Evan found the letter the morning after his father died.
No stamp. No address. Just his name, trembling in blue ink.
Inside:
"There's something you need to find before sunset."
The air felt heavier. He didn't pack. He didn't think.
He just ran — to the woods.
The claw-shaped oak stood where it always had, black against the mist.
A memory stirred: his father's voice, warning him of secrets buried deep.
Evan fell to his knees. Dug until his hands bled.
The earth gave way to a rusted box.
Inside:
A Polaroid — Evan, six years old, laughing.
And a note:
"Forgive me.
As Evan cradled the photo, rain began to fall.
The box, waterlogged, slipped from his grip —
revealing a second letter taped beneath.
This one was newer. Sealed tight.
He ripped it open with shaking hands.
"Come to the old house. Bring the photo. Tell no one."
The old house: the one nobody dared enter after the fire.
The old house was a blackened skeleton against the storm.
Half-burned walls leaned inward like dying men.
Evan stepped through the collapsed doorway.
Ash floated in the air like ghosts.
At the center of the ruin, something waited:
a small wooden door, untouched by the fire, set into the ground.
The same photo was nailed to it —
but Evan wasn't laughing in this one.
He was crying.
Evan yanked the door open.
A ladder plunged into darkness.
He hesitated — but the woods behind him whispered threats.
There was no turning back.
Hand over hand, he climbed down into the dark.
The ladder ended in a narrow hallway.
The walls were stone. Wet. Cold.
And somewhere ahead... footsteps.
Someone was waiting.