There is a door in our house that has always been locked.
The basement.
Dad says it's storage. Mom says it's unsafe. Ivy? Ivy says nothing about it at all.
Tonight, I found it open.
Inside, the light flickered faintly, just like the kitchen did on that night. You want me to go down there, don't you? Don't pretend you don't. That curiosity—that hunger for the next horrific image—it feeds him.
I stepped onto the first stair
It creaked.
Second stair.
Cold air wrapped around my ankles.
Third stair.
Something wet touched my heel.
I didn't look.
Because sometimes not looking is safer.
But you're imagining it anyway.
That's enough.
Halfway down, I saw the walls.
They weren't concrete.
They were flesh.
Subtle.
Breathing.
Veins pulsing slowly through the surface.
Family photos were nailed into it.
But these were different.
In these pictures—
I was alone.
No Mom.
No Dad.
No Ivy.
Just me.
Standing in empty rooms.
Smiling.
With blood on my hands.
And behind me in every photo—
You.
Not a blur.
Not a shadow either
You.
Featureless.
Watching.
Than suddenly
The basement light went out.
Total darkness.
And something enormous shifted below me.
A voice, right beside my ear, whispered:
"He is realizing he is written."
I couldn't breathe.
And then—
You turned the page.