Chapter Eight: Beneath the House

Lena tumbled down the stairs, hitting the stone floor hard. Pain shot through her side, but she barely had time to react.

The door above slammed shut.

She was trapped.

Darkness swallowed the basement, thick and suffocating. The air smelled of damp earth, rot, and something metallic—blood.

She reached out blindly, her fingers brushing against something rough and splintered. Shelves. Old crates. The remnants of a forgotten past.

Then she saw them.

The marks on the walls.

Scratches—deep, desperate gouges carved into the stone. They covered every inch, overlapping, frantic. And scrawled between them, in her grandmother's familiar, trembling handwriting, were the words:

"The fog is not outside. It is beneath. It is hungry. And it knows your name."

A whisper brushed against her ear.

Not from behind her.

Not from the door.

But from the floor.

Slowly, Lena looked down.

The stone beneath her was cracked, uneven. Thin tendrils of fog curled up through the gaps, breathing.

And then—something moved beneath it.

A shape, shifting just under the surface.

Lena scrambled back, her pulse hammering. The fog coiled around her, pressing against her skin. The whispers returned, low and pleading.

"We've been waiting, Lena."

"She kept us here."

"But you can set us free."

Then, from the far corner of the basement, something stood up.

A figure.

Tall. Hollow-eyed. Its body half-formed from the mist, its fingers too long, too thin.

It took a step toward her.

Lena pressed against the wall, her hands shaking.

The thing smiled.

And in her grandmother's voice, it whispered:

"Open the floor, darling. Let us out."