The rain followed them for miles. It tapped on the windshield like it was trying to get in. You sat in the passenger seat of the old moving truck, arms crossed, headphones in but not playing anything. Your mother drove in silence. The heater was on, but it didn't feel warm.

They were heading to the house your father had grown up in. Your mother called it "a fresh start." That was what people said when something terrible had happened and no one knew how to talk about it.

Your father had died six months ago. Cancer. The quiet kind that grows without telling you until it's everywhere. The house came next, like it was waiting for them. "You're going to like it," your mother said as the trees thickened on either side of the road. "It's peaceful. Your dad always said it felt like a fairy tale."

You didn't answer. The trees looked like they were leaning toward the truck, like they were listening. The house was tall and narrow, with windows like tired eyes and a roof that dipped in the middle. It sagged at the edges, but not enough to fall over. Not yet.

It sat at the end of a long gravel road, surrounded by overgrown weeds and trees that hadn't been trimmed in years. The front porch was warped. Something had scratched the paint off the door, but no one mentioned it.

Your bedroom was on the second floor, facing the woods. The floor creaked, the walls smelled like old paper and rain, and there was a small stain on the ceiling that looked like it had something to say but never got the chance.

They unpacked in silence.

They unpacked slowly. The house seemed to want everything just so.

Boxes were half-opened. Shelves sat empty, waiting. In the corner of your new bedroom, under a threadbare sheet and an old trunk, you found a small wooden door—arched at the top, barely two feet high, and painted the same dull beige as the rest of the wall. It had a tiny metal latch, but no handle.

"Mom!" you called down the hallway. "There's a weird door in my room."

"There's a lot of weird stuff in this place honey," she called back. "It's old."

You didn't think much of it. Not until you opened a box labeled "Office – Dad's Desk" and found something small wrapped in tissue paper.

A black iron key. Old. Heavy. The shape of the teeth looked oddly familiar. You turned it over in your hand. When you tried it in the door, it fit perfectly.

Click.

You opened the little door. Behind it was brick. Rough red stone, dry and cold. As if someone had sealed it off from the other side. You touched the surface. It was real. Solid. Dead. You closed the door but never locked it.

That night, the wind came back. It crept around the edges of the house like something looking for a way in. You couldn't sleep. Boxes crowded the corners. The walls made quiet popping sounds, like they were cooling down after a long day of pretending to be normal.

Then—a sound.

Soft. Rolling. Plastic.

You sat up. A toy car—your old red one from when you were five—rolled across the floor, coming from the closet. It bumped gently into the side of your bed and stopped. You stared at it. It moved again, slowly turning around and heading back toward the closet, as if it wanted to be followed.

You got out of bed and stepped across the room, heart thudding. The tiny door was open. And this time, there was no brick wall. Just a dark tunnel, lined with faded wallpaper and crawling with thread-thin spiders that hurried away as you looked in. You hesitated. Then you crawled inside.

The tunnel twisted slightly. The light behind you dimmed, and the air grew warmer. When you came out the other side, you were standing in a kitchen—familiar, but wrong. The wallpaper was brighter. The floors looked polished and new. It smelled like cinnamon and bacon and something just starting to burn.

A man stood at the stove.

"Morning, buddy," he said, without turning around. "You're just in time for breakfast."

You froze.

The man turned around with a smile.

He looked exactly like your dad.

Only his eyes were black buttons.