When I married Rachel, I knew I wasn’t just marrying her — I was stepping into the lives of her two young daughters. From the outside, it all looked idyllic. The girls, Sophie and Mia, were sweet, energetic, and warm.
Rachel, ever composed and kind, brought a calm joy to everything she touched. The house we moved into together wasn’t brand new, but it had charm — polished wood floors, cozy corners, and the faint scent of cinnamon candles always hanging in the air. It was the kind of place that felt lived-in, loved.
Except for one part. The basement. At first, it was just a closed door at the end of the hallway, painted over in the same cream as the walls.
Innocuous. But something about it always seemed to hum in my peripheral vision. Maybe it was the way Sophie would glance at it when she thought no one was watching.
Or how Mia’s playful giggles would die down whenever she got too close. Rachel, curiously, never mentioned it. If she noticed the tension, she never let on.
“Ethan, can you grab the forks?” she called one night as I set the table. I was halfway through the drawer when Sophie, the older one at eight, slipped into the kitchen and studied me with quiet intensity. “Do you ever wonder what’s in the basement?” she asked.
I laughed, maybe too quickly. “Not really. Old furniture?
Spiders?”
She tilted her head, then wandered off. Later, during dinner, Mia dropped her spoon. As I bent to retrieve it, she whispered, “Daddy doesn’t like loud noises.”
I blinked.
“What?”
She smiled and bounced back into her chair. Rachel had told me very little about her ex-husband. All I knew was that he was “gone.” Whether that meant he’d left, passed away, or something else entirely, I wasn’t sure.
I hadn’t pushed for details. Maybe I should have. A few days later, Mia sat drawing at the kitchen table.
I leaned over to admire her artwork. “Who’s this?” I asked, pointing to the four stick figures. “That’s me.
That’s Sophie. That’s Mommy,” she explained, carefully coloring each figure. “And this one?” I asked, pointing to the last figure, drawn in gray and standing inside a little square.
“That’s Daddy,” she said cheerfully. “He lives in the basement.”
My stomach dropped. I tried bringing it up to Rachel that evening.
We were curled up on the couch, sipping wine. “Have you ever thought about… what the girls believe about their dad?” I asked carefully. Rachel froze for a moment, then took a sip of wine before replying.
“He passed away two years ago. It was quick — aggressive cancer. I didn’t know how to explain it to them, so I said he was gone.
I guess… I thought that would be enough.”
Her voice cracked a little. I let it go. For the moment.
The real shock came the following week. Rachel was at work, and the girls were home sick from school. I was heating up soup when Sophie appeared in the doorway.
“Wanna come see Daddy?” she asked. Mia was close behind, clutching her favorite stuffed koala. I hesitated.
“What do you mean, see Daddy?”
“In the basement,” Mia said brightly. “He’s downstairs. We visit him sometimes.”
My heart began to thump.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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