Maya's scream never made it out of her throat.
The key hit the stone floor with a metallic clank that echoed too loudly in the sudden silence. The second door—smaller, rougher, iron-banded—remained sealed, but the air around it had thickened, turned cold and prickly, like static before lightning. The golden glow of the chamber dimmed by half in a single heartbeat, shadows stretching longer across the quilts and mirror shards.
Kai moved first.
He stepped in front of Maya—protective, instinctive—his body a barrier between her and the second door. His hand reached back, found hers, squeezed once: stay behind me.
"What is that?" Maya's voice cracked on the last word. She couldn't stop staring at the iron bands. They looked older than the first door—blackened, pitted, as though the metal itself had been burned in rage.
Kai's jaw tightened. "I don't know."
The words landed heavier than any lie could have.
"You don't know?" Maya's tone rose, sharp with disbelief. "You've been here a century. You told me everything—every day, every night, every song you hummed to keep sane. You never mentioned a second door?"
"I didn't know there was a second door." His voice was low, strained. "The chamber never changed. Not once in all those years. The walls, the quilts, the light—everything stayed exactly the same. I thought I knew every inch of this place."
Maya pulled her hand free and took a step sideways so she could see past him. The key lay on the floor, no longer glowing. Just brass. Ordinary. Cold.
"Then why is it here now?" she asked.
Kai didn't answer right away. He crossed to the key, crouched, picked it up carefully—as though it might bite. He turned it over in his palm, studying the spirals like he had never seen them before.
"It's colder," he said quietly. "It was warm when you held it. Now it's… wrong."
Maya wrapped her arms around herself. "And the hum? The one that answered the first one?"
Kai stood slowly. "That wasn't the chamber. That came from behind the second door."
A beat of silence.
Then—above them—the attic floorboard creaked again.
Not once.
Three times.
Deliberate.
Like footsteps.
Maya's pulse slammed against her eardrums. "Someone's up there."
Kai's head snapped toward the tunnel. "No one can get down here without the key."
"Then explain the footsteps."
He didn't.
Instead he moved—fast, decisive—crossing the chamber to the quilts. He lifted the top one, draped it over Maya's shoulders like a shield, then pulled her toward the bench.
"Sit," he said. "Stay here."
"I'm not sitting while something walks around upstairs."
"You're not going up there alone."
"I'm not staying down here alone either."
They stared at each other—stalemate, fear, trust all tangled together.
The floorboard creaked a fourth time.
Closer.
Maya made the decision first.
She grabbed his hand. "We go together. Now."
Kai hesitated—only a second—then nodded.
They retraced their steps through the tunnel. The moss flickered erratically, as though struggling to stay lit. The stairs felt steeper going up, each step heavier, the air colder with every foot they climbed.
At the top, Maya lifted the floorboard.
The attic was exactly as they had left it: cedar chest open, dresses spilled, Grandma Ruth's wedding photo staring down from the wall.
But the dormer window was closed now.
And latched.
Maya had left it cracked.
She looked at Kai. His face had gone still—dangerously calm.
He stepped into the attic first, pulling her up behind him.
The space felt smaller than before. Tighter. The dust motes hung motionless, as though the air itself had stopped circulating.
Then they heard it.
Not a creak this time.
A soft, deliberate knock.
Three taps.
From inside the cedar chest.
Maya's blood turned to ice.
The chest lid was still thrown back. Nothing inside but the dresses, the silver dollars, the empty velvet pouch.
And yet—three more taps.
Slow.
Insistent.
Kai moved before Maya could stop him.
He crossed the attic in three strides, knelt beside the chest, reached inside.
His hand closed around something small and metallic.
He pulled it out.
Another key.
Identical to the first—same size, same spirals, same weight—but this one was black. Not tarnished. Not oxidized. Pure, cold iron.
And it was warm.
As though someone had been holding it.
Maya's voice came out barely audible. "Where did that come from?"
Kai didn't answer. He stared at the iron key like it was a venomous thing.
Then—very slowly—he turned it over.
Engraved on the bow, in tiny, precise script:
Do not open the second door.
Maya's knees gave out. She sank onto the nearest trunk.
Kai looked at her—fear in his eyes for the first time since she had met him.
"I never saw this key," he said. "Not once in a hundred years."
"Then who put it in the chest?" Maya asked. "And who's been walking around up here?"
No answer came.
Only silence.
And then—soft, almost gentle—the hum from below started again.
Not angry this time.
Pleading.
As though whatever waited behind the second door had finally found a voice.
And it was calling her name.
(to be continued…)