Chapter 3 - The Door in the Dark
The iron door didn't swing open; it slid outward, releasing a gust of air that smelled of old rain, ozone, and something copper-sweet, like dried blood.
The space inside was pitch black. I pulled out my phone and switched on the flashlight, casting a bright, white beam into the void.
The light revealed a narrow, stone-lined corridor that sloped downward. Water, black and stagnant, trickled down the walls, pooling at the bottom of the incline. It was a drainage system, built into the very bones of the old Victorian house.
And there, sitting on a stone ledge just above the rising water level, was a figure.
She was wearing a faded, tattered yellow dress—the exact dress Lily had been wearing the day she disappeared from Westbrook Mall. Her hair was long, matted, and dark with grime, hanging over her face. She was small. Far too small. She looked no older than eight.
"Lily?" I whispered, stepping into the wet corridor. The cold water instantly soaked through my shoes, freezing my feet.
The figure stirred. She slowly lifted her head.
The flashlight beam caught her face. My breath caught in my throat. It was Lily. Her big, brown eyes, her button nose, the tiny mole just below her left collarbone. But her skin was translucent, so pale I could see the blue veins pulsing beneath her temples. And her eyes... her pupils were massive, dilated to the very edges of her irises, adjusted to a decade of absolute darkness.
"Mommy," she whimpered, shielding her eyes from the light. "The light hurts."
I dropped my phone into the water. I didn't care. I threw myself forward, splashing through the cold pool, and gathered her tiny, fragile body into my arms.
She was freezing. She felt like a block of ice, but her heart was beating—fast and fluttery, like a trapped bird. She clung to my neck with surprising strength, her tiny fingers digging into my shoulders.
"I've got you, baby. I've got you. I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry," I sobbed, burying my face in her wet, tangled hair. It smelled of earth and rain.
Mark stepped into the corridor behind me, his phone light illuminating us. "Oh my god," he whispered, tears streaming down his face. "It really is her. But... how?"
"We have to go," I said, lifting Lily into my arms. She was incredibly light, as if her bones were hollow. "We have to get her to a hospital."
As I turned to carry her out, I saw my parents standing at the threshold of the iron door. My father was holding his dislocated wrist, his face a mask of pure terror. My mother had her hands pressed against her mouth, weeping silently.
"You can't take her out of the house," my father whispered, his voice trembling. "Rachel, look at her. She hasn't aged. She hasn't grown. She is kept alive by the house. If you cross the property line..."
"Shut up!" I yelled, pushing past them. "If you try to stop us, I swear to God, Mark and I will kill you both."
My parents shrank back. They didn't try to stop us as we carried Lily up the basement stairs. They didn't follow us as we ran through the dusty hallway of my grandmother's house, past the gaping hole in the wall, and out into the cool, night air.
The moment Lily's bare feet crossed the threshold of the front door, she gasped.
A terrible, violent convulsion shook her tiny frame. She began to cough, a deep, hacking sound, and black, brackish water spilled from her lips onto the porch.
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"Lily!" I cried, laying her down on the wooden planks of the porch.
"She's stopping," Mark gasped, checking her pulse. "Rachel, her pulse is dropping. She's... she's dying!"
