Chapter 1 - Ryan Mercer knew something was wrong before he opened the front door.The house was too quiet.
Usually, at six in the evening, there were sounds waiting for him. The television murmuring from the living room. Emily laughing at something on her phone. Noah running through the hallway even after being told a hundred times not to run inside.
Tonight, there was nothing.
Ryan stepped inside and dropped his keys into the wooden bowl by the entrance.
“Emily?”
No answer.
He loosened his tie.
“Noah?”
Still nothing.
Then he heard a soft scraping sound.
Not from upstairs.
From the kitchen.
Ryan walked toward it.
He stopped in the doorway.
His seven-year-old son was lying flat on his stomach beside the kitchen floor grate.
Noah had one hand beneath the metal slats.
In the other hand was a small piece of bread.
Ryan stared.
“What are you doing?”
Noah jerked around so violently that the bread fell from his fingers.
His face had gone white.
“Dad…”
Ryan stepped closer.
“Why are you on the floor?”
Noah looked at the grate.
Then toward the hallway.
Then back at his father.
“She told me not to tell you.”
Ryan frowned.
“Who?”
Noah swallowed.
“The girl.”
Ryan felt something cold move through his chest.
“What girl?”
Noah’s eyes filled with tears.
“The little girl down there.”
Ryan laughed once, nervously, because the alternative was impossible.
“There’s nobody down there.”
Noah shook his head.
“She’s hungry.”
Ryan crouched beside him.
“Buddy, look at me. Is someone playing a joke on you?”
“No.”
“Then who is down there?”
Before Noah could answer, footsteps sounded behind them.
Emily entered the kitchen.
The moment she saw Noah beside the grate, she froze.
Her face changed so quickly that Ryan noticed it immediately.
Fear.
Not confusion.
Not surprise.
Fear.
“Ryan,” she whispered.
She moved between him and the grate.
“Don’t open it.”
Ryan stared at her.
“Why?”
Emily’s breathing became shallow.
“Just trust me.”
That was the wrong answer.
Ryan glanced at Noah.
The boy was crying silently.
Then something moved beneath the floor.
A dull scrape.
Metal against concrete.
Ryan's blood ran cold.
He looked down.
“Emily…”
“Don’t.”
The scrape came again.
Then a tiny voice rose from beneath the kitchen.
Weak.
Shaky.
“Daddy?”
Ryan stopped breathing.
Noah covered his mouth.
Emily's face crumpled.
The voice came again.
“Daddy… help me.”
Ryan slowly turned toward his wife.
“What did she just call me?”
Emily said nothing.
Ryan grabbed the grate.
Emily caught his wrist.
“Ryan, please.”
“Who is under our house?”
“Please don't.”
He pulled the grate upward.
It resisted.
It had been screwed down.
Not rusted.
Not stuck.
Screwed down.
Recently.
Ryan stepped back.
“Why is this bolted?”
Emily said nothing.
He looked at her.
“Why is there a child beneath our kitchen?”
“I can explain.”
“Then explain.”
Emily’s lips trembled.
Before she could speak, a tiny hand appeared between the metal slats.
Small fingers.
Dirty nails.
A thin wrist.
The girl whispered again.
“Daddy…”
Ryan stared at the hand.
He knew that voice.
He had heard it before.
Not in person.
In a recording.
Years ago.
A recording Emily had once begged him never to listen to.
Ryan's eyes widened.
“No.”
Emily began crying.
Ryan looked at her.
“Who is she?”
Emily covered her mouth.
The girl beneath the floor started sobbing.
And then she said the one thing Ryan had spent six years trying not to remember.
“Daddy… I'm Lily.”
The kitchen seemed to tilt.
Ryan stepped backward.
Lily.
His daughter.
The daughter Emily had told him was dead.
Emily collapsed against the counter.
Ryan could barely speak.
“You told me she died.”
“I know.”
“You buried her.”
“I know.”
“You showed me a death certificate.”
“I know!”
Ryan pointed at the floor.
“Then who the hell is under our house?”
Emily looked at him through tears.
And finally whispered:
“She isn't the child you think she is.”
The hand beneath the grate disappeared.
Then the girl screamed.
Not from fear.
From pain.
A heavy thud shook the floor beneath them.
Ryan lunged for the grate.
Emily screamed after him.
“RYAN, STOP!”
But this time, Ryan didn't care what she knew.
He tore the grate loose.
And beneath it, hidden in the darkness, he saw a narrow concrete staircase descending into the earth.
The first step was covered in dried blood.
And on the wall beside it, written in faded red paint, were four words:
YOU SHOULD HAVE SAVED HER.
Ryan stared.
Then he heard a lock click somewhere below.
May you like
Someone was still down there.
Someone who had just realized the door was open.
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