Chapter 2: The Man in the Basement
The lights went out.
For three seconds, there was nothing.
No hallway.
No walls.
No Margaret.
Only darkness.
Then I heard breathing.
Slow.
Heavy.
Close.
I pressed one hand against my belly and reached blindly for Margaret.
“Don't move,” she whispered.
A floorboard creaked beneath us.
Then another.
Someone was coming up the basement stairs.
I could hear the faint scrape of shoes against wood.
My heart hammered so violently I thought the person downstairs would hear it.
“Margaret…”
“I know.”
“Who is that?”
She didn't answer.
The footsteps stopped.
Silence.
Then a man's voice came from the darkness.
“Claire?”
My blood froze.
It was Travis.
Again.
But this time the voice wasn't coming from outside.
It was coming from the hallway.
From only a few feet away.
“Claire, it's me.”
I backed into the wall.
“No.”
Margaret grabbed my hand.
“Don't answer.”
“Why?”
“Because he wants you to.”
The voice came again.
“Claire, please. I know you're scared.”
I squeezed my eyes shut.
It sounded exactly like my husband.
Every pause.
Every breath.
Every tiny weakness in his voice.
But Margaret was shaking.
And Margaret had already told me the impossible.
The man standing outside wasn't Travis.
The man in the basement had Travis's watch.
And now someone was speaking to us in his voice.
Then something slammed against the front door.
BANG!
I screamed.
“Claire!”
The voice outside was still there.
“Open the door!”
Another bang.
“Claire!”
Margaret pulled me toward the kitchen.
“We need another exit.”
“There isn't one.”
“There has to be.”
“No!”
I pointed toward the basement.
“That's the only other way out.”
Margaret stared at the dark doorway.
Then she looked at me.
“Then we're going through the basement.”
I almost laughed.
It was the kind of laugh people make when terror becomes too large for the body to contain.
“You're insane.”
“Maybe.”
She grabbed my arm.
“But staying here is worse.”
We took one step.
Then another.
My bare foot touched the first basement stair.
Cold air rose from below.
It smelled like damp concrete.
And something else.
Something metallic.
Blood.
I stopped.
“Do you smell that?”
Margaret nodded.
“Yes.”
We descended.
Halfway down, another contraction struck.
My fingers clawed into the railing.
I bit down on my sleeve to keep from screaming.
“Don't push,” Margaret whispered.
“I can't control it.”
“You can. Breathe.”
The pain passed.
I opened my eyes.
At the bottom of the stairs, the darkness seemed thicker.
Margaret pulled a small flashlight from her bag.
She switched it on.
The beam swept across the basement.
Boxes.
Old furniture.
A workbench.
Then it stopped.
I saw the wall.
And I stopped breathing.
There were photographs everywhere.
Dozens.
Maybe hundreds.
Photographs of me.
I stared at them.
Me leaving work.
Me grocery shopping.
Me sitting in a café.
Me walking beside Travis.
Me sleeping.
My hands began to shake.
“How long has this been happening?”
Margaret didn't answer.
I stepped closer.
One photograph showed me at the hospital during my twenty-week ultrasound.
Another showed me standing outside our house.
Another showed me eight months pregnant.
Every picture had a date.
Every picture had a time.
Someone had been watching me.
For months.
Maybe years.
Then I saw one photograph that made my knees nearly give out.
It showed me sleeping in our bedroom.
The date was two nights ago.
But Travis had been lying beside me that night.
I turned toward Margaret.
“He was taking these.”
She shook her head.
“No.”
“Who else could it be?”
“Look at the camera angle.”
I did.
The photograph had been taken from inside our bedroom closet.
From the exact spot where Travis kept his old hunting equipment.
My stomach turned.
Margaret pointed at another picture.
“This one.”
I picked it up.
It showed me standing in the kitchen.
Behind me, reflected in the window, was a man.
I couldn't see his face.
But I could see his hand.
And on his wrist was a silver watch.
Travis's watch.
I dropped the photograph.
“He was here.”
Margaret nodded.
“He never left.”
A noise came from upstairs.
Footsteps.
Someone had entered the house.
Margaret immediately turned off the flashlight.
We stood in complete darkness.
The footsteps moved across the hallway.
Slowly.
Then stopped above us.
A man's voice called down.
“Claire?”
I covered my mouth.
“Come upstairs.”
The voice sounded like Travis.
Again.
“I'm sorry.”
My eyes filled with tears.
That was exactly what Travis would say.
Exactly how he would say it.
“I made a mistake.”
Margaret leaned close to my ear.
“Don't believe him.”
“Why?”
“Because your husband never apologizes.”
A cold chill ran through me.
She was right.
Travis never apologized.
Not when he ignored me.
Not when Deborah insulted me.
Not when he left me crying.
Not when he shoved my hand away.
He always said I was too sensitive.
The footsteps moved toward the basement stairs.
Margaret squeezed my hand.
We were trapped.
Then the man started walking down.
One step.
Two.
Three.
His shadow appeared on the wall.
I held my breath.
He reached the bottom.
The flashlight remained off.
I could see only the outline of his body.
Tall.
Broad shoulders.
Familiar posture.
Then he stepped into a thin beam of moonlight coming through a basement window.
My heart stopped.
It was Travis.
His face.
His clothes.
His wedding ring.
Everything.
He looked directly at me.
“Claire.”
I couldn't move.
He smiled.
“Why are you hiding?”
Margaret stepped in front of me.
The man looked at her.
His expression changed.
“Margaret.”
She stiffened.
“You know me.”
He smiled again.
“Of course I do.”
Then he looked at me.
“You shouldn't have come here.”
I whispered:
“Where is my husband?”
His smile disappeared.
“You really don't understand what's happening, do you?”
“Where is Travis?”
He took one step toward me.
Margaret raised the flashlight like a weapon.
“Stay back.”
The man laughed.
“Still protecting her?”
Margaret's face became pale.
“You killed him?”
“No.”
He looked at me.
“Not yet.”
My stomach dropped.
“Where is he?”
The man pointed toward the wall.
At first I didn't understand.
Then I noticed something.
One of the wooden panels was slightly open.
Behind it was a narrow doorway.
My eyes widened.
“No…”
The man said quietly:
“Your husband is behind that wall.”
I rushed toward it.
Margaret grabbed me.
“Don't!”
But I was already pulling the panel open.
A terrible smell escaped.
I covered my mouth.
Inside was a tiny room.
A chair.
Chains.
A table.
And a phone.
The screen was glowing.
One missed call.
From Travis.
My husband's number.
I stared at it.
Then the phone rang.
The sound echoed through the basement.
The man behind us smiled.
“Go ahead.”
My hand trembled as I picked it up.
“Travis?”
Static.
Then breathing.
A weak voice finally whispered:
“Claire…”
I nearly collapsed.
“Travis! Where are you?”
His breathing became frantic.
“Listen to me.”
“I'm listening.”
“Don't trust the woman with you.”
I looked at Margaret.
She went completely still.
Travis continued.
“She knows what they did.”
Margaret's eyes filled with tears.
“Travis, what are you talking about?”
His voice cracked.
“Claire…”
The line went silent.
“Travis?”
Nothing.
Then a final whisper came through.
“They're not coming for the babies.”
I stopped breathing.
“What?”
“They're coming for you.”
The call disconnected.
For several seconds, nobody moved.
Then Margaret whispered:
“I was afraid he'd tell you.”
I slowly turned toward her.
“What did he mean?”
She didn't answer.
I stepped closer.
“What did they do to me?”
Margaret looked at my pregnant belly.
Then at the man standing behind us.
And finally at the locked room.
“You need to know the truth before your babies are born.”
“What truth?”
She swallowed.
“Those twins…”
Her voice broke.
“They may not be Travis's children.”
The man behind us suddenly lunged forward.
May you like
Margaret screamed.
And somewhere upstairs, the front door exploded inward.
