Chapter 6 - Beneath the Floorboards
The scratching sound echoed again through the dining room, sharp and distinct, rising straight from the pitch-black depths of the basement. Mark froze mid-sentence, his jaw hanging open as he stared in sheer, unadulterated terror at the wooden door he had bolted only minutes before. The color completely drained from his face, leaving him looking like a corpse in his blue button-down shirt.
“That’s... that’s impossible,” Mark whispered, his voice trembling so violently he could barely form the words. “We poured the concrete. We sealed the foundation.”
Detective Miller’s hand instantly snapped down to grip the handle of his service weapon, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the perimeter of the room. He took a sharp step forward, pulling a heavy-duty tactical flashlight from his belt and clicking it on with a sharp clack.
“Mark, stay right where you are,” Miller commanded, his voice ringing with absolute authority. He turned to Clara. “Clara, take Leo into the front hallway. Now.”
Clara didn't need to be told twice. She grabbed Leo by the hand, her own fingers icy cold, and hauled the crying boy toward the safety of the foyer, her eyes fixed in morbid dread on the basement door.
Evelyn, however, didn't move an inch. She remained seated in the velvet armchair, her hands resting quietly in her lap, a strange, hollow smile playing across her pale lips. She didn't look surprised; she looked like a woman who had been waiting twenty years for a ghost to finally knock on the door.
Miller approached the basement door, keeping his gun raised at a low ready position. He reached out with his left hand, gripped the heavy iron bolt, and slid it open with a metallic rasp. He pulled the door open a crack, and a wave of damp, freezing air rushed up from below, carrying the heavy, unmistakable scent of wet earth, iron, and ancient dust.
“Who’s down there?” Miller shouted into the darkness, his voice echoing down the wooden stairwell.
For a long moment, there was absolute silence. Then, a slow, heavy footstep creaked on the wooden stairs below the concrete line.
A hand—pale, scarred, and impossibly thin—wrapped around the wooden banister near the bottom of the steps. A raspy, rattling cough broke the silence, followed by a voice that sounded like grinding stones.
“Mark... you left the back door unlocked again,” a hollow voice rasped from the dark.
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Mark let out a high-pitched, inhuman shriek, scrambling backward across the floor until he hit the opposite wall, clawing at the baseboards as if he could dig his way out of the house with his bare hands.
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