He smiled, satisfied, and stood up.
Then he did something that made my blood run cold even more than the pills did.
He approached the wall.
The wall next to the closet.
He ran his fingers over the surface, like someone who knew exactly where the seam of something hidden was.
He insisted.
A small click sounded in the darkness.
The wall… moved.
It wasn't a normal door.
It was a panel.
A piece of wood identical to the wall, so perfectly hidden that in all the years I lived there I had never noticed it.
Daniel pushed the panel and a narrow gap appeared, just wide enough for a thin person to pass through.
There was no wall beyond.
There was space.
A narrow, dark corridor that smelled of old damp and dust.
Daniel entered.
Before closing it, he whispered something… as if he were talking to someone inside.
—He's sleeping.
The panel has closed.
I lay still on the bed.
There was a buzzing sound in my head.
Suddenly the house wasn't a home anymore.
It was a level full of traps.
A body full of hidden organs.
I jumped up, shaking. The bed creaked slightly.
I stood still, waiting for his return.
Nothing.
Just a distant sound… like something being dragged under my feet.
Metal scraping against concrete.
I swallowed with difficulty.
And then I remembered Mom's last week.
How he tried to tell me something when he could barely breathe.
As he grabbed my hand and pointed down, toward the floor, toward the house itself, as if the house were the enemy.
And I remembered his last words, clear, barely whispered:
—Never drink anything… that you haven’t seen prepared.
That night, I finally understood.
It wasn't paranoia.
It was a warning.
I stood up barefoot.
I took my phone.
Put it on silent mode.
I turned the flashlight on to the lowest brightness.
Then I headed to the closet.
The wall looked perfect. Smooth.
But now I knew where to look.
I slowly ran my fingers over the paint until I felt a small crack, almost a slit.
I pressed where Daniel had pressed.
Nothing.
I tried again, increasing the distance.
Nothing.
My palms were sweating.
Then I noticed something near the baseboard: a small mark, as if someone had scratched it repeatedly.
I put my finger underneath.
Pushed.
Click.
The panel opened like an old wooden sigh.
The smell hit me immediately.
Humidity.
Mold.
Dust.
And something else.
A chemical smell.
Chlorine.
Looks like someone cleaned way too much down there.
I peeked inside.
The corridor was narrow and sloping, like a ravine leading to the stomach of the house. Broken concrete steps and old pipes lined the sides.
I got off.
Every step felt like a scream, even though I wasn't making any sound.
By the light of the torch I noticed some writings on some points of the wall.
Names.
Dates.
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