I never believed in hidden doors or secret rooms; those were for mystery novels. But when Florence and I decided to renovate our cellar, we uncovered more than just a door behind the peeling wallpaper. It was something we were never meant to find, and now, I wish I had never opened it.
You never really know a house until you’ve lived in it for a while. That’s what I always told myself. Florence and I bought this Victorian terrace five years ago: our dream home, we called it. The kind of house that had history, character, and quirks.
When we first moved in, it was everything we hoped for. We were newly married, full of energy, and excited about the future. The old house was a symbol of that: a new beginning.
Florence had fallen in love with the kitchen. It had these tall windows that let the morning light flood in, bathing everything in a soft, golden glow. We’d sit there with our coffee every morning, chatting about our day or making plans for the weekend. I, on the other hand, was drawn to the cellar.
From the moment we toured the place, it had fascinated me. Not that I had any grand plans for it; initially, it was just the idea of having this hidden, unused space that appealed to me. I could imagine myself setting up a little wine cellar down there, a quiet place to retreat to with a good book or a glass of something strong.
But the truth was, we barely used it. Maybe it was the damp smell or the creaks that seemed louder down there.
We kept a few boxes of old books, some wine, and a couple of unused pieces of furniture, but over time, the cellar faded into the background of our lives. Florence liked to joke about it when guests came over.
“We have a wine cellar,” she’d say with a wink, “but it’s more like a wine graveyard. We never go down there.”
And she was right. As the years passed, we settled into routines. Work, dinner, bed. Life had a way of filling the spaces that seemed so important when we first moved in.
We were happy, of course, but the house had become less of an adventure and more of a backdrop. Until a few weeks ago.
It started as a casual idea one Saturday morning over breakfast. Florence was flipping through an old home magazine, and I was sipping my coffee, only half-listening to her chatter.
“You know, Asher,” she said, looking up from the magazine, “we should do something with the cellar. Maybe turn it into a mini gym or something.”
I raised an eyebrow. “A gym? Down there? You hate that place more than I do, Florence.”
She shrugged. “It’s wasted space, Asher. We could at least clean it up.”
I considered it for a moment. It wasn’t a bad idea. The gym thing might not have been for me, but the thought of finally doing something with the cellar… well, it sounded better than leaving it as an unused, forgotten part of the house.
“Alright,” I said, setting my mug down with a smile. “Let’s do it. Let’s clean it up today.”
Florence grinned, and before I knew it, we were armed with trash bags, sponges, and brooms, making our way down to the cellar.
The air was damp as always, and the stone floor felt cool under our feet. The first thing that caught my eye, as it always did, was that horrible, yellowed floral wallpaper. Who in their right mind would put floral wallpaper in a cellar?
“This has to go,” Florence said, grimacing as she reached for the edge of the wallpaper and began peeling it away.
It came off in strips, revealing the cold, gray stone beneath. We worked for hours, peeling, scrubbing, and sweeping, until the place looked almost… livable.
But then, just as Florence was working on a patch in the far corner, she stopped.
“Asher, come here,” she said, her voice a little higher than usual.
I walked over to where she was standing, and my eyes followed her pointing finger. There, behind the wallpaper, was something I hadn’t noticed before: a door.
A door without a handle, seamlessly blending into the wall.
“What in the world?” I muttered, running my hand along the edges. The wood was rough, and the hinges were rusted. It looked like it hadn’t been touched in decades, maybe longer.
“Why would someone cover this up?” Florence asked, leaning in closer.
“I don’t know,” I said, shaking my head. “Maybe it’s just an old storage room.”
But something didn’t sit right with me. Why would someone go to the trouble of covering up a door like that?
Florence was already pulling out her phone, turning on the flashlight. “Let’s take a look inside.”
I hesitated. “Shouldn’t we… I don’t know, maybe we should ask the neighbors first? It could lead into their basement.”
She waved me off. “Asher, this house is over a hundred years old. I doubt anyone knows what’s down here. Besides, it’s our house. If there’s something behind this door, we should know about it.”
Before I could protest, she was leaning in, peeking through the small circular hole where the door handle should have been. She held her phone’s flashlight to the hole, illuminating the space beyond. Then, without warning, she froze.
“Florence?” I asked, stepping closer. “What is it? What do you see?”
She didn’t answer right away. Her eyes stayed fixed on the door, her breath shallow. When she finally spoke, her voice was barely a whisper. “There are stairs. Leading down. It doesn’t go into the neighbor’s cellar.”
My heart skipped a beat. Stairs? The idea of something deeper, hidden beneath the cellar we thought we knew, sent a strange mixture of excitement and fear rushing through me. I took the phone from her hand, leaning down to look for myself.
Sure enough, there was a narrow stone staircase, leading down into the darkness. The air felt heavier down here, thick with the scent of damp earth and something else; something I couldn’t quite place.
“This isn’t right,” Florence muttered, stepping back from the door. “Maybe we should just leave it.”
But I couldn’t. There was something about it that pulled at me, something that whispered in the back of my mind. I had to know. I had to see what was down there.
“I’ll take a quick look,” I said, pushing the door open. It creaked on its rusty hinges, the sound echoing in the small space. “I’ll be right back.”
Florence grabbed my arm, her eyes wide with worry. “Asher, please. This feels… wrong.”
I squeezed her hand, trying to reassure her. “I’ll be careful. I just want to see what’s down there.”
She let go, reluctantly, and I stepped through the doorway. The air on the other side was colder, and the stone stairs felt uneven under my feet as I descended.
I could hear my heartbeat in my ears, loud and steady, as I reached the bottom.
What I found there made my blood run cold.
It was a small, concrete room, barely larger than a closet. But what made my skin crawl was the figure standing in the corner. A man, or at least the shape of one, dressed in a black suit and a black-rimmed hat, his back turned to me. He was perfectly still, almost unnaturally so.
My breath caught in my throat, and I felt a wave of nausea wash over me. What was he doing here? How long had he been here?
“Hello?” I called out, my voice shaky.
No response. The man didn’t move, didn’t even acknowledge my presence. For a long, terrifying moment, I just stood there, staring at his back, my mind racing with possibilities. Then, slowly, he began to move. But not forward. He moved backward, his feet scraping against the floor in a way that sent chills down my spine.
I stumbled back, nearly tripping over the last step as I scrambled to get away. My phone slipped from my hand, clattering to the ground, but I didn’t stop to pick it up. I bolted up the stairs, my heart pounding in my chest, and slammed the door behind me.
I even heard a creepy sound, as if someone was dragging a huge piece of flesh along the floor. But I was too scared to turn around or stop. I just couldn’t.
Florence was waiting at the top, her face pale with fear. “What happened? Asher, what’s wrong?”
“There’s someone down there,” I gasped, struggling to catch my breath. “I don’t know what… but he’s… it’s not right.”
For a moment, we just stood there, staring at the door, the silence between us heavy with dread. Finally, Florence spoke. “We need to call someone. The police. Now.”
We waited in the kitchen, both of us too scared to even go near the cellar door. I could feel my pulse in my throat, every noise from the house making me jump. When the officers finally arrived, I felt a strange sense of relief, as if their presence might somehow undo what we had seen.
They didn’t find anyone. But they did find something else: symbols, etched into the concrete walls of the hidden room. Ancient, strange symbols, along with stains that looked far too much like dried blood.
The officers couldn’t explain it. Neither could we.
Since that day, we’ve never gone back down there. We sealed the door, bolted it shut, and pretended like it didn’t exist. But sometimes, late at night, I still hear that scraping sound, like something moving just below the surface.
And I wonder if, one day, it will find its way back up.
