The basement

Alex switched on his phone's flashlight and descended the stairs slowly. With each step, the wooden ladder emitted a low creak, seemingly on the verge of collapse. The air grew increasingly damp, carrying a musty scent of rotting wood, mingled with a faint earthy odor.

At the foot of the stairs lay a dimly lit basement, approximately twenty square meters in size, its walls of rough concrete, stained with patches of moisture that appeared like the traces of tears. The ceiling was low, cobwebs hanging from the rafters, and the corners were piled with debris: broken chairs, rusty iron buckets, and a defunct radio.

He surveyed the surroundings, noticing a row of wooden shelves against the wall, laden with cardboard boxes and assorted tools. Setting down his backpack, he approached the shelves and began to sort through the contents.

The boxes were mostly filled with old newspapers, tattered clothing, and dead flashlights. As he moved each item, dust billowed up, causing him to cough lightly. On the top shelf rested a wooden box, approximately a foot square, its surface carved with intricate patterns, as if meticulously sculpted.

He reached out to take it, but just as his fingers touched the edge of the box, the shelf suddenly gave way, causing the wooden box to tilt and tumble down. He quickly recoiled as the box struck the ground with a muffled thud. The lid popped open, and its contents spilled across the floor.

He looked down, his breath catching in his throat—several fist-sized stones were scattered on the floor, their shapes contorted, their surfaces covered with fine grooves, and traces of grayish-red blood clinging to the edges. They were those mysterious rune-stones.

Alex crouched down, picked up a rune-stone, and as his fingertips made contact, a faint whisper resonated from the depths of his mind, like the sound of wind passing through a hollow. He frowned, muttering, "How are these here?" He glanced around the basement, the shadows in the corners seeming to sway slightly in the dim light. Taking a deep breath, he placed the stone back on the ground and turned his attention to the other scattered objects.

A pocket watch lay in the dust, its case corroded, its hands frozen at three seventeen, a hairline crack running across the glass beneath the dial, as if struck by something. He picked up the watch, gently wiping away the dust. On the back was engraved a line of faint lettering: "To J, 1963". He tried winding the mechanism, but the watch remained unresponsive, as if long dead.

Finally, there was a Polaroid photograph, its square frame yellowed, its surface blank. He flipped it over, and on the back was written the word "Home" in pencil. He frowned. "What does it mean?" He stared at the photo, trying to discern some clue, but no matter how he looked at it, it remained blank. He placed the photo back in the box, a sense of unease creeping into his mind—did the owner of this basement have some connection to the Other Side?

He stood up, his gaze returning to the rune-stones. The presence of the stones here was no coincidence. Could it be that Lena's uncle had also been to that place? Scarlett's words echoed in his mind—the people of the Cryptid Society hunt monsters and trade items.

The air in the basement grew heavier, the water stains on the walls seeming to slowly expand, writhing like living things. He glanced down at the watch and the photo, suspecting that these two items also came from that mysterious realm. He carefully placed the three objects back in the box, deciding to take them upstairs to ask Lena.