The envelope sat in the center of the hallway, the white paper standing out against the dark hardwood floor.

I glanced at my wife, both of us with boxes in our hands.

“Is that yours?” she asked, nodded toward the envelope.

“Not mine,” I said, stepping closer to it. “Must be from the sellers.”

“Oh, that’s sweet of them,” she said, setting her box down and walking over to the envelope. She bent over and picked it up, pulling the letter out. As she read, her face scrunched up. At first, it was a look of confusion, then her eyes widened, and I recognized it as fear.

“What is it?” I asked, already walking over to her. She didn’t say anything, just held out the letter for me to read. I took it from her shaking hand and began to read.

Dear Owens Family,

We’re so sorry. We know it isn’t fair of us to do this to you, but we just had to get out of this house. We hope this letter can help you survive—God knows we would’ve loved to have gotten something like this before we moved in.

There is a basement to this house. Now that you’re the owners, you will see the door just at the end of the hallway. It opens to a set of stairs that seem only to go to a blank wall.

A woman lives behind that wall. Every night, she comes out to explore the house and check every single room. Whatever you do, do not be in a room when she checks it. If you are, she will find you and take you down to the basement. You won’t come back.

Please, be safe and know how truly sorry we are.

I looked to at my wife, who had tears in her eyes.

“What the fuck,” I said, not sure what else to say. This was crazy. There hadn’t been any basement door when we’d toured the home. I was positive.

As if reading my mind, my wife slowly turned around and walked toward the end of the hallway. She got to the kitchen threshold then twisted her head to the right.

She let out a shuddering gasp, slapping her hand over her mouth. I ran to her side, my heart slamming against my chest.

There was no way.

Yet, there it was. Where once had been a smooth, white wall, an old, dark brown door now stood. Cold air emanated from it, the chill seeping into the hallway. I looked at my wife then slowly reached toward the doorknob.

The metal was also cold to the touch. It felt and looked old, a complicated pattern of swirls carved into it.

Holding my breath, I turned the knob. I half expected it to be locked, but it unclicked silently, the door swinging slightly out toward me, as if beckoning me inside.

I opened the door carefully, squinting to see what was on the other side. Light from the hallway spilled in as I opened the door all the way.

Inside, the walls were stained with differing shades of brown. A musty, earthy smell hung in the air, reminding me of crawl spaces and other dark places.

“Oh my God,” my wife said, disgust and horror mixing in her voice. I took a step forward, my foot hovering above the first step.

The stairs, like the door, were old and wooden. Thirteen steps led downward, each one covered in more shadow than the last. I strained to see to the bottom, leaning forward as far as I could without losing my balance.

“It doesn’t look like it leads to anywhere,” I said, squinting harder. There seemed to be just a black wall at the foot of the last step, a murky darkness I couldn’t see beyond.

I stepped down, my wife grabbing my arm as I descended.

“It’s okay,” I said, pulling out my phone and turning on the flashlight. The light pierced the darkness, but the sense of dread still hung heavy in my gut. Even on full blast, the light barely made it to the bottom of the stairs. It was as if the very air devoured the light, consuming it hungrily.

Slowly, I took the steps one at a time. The wood creaked under my weight. The walls got darker as I descended. I held my breath, my heart in my throat.

Then, I was at the bottom.

It was just a black wall, a severe cold rolling off it. I reached my hand out, hovering above the surface. I could sense something just beyond. My fingers rested on the wall. I pressed my hand flat. Something seemed to shift in the wall’s inky blackness, and I felt it calling me. Felt myself drawn to it.

“Get back up here,” my wife called, her voice rising in concern.

Her words snapped me back to reality and I quickly made my way back up the stairs. We closed the door and nailed it shut with wood from the garage.

“It’s okay,” I said to my wife, pulling her into a hug after it was finished. She was shaking, but then I realized it was me. We pressed into each other. “We’ll have someone come out tomorrow to check it out. It’ll be okay,”

We stayed together for the rest of the evening, eventually falling into bed exhausted.

The sun set, and I found myself drifting into sleep.

The next thing I knew, I was being shaken awake.

“Honey, we have to go. Please, get up.” My wife had me by the shoulders and was rattling my whole body. Her hair was wild and tears poured from her eyes. I opened my mouth to speak but she clamped her hand over my mouth and pointed toward the door with the other.

Ever so quietly, from down the stairs, I heard a door creak open and closed. Silence followed, then the sounds of footsteps creeping across the hardwood echoed up to us. Silence again, then another door opening and closing.

My wife and I locked eyes, sheer panic splayed across her face. I squeezed her hand and she squeezed back.

Then, we heard a footstep on the stairs.