The house was quiet.
Too quiet.
June wiped her hands on a cloth and leaned against the wall near the staircase, catching her breath. Cleaning had revealed cracks, old stains, and forgotten corners—but something about this spot felt… different.
She frowned.
The wall beside the stairs looked slightly uneven.
June stepped closer, running her fingers along the wood paneling. One plank sounded hollow when she tapped it lightly.
Knock. Knock.
Her heartbeat quickened.
She crouched and brushed away dust near the bottom step. A faint outline appeared—a narrow seam, almost invisible unless you were looking for it.
A hidden door.
June hesitated for a moment, then pressed against it.
With a soft click, the panel shifted.
Cold air rushed out.
The door opened just wide enough for her to squeeze through.
Inside was darkness.
June lit a candle and stepped in carefully. The flame flickered, revealing a small storage room hidden beneath the stairs. Wooden shelves lined the walls, thick with dust. Old crates were stacked neatly, untouched for decades.
The air smelled old—wood, iron, and time.
"This place…" June whispered.
She opened the first crate.
Inside were tools—axes, rope, fishing hooks, and rusted metal implements. Practical. Useful.
The second crate held jars—empty now, but once used to store grains or dried herbs.
Then June noticed something at the back of the room.
A small iron box, locked, its surface etched with strange, faded markings.
June stared at the iron box, her fingers still tingling.
Slowly, she unlocked it.
Click.
She lifted the lid.
Nothing.
The box was empty.
She let out a shaky laugh. "I really am overthinking everything…"
Relief washed over her—brief, fragile.
Then she heard it.
Scratch.
June stiffened.
Another sound followed—small, sharp, unmistakable.
Rats.
Her stomach twisted. She took a step back, her elbow brushing against another crate.
Thud.
The crate shifted.
Before she could react, the floor beneath it sank slightly—and a hidden mechanism triggered with a dull clack.
The wall behind the shelves split open.
June gasped.
A narrow passage revealed itself, cold air rushing upward. Stone steps descended into darkness, spiraling down beneath the house.
Her heart began to pound.
Against her better judgment, June stepped closer. Her foot touched the first stair.
Step.
Then another.
The air grew colder. Heavier.
At the bottom of the stairs stood a strange door—smooth, black, untouched by time. Symbols carved into its surface pulsed faintly, almost like a heartbeat.
Beside it hung a key, suspended on a hook.
The moment June looked at it, she felt a pull—right in her chest.
Her heart raced.
This is dangerous, her mind warned.
Her hand moved anyway.
She took the key and inserted it into the lock.
Click.
The door unlocked.
Darkness spilled out like ink.
June leaned forward, squinting, about to reach for her torch—
When—
DING—DONG.
The bell rang.
June screamed.
Her body jerked back violently, the key slipping from her fingers and clattering onto the stone floor.
Someone was at the door.
Breathing hard, June forced herself to move. She ran back up the stairs, rushed upstairs, her heart threatening to burst out of her chest.
"Who… who could it be?" she whispered.
Her hand hovered over the front door handle.
Outside, the bell rang again.
June took a steadying breath and opened the door.
Two soldiers stood outside.
They wore standard uniforms, boots polished despite the muddy road. One of them was older, his expression calm and professional. The other—taller, broad-shouldered—caught June off guard.
He was… handsome.
Sharp features. Clear eyes. A quiet strength about him.
June froze for half a second, then quickly composed herself.
"H–Hello," she said, fumbling slightly. "How… how can I help you?"
The soldiers exchanged a brief glance.
To be honest, they were just as surprised.
A young woman, standing alone at the entrance of a long-abandoned manor—clean, composed, and very much alive.
"Good evening," the older soldier said. "We're from the island's military base. May we come in?"
June nodded and stepped aside.
They sat in the drawing room, sunlight slanting through the windows, dust dancing in the air. June perched on the edge of a chair, hands folded tightly in her lap.
"Is there anyone else living here with you?" the older soldier asked.
June shook her head. "No. It's just me."
The handsome soldier frowned slightly. "You live here alone?"
"Yes."
Silence followed.
Then the questions began.
Her name.
Her age.
Her education.
Why she had come to the island.
June answered honestly, calmly, leaving out the pain but not the truth. She was new. She had nowhere else to go. The house belonged to her great-grandfather.
The older soldier nodded as he wrote everything down.
"We keep records of everyone entering and leaving the island," he explained. "This place is isolated—and partly restricted. When we heard someone had moved into the desolated manor, we had to verify."
"That's understandable," June said softly.
The handsome soldier studied her quietly for a moment, then spoke.
"You're strong," he said. "Not many people would live alone in a place like this… let alone clean it up."
June blinked, surprised.
"Thank you," she replied.
Before leaving, the soldiers walked outside and returned with equipment.
"We'll install a direct telephone line," the older soldier said. "It connects straight to our base. If anything happens—anything at all—you call us immediately."
June watched as they worked, fixing the line carefully against the old walls.
When the phone rang for the first time—a sharp, clear sound—June jumped slightly.
The handsome soldier smiled faintly. "That's us."
Safety.
Or at least… the illusion of it.
As they prepared to leave, the handsome soldier paused at the door.
"If you need help," he said gently, "don't hesitate to call."
June nodded. "I will."
The door closed behind them.
The house fell silent again.
June leaned against the kitchen counter, exhaling slowly.
Grandpa's words…
She remembered him laughing softly one winter evening, wine glass in hand.
> "My father had a great wine collection," he had said.
"Hidden away somewhere… in an annex. A place even rats wouldn't find."
June shook her head and let out a small laugh.
"Looks like that was the annex he was talking about."
She rubbed her temples.
"I really need to stop reading fantasy novels," she muttered. "They're doing strange things to my imagination."
Hidden doors. Strange keys. Dark rooms.
Ridiculous.
The house was old—that was all.
Her stomach growled loudly.
Lunch it is.
June glanced out the kitchen window toward the garage.
There it was.
A pile of coal, stacked neatly, dry and black.
Her eyes lit up.
"Oh!" she gasped. "The Italian oven!"
She clapped her hands together, excitement washing over her.
"I can bake a pizza."
The thought alone lifted her mood. Warm bread. Melted toppings. Something comforting—something normal.
"Yes," she grinned. "Oven-baked pizza. Let's go!"
She cleaned the old Italian-style oven, brushing out ash and soot. The stone walls held warmth, as if remembering every meal baked inside long ago.
June carefully arranged coal and dry wood, struck a flame, and watched the fire grow.
Soon, the oven crackled gently.
She mixed flour with water and salt, kneading the dough by hand, dust clinging to her fingers. The rhythm calmed her mind.
Tomatoes chopped. Vegetables sliced. A simple topping—but perfect.
"I missed this," she whispered. "Cooking without fear."
She slid the pizza into the oven, closed the iron door, and waited.
The smell filled the kitchen—warm, rich, comforting.
After filling her stomach, June cleaned the kitchen thoroughly. The stone counters were wiped, utensils washed, and ashes cleared from the oven. With practiced movements, she filled the big iron pot with water and placed it over the fire.
Soon, steam rose gently.
Bathing felt like a reward.
Afterward, June applied lotion to her skin, dried her hair carefully, and wrapped herself in clean clothes. Outside the windows, the sun dipped lower, painting the sky in soft gold and fading amber.
Darkness would come soon.
June climbed upstairs and wandered into the library. Most books were old and heavy, but one thin novel caught her eye.
A simple story about wild beasts.
She smiled faintly and carried it downstairs.
In the kitchen, she prepared hot chocolate, thick and warm, and took out the cookies she had baked earlier. With her mug in hand, she returned to her room.
The fireplace glowed brightly.
She added extra firewood, stacking it carefully so the heat would last until midnight. Before settling in, she walked through the house once more—checking doors, windows, locks.
Everything was secured.
Everything… except the annex.
She paused briefly near the stairs.
Then shook her head.
"Tomorrow," she whispered.
June slipped into bed.
The scent of fresh detergent clung to the blankets, and she smiled, pride warming her chest. She had done all this—alone.
The house felt cleaner. Lighter.
She rewarded herself with cookies and hot chocolate, curling up as she read, the fire crackling softly beside her. Hours passed unnoticed.
When the clock struck ten, June rose, added more firewood to the fireplace, and returned to bed.
She covered herself, blew out the candles, and let the darkness take over.
The flames continued to glow faintly.
The annex remained open.
And somewhere deep beneath the house…
Something stirred.