I reached the panel to my room, crawled out, closed it, and pushed the wardrobe against the wall….-HONGNGOC

That night, I finally understood.

It wasn’t paranoia.

It was a warning.

I got out of bed barefoot.

I grabbed my phone.

I put it on silent.

I turned on the flashlight at minimum brightness.

Then I walked to the wardrobe.

The wall looked perfect. Smooth.

But now I knew where to look.

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 up.

Nothing.

My palms were sweating.

Then I noticed something near the baseboard: a small mark, as if someone had scratched it repeatedly.

I slipped my finger underneath.

I pushed.

Click.

 

The panel opened like an old wooden sigh.

The smell hit me immediately.

Dampness.

Mold.

Dust.

And something else.

A chemical smell.

Chlorine.

As if someone had been cleaning too much down there.

I looked inside.

The passageway was narrow and sloped downward, like a throat leading into the belly of the house. Broken concrete steps and old pipes lined the sides.

I went down.

Each step felt like a scream, though it made no sound.

In the flashlight’s beam, I saw something written on parts of the wall.

Names.

Dates.

Arrows.

At the end of the passageway I heard something.

Voices.

Whispers.

I stopped, pressing myself against the wall.

And then I saw it.

A yellow light filtered through a crack.

I crept closer.

Another door.

A metal door with a lock.

Behind it… a room.

Shelves.

Boxes.

Folders.

And…

Photographs.

Photos of my house, but taken from inside.