At the bottom of the stairs, the air was colder—sharp, like it didn’t belong to this century. My flashlight flickered as I stepped into the chamber. It was about ten feet across, with stone walls and rusted hooks along the ceiling beams.
In the center was a chair. And beside it, a journal sealed in a tin box.
I took it upstairs before opening it. The first page was dated 1933. “My name is Henry Carver. If you found this, you’re standing on cursed land.”
The entries told of strange occurrences—disappearances, nightmares, animals vanishing from the barn. He wrote about digging the cellar to “contain the evil,” not to store potatoes. He said it whispered to him at night. That it wanted out.
His last entry simply read:
“I heard the door open above me. Someone else is in the house.”
That night, I boarded the trapdoor shut. I haven’t gone back. I never finished the flip. Some things aren’t meant to be remodeled—they’re meant to be left behind.
The lesson?
Not all broken places are meant to be fixed. Some are warnings, not opportunities. When a space carries silence that presses on your soul, listen. It may be history telling you to walk away.
