"Check the basement. Behind the mirror."
That was all the message said.
No greeting.
No name.
No explanation.
Just one cold, precise warning typed in plain text and sent from an anonymous email at 3:14 a.m.
Margaret read it three times, each time slower than the last, her fingers trembling around her phone. The house was dark and silent. Frank was asleep beside her, breathing softly, his back turned.
But that message sat on her screen like a bomb.
She looked at Frank's sleeping form. She thought of his smile—warm, gentle, disarming. The kind of smile that made her believe he was the one.
But now?
Now her gut twisted with something she hadn't felt before.
Doubt.
She didn't sleep that night. Just stared at the shadows on the ceiling, heart pounding, mind spinning.
By morning, the message was gone. Deleted. She didn't remember doing it. Maybe she hadn't.
Maybe someone else had.
Someone... inside him.
---
Frank left for work at 9:07 a.m., the same way he always did—coffee in one hand, a kiss on her forehead, and the words, "I'll be back before dinner, my love."
Margaret stood at the front door, smiling like a good wife. But her insides were screaming.
As soon as his car disappeared down the driveway, she locked the door, ran upstairs, and grabbed the flashlight.
She wasn't crazy.
She just needed answers.
---
The basement was colder than she remembered.
The floorboards creaked under her weight as she stepped into the dark stairwell, the kind of place where nightmares whispered. She hadn't been down there since they moved in—Frank had insisted it was "just storage."
Dust swirled in the beam of her flashlight as she descended.
The basement was cluttered. Boxes stacked to the ceiling, old furniture covered in sheets, a rusty water heater hissing in the corner.
Then she saw it.
A tall, antique mirror leaning against the far wall.
It looked out of place—elegant, with golden vines carved into the frame, standing there like it was waiting for her.
Margaret's hands shook as she approached. Her breath fogged the surface.
She reached behind it.
Her fingers brushed cold metal.
A latch.
Click.
The panel behind the mirror creaked open.
She blinked.
There was a hidden door.
Behind it, a small room.
Unlit. Unfurnished.
Except for one thing:
A single metal chair bolted to the floor…
With leather restraints.
Margaret stepped back, her flashlight shaking. The air turned thick—like it remembered screams.
In the corner of the room was a wooden box. Small. Sealed.
She dropped to her knees, heart racing, and pried it open.
Inside were:
A bloodstained cloth
A flash drive
And a photograph of a woman with long black hair… and a bruise blooming under her eye
On the back of the photo, in faded handwriting:
Elaine. 2018.
Margaret stumbled to her feet, backing away.
She didn't know an Elaine.
But Frank clearly did.
And that message?
Whoever sent it knew exactly what she'd find.
She barely made it back upstairs before vomiting in the sink.
---
That night, she couldn't look at Frank the same.
He asked how her day went.
She lied.
He cooked dinner.
She didn't eat.
He kissed her goodnight.
She didn't sleep.
---
Three days passed.
She couldn't stop thinking about the photo. Or the restraints. Or the fact that Frank had hidden it all.
And then came the next crack.
Thursday night.
She got home late from an event. Frank was in the living room, sitting in the dark.
He didn't move when she entered. The TV glowed silently behind him, but his eyes were blank, empty, locked on nothing.
"Frank?" she called.
Nothing.
She stepped closer. "Frank?"
He turned slowly.
But his eyes weren't his.
His face had shifted.
His expression was cold.
His voice was low.
> "You weren't supposed to come back yet."
Her heart nearly stopped.
She stared at him, too stunned to speak.
Then he blinked—once, twice—and suddenly his features softened.
"Margaret? You scared me. Why are the lights off?"
She didn't answer. She just smiled tightly and walked upstairs, locking the bedroom door behind her.
---
She waited until he left again.
Then she plugged in the flash drive.
Videos.
Dozens.
Each one showing a woman sitting in that basement room.
Some smiling nervously. Others crying. All talking to the camera.
But one video shattered everything.
A woman with dark eyes and a bruised lip whispered:
> "He's sweet at first. Then something… changes. It's like he becomes someone else. And then… I wake up hurt. I don't think he even remembers."
Margaret slammed the laptop shut.
She couldn't breathe.
This wasn't just the past.
This was still happening.
---
Her phone rang.
Unknown number.
Hands trembling, she answered.
"…Hello?"
A shaky voice whispered:
> "Is this Margaret?"
"…Yes."
> "I don't know how to say this. But I was once engaged to Frank. I found your name by accident. You need to get out. I barely made it out alive."
Click.
The call ended.
---
She told herself it was a prank.
A jealous ex.
Someone playing games.
But at night, she started noticing the little things.
Frank's moods shifting rapidly.
His handwriting changing on the grocery list.
Whole conversations they had… forgotten.
And the whispering. At night, just as she drifted off, she could hear him talking in the next room. Low. Murmuring. Sometimes laughing. Sometimes sobbing.
She started recording.
Played the audio back in the morning.
But her phone would be wiped. Blank.
---
One night, she woke up to find Frank not in bed.
The bathroom light was on. She knocked.
No answer.
She opened the door slowly.
He stood in front of the mirror, shirtless, his chest rising and falling rapidly.
Talking to his reflection.
> "She knows. I think she knows."
"Then get rid of her."
"No. Not yet."
"You always say that. She's a problem."
"She's different. She reminds me of her."
Margaret backed away.
She closed the door and fled to the bedroom.
She didn't know who "her" was.
But something told her she didn't want to find out.
---
Then came the worst night of all.
It started with a missing phone.
She had left it charging on the kitchen counter.
It was gone.
Frank claimed he hadn't seen it.
She checked every drawer, under the cushions, behind the couch.
Nowhere.
Then she found it—hidden under Frank's briefcase in the study.
Battery dead.
When she turned it on, her passcode had been changed.
That night, she confronted him.
"Frank," she said, holding the phone in her shaking hand. "Why did you take this?"
He looked confused. Genuinely confused.
"I didn't."
"You did. You hid it."
"Margaret, I swear, I didn't—"
Then he stopped mid-sentence.
His face froze.
He blinked slowly.
And then—he smiled.
But the smile didn't reach his eyes.
> "You shouldn't have gone into the basement."
Her heart stopped.
> "You found the box, didn't you?"
Margaret backed away.
He took a step forward.
> "Did you watch them?"
Her mouth opened but no words came.
> "Did you watch her scream?"
She turned and ran. Locked herself in the bathroom. Slammed the bolt.
Outside, silence.
For hours.
No footsteps. No movement.
Just silence.
Then a knock.
Gentle.
Rhythmic.
> Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
> "Let me in, Margaret. It's me."
She didn't move.
Didn't speak.
She sat in the bathtub, knees to her chest, trying not to shake.
---
By morning, he was gone.
No note.
No car in the driveway.
No messages.
Just silence.
She crept out of the bathroom, her limbs numb, her mouth dry.
The front door was locked from the inside.
Her phone… missing again.
Every window sealed.
Her calls to the outside world blocked.
---
Margaret was alone in the house.
And she was beginning to realize—
Maybe she always had been.