “mannequin with no head. Exhibit B, the smell of grandma’s trauma.”
If I didn’t joke, I’d have to admit I was scared out of my mind.
The floorboards shifted under me. My flashlight caught a row of dusty portraits leaning against the wall—each one turned backward. I didn’t look closer.
“Okay,” I whispered, “quick look, then back downstairs to watch something aggressively cheerful.”
I took another step. The board under my boot creaked louder than the rest. I froze, testing it again with my weight. It gave an ominous crack.
“Sh—”
The world tilted as the plank snapped loose. My wineglass hit the floor, shattering, and wine splashed across the boards. Idropped to my knees, catching myself on the edge of the broken wood.
Something beneath shifted—a hollow sound, followed by a soft click.
A section of floor beside me lifted, hinges groaning, until a small panel popped open like a hidden door. Cold air rushed out, smelling like damp stone.
I stared into the darkness gaping up at me. “Oh, cool,” I said. “Trap doors. That’s totally normal.”
My phone, still recording, slid a few inches toward the opening.
The beam from my phone’s flashlight caught a narrow staircase leading into shadow.
“Nope,” I said firmly. “No thank you.”
I picked up my phone, steadied my wine-smeared hand, and stepped through anyway. Because apparently, I don’t make good choices when I’m scared. Or tipsy. Or alive.
The stairs ended in a small room with stone walls, cold air, and the faint smell of mildew. My flashlight beam caught on dust motes drifting through narrow cracks in the floorboards above, where slivers of light spilled down like lazy spotlights.
“Well,” I said to no one, because apparently that was my thing now, “this feels perfectly normal and not at all like a mistake.”
The space was small but deep, carved into the bones of the house. A tapestry hung crooked on one wall, its fabric stiff with age and dust, the image too faded to make out. In the middle of the room sat a massive stone coffin.
Of course there was a coffin.
It was big enough to fit two grown adults plus a male ego. The lid was covered in intricate carvings—spirals, runes, and faint lines that glistened when my flashlight swept over them. I crouched down for a better look.
