When I married Claire, moving into her cozy home with her two daughters felt like everything had finally come together. The house had character—worn wooden floors, lace curtains, and the warm scent of vanilla candles drifting through every room. Emma and Lily, full of laughter and endless energy, made every hallway come alive, while Claire brought a sense of calm and grace that tied it all together. It was peaceful. Almost perfect.
Except for the basement.
There was nothing unusual about the door—just a simple white one tucked at the end of the hallway. But it always caught my attention. The girls glanced at it more than they should, their conversations quickly shifting when they noticed me noticing. Claire never brought it up. It was as if it didn’t exist.
One evening, as I set the table, Emma followed me into the kitchen. “Do you ever wonder what’s in the basement?” she asked. I nearly dropped a plate. I chuckled and brushed it off—maybe it was full of storage boxes, or perhaps it was a place for monsters or treasure in a child’s imagination. She just smiled and walked away.
The next morning, during breakfast, Lily dropped her spoon and casually said, “Daddy hates loud noises.” Her words sent a chill through me. Claire had mentioned the girls’ father was “gone,” and I’d always assumed that meant he had passed. But now, even that felt uncertain.
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