Jonas

A pile of broken fishing rods, rusted tackle boxes, old milk crates full of screws and tools with the handles falling apart.

It was like a garage sale for ghosts.

But way in the back, behind a stack of wart plywood, we found something we weren't expecting.

A trapdoor.

It was built right into the floor.

Wood, stained dark with an old iron ring handle.

Not the kind of thing you accidentally build.

It was hand-cut and reinforced like someone really didn't want it getting opened by accident.

We both just kind of stared at it.

Mason knelt down and gave it a tug.

It was heavy, but it opened.

The hinges creaked like you'd imagine, and we both leaned over the edge to look down.

Narrow, concrete stairs disappeared into black.

It smelled like damp earth and old moldy cloth.

We couldn't see the bottom, not even with the flashlight.

Nope, Mason said, standing up fast, that's tomorrow's problem.

And that was it.

We shut it, left it unlocked, and got back to sorting through the rest of the mess.

We crashed at the house that night.

The electricity worked barely so.