The Passage

Maya stared into the narrow doorway carved into the wall like a forgotten secret. The darkness beyond seemed to breathe—soft, steady, almost inviting. The air spilling out was damp and earthy, like a tomb left open too long.

Her flashlight flickered again. Then died completely.

She fumbled with the switch, smacking it in frustration. Nothing.

The house fell into thick silence.

Then came the whisper: "Don't leave me again…"

Maya stepped back, every nerve in her body screaming. She reached for the door—but it slammed shut behind her. The sound echoed through the room like a gunshot.

The passage yawned wider. And somewhere deep within it, a child's laughter rose.

Not innocent. Not sweet.

Mocking.

She turned and ran.

Down the stairs, through the fog-drenched hallway, heart racing, breath ragged. When she reached the front door, it flew open just as her hand hit the knob.

Rourke stood there, phone in one hand, gun in the other.

"You okay?" he asked quickly, eyes scanning the space behind her.

Maya's voice cracked. "There's a passage... behind the wallpaper... upstairs."

He stepped inside, lowering the gun. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

She laughed bitterly. "Maybe I have."

Rourke closed the door and followed her to the kitchen. He poured her water from a half-rusted jug she hadn't even noticed. She drank like she'd been running for hours.

"Talk to me," he said, pulling out a chair.

Maya told him everything—the doll, the mirror, the voice, the girl from her childhood. The secret passage. The forgotten drawing. Eliza.

Rourke didn't interrupt once. He just listened, his jaw tight, eyes unreadable.

When she finished, he pulled a crumpled file from his jacket.

"I looked into the name Eliza," he said. "Didn't find much. No birth records, no missing child report. But I did find this."

He slid a photo across the table.

It was black and white. Old. Early 1900s. A family stood in front of the very same house—Windmere Cliff. A mother, a father... and two daughters.

One of the girls looked just like the porcelain doll.

"Eliza Maynard," Rourke said. "Died in 1908. She was ten. Fell down the cliffs behind the house. Or that's what the obituary said."

Maya frowned. "Then how is she... here?"

He hesitated. "That house has a long history of things—disappearances, strange events. Every few decades, someone goes missing. Or dies in their sleep. Always women. Always near that room."

Maya felt her throat tighten. "My mother knew."

"She tried to keep it locked down. But something got through."

They both fell silent.

Then Maya remembered the scratches on the floor. The thumping. The passage. And that voice—

Don't leave me again.

She rose suddenly. "I think she's trapped. Not just haunting the house. She's still there. Somewhere inside that passage."

Rourke stood. "We're not going in blind. Not tonight."

Maya grabbed a flashlight and tossed him a backup. "I have to go. If my mother tried to stop her, maybe I can finish it."

He sighed and nodded. "Then I'm coming with you."

They climbed the stairs together, the old wood creaking under their steps. The house was still, as if holding its breath.

The room was exactly how she left it—except now, the rocking chair had returned. It sat beside the hidden doorway, as if guarding it.

Maya ignored it.

The flashlight flickered again, but didn't die. She aimed it into the passage.

It was narrow, claustrophobic. The walls were wooden slats, aged and damp. Spiderwebs hung in strings from the ceiling.

They stepped inside.

The further they went, the colder it became. The light barely reached ahead of them.

After what felt like minutes of crawling, they found a small room.

A child's room.

Covered in dust, lit only by the beam of their flashlights. A rusted crib. Old toys scattered on the floor. Drawings pinned to the walls—all of them depicting a girl in white.

At the center, a diary.

Maya picked it up carefully. The pages crackled with age.

The first line sent chills through her spine.

"I live in the fog now. Mommy said I was bad, so she put me here."

Rourke looked at her. "This... this is real."

The ground beneath them creaked.

Then a voice rose, soft and cold.

"I didn't want to be alone…"

The door behind them slammed shut.

And the fog poured in.