His reaction felt less like confusion and more like avoidance.
I asked another question:
“Who lived here before me?”
Several minutes passed before he replied:
“A couple. They moved suddenly.”
Suddenly.
Another vague answer.
At this point, every instinct told me something was wrong.
The Basement Door
That night, I reread the notebook carefully.
Buried between random observations, I found repeated references to “the furnace wall.”
So around midnight — which in hindsight was probably a terrible idea — I inspected the utility closet near the laundry room.
Behind stacked paint cans and an old shelf unit, I noticed faint scrape marks on the floor.
Like something heavy had been moved repeatedly.
After shifting the shelf aside, I discovered a narrow panel built into the wall.
Painted over.
Almost invisible.
My heart was pounding hard enough that I could hear it.
The panel opened inward.
Behind it was a steep staircase descending into darkness.