Mason didn't touch the key for almost an hour.
It sat on his nightstand where the black candle had been—small, brass, old. The kind of key that belonged to a drawer or a chest, not a door.
But that made it worse.
Because whatever it unlocked, it was small enough to keep close.
Small enough to hide.
He sat on the edge of the bed, staring at it.
The match beside it still burned in his mind: the word etched into the side—
SOON.
That wasn't a warning.
It was a promise.
He searched the house for a lock.
Closets. Cabinets. Drawers he hadn't opened in years.
Nothing.
He tried the attic door.
Basement lockers.
Still nothing.
But the key pulsed faintly in his hand. Warm. Like it was alive.
Like it was waiting to be used.
It wasn't until late afternoon that he thought to check the crawlspace.
He hadn't gone back since the night he saw Emily in the chair.
He didn't want to.
But he went.
Not because of bravery.
Because the key wanted him to.
The crawlspace felt different now.
Wider.
Colder.
It used to smell like dust and mold.
Now it smelled like stone.
Like soil pulled from the deepest part of the earth.
He crawled slower this time. Flashlight in one hand. Key in the other.
The darkness seemed to retreat from him, parting like a tide just ahead of the beam.
The tunnel curved sharply left.
Then opened.
There was a door.
Not a wooden hatch.
A door.
Metal. Riveted.
Set into the very foundation like it had been built before the house existed.
Mason froze.
The key in his hand thrummed once.
Like a heartbeat.
He stepped forward.
Inserted the key.
It turned without resistance.
The door clicked.
Not loud.
Just enough.
The kind of sound that didn't want to draw attention—but meant everything.
Mason hesitated, one hand on the key, the other gripping the flashlight like it could protect him from what came next.
Then he pulled the door open.
It swung inward with a slow metal groan, heavy like it hadn't moved in decades. The hinges protested but didn't resist.
Behind the door—steps.
Stone, worn smooth by time or use or both.
And at the bottom: light.
He descended without thinking.
Not because he was ready.
But because he couldn't not.
Every step was colder.
The walls dripped with condensation. The air smelled like wet leaves and burned wax.
After what felt like twenty steps too many, the stairs ended in a small stone chamber.
Round.
Windowless.
Candlelit.
The walls were lined with niches—small, square shelves—and every single one held a box.
Identical to his.
Matte black. Velvet-lined. Each with a single candle beside it.
Some white. Some black. Some gray.
Some already burned down to wax puddles.
Others were untouched.
He moved to the center.
A stone pedestal rose from the floor.
On it: a book.
Thick. Bound in leather so dark it looked like dried blood.
No title.
No clasp.
Just a faint engraving of an eye.
He opened it.
Inside: names.
Dates.
Entries.
Symbols he didn't understand.
But near the back—
His name.
MASON WILDER
Next to it: a date.
One day after the black candle burned out.
And beneath that:
Anchor passed. Door unlocked. Watcher confirmed. Thread connected.
He didn't understand any of it.
Not really.
But it didn't feel like a record.
It felt like permission.
Behind him, something shifted.
A whisper—not in words, but movement.
He turned and saw a new candle on the floor behind him.
This one was red.
No match.
Just the word painted on the wax in black ink:
"CHOOSE."
He knelt beside it, staring at the wick.
It hadn't been there a minute ago.
He hadn't brought it.
But it was his now.
His next task.
Not forced.
Not demanded.
Offered.
That's what was different now.
The fire wasn't a threat anymore.
It was an invitation.
Mason didn't light it.
Not yet.
He stood, left the red candle where it sat, and walked back up the stairs.
Back through the door.
Back through the crawlspace.
Back into his house.
Everything looked the same.
But everything had changed.
That night, he dreamed of the pedestal room again.
But now, it had three doors.
One said, STAY.
One said BURN.
One said, RETURN.
He woke before he chose.
The red candle was waiting on the nightstand.
And beside it, a folded note.
Four words.
It's yours to carry.