The Cellar

Sam Taylor wiped his forehead with the back of his hand as the storm siren wailed in the distance. Rain lashed against the windows of the old house he and his brother, Jake, were restoring. The structure had good bones, but time and weather had not been kind to it.

“Damn it, the breaker,” Jake muttered as the lights flickered and died.

“I got it,” Sam said, already heading toward the basement.

He took the steps two at a time, his boots echoing in the cavernous space below. The storm rattled the house, and a strange pressure built in his ears as he reached the breaker box. He hesitated, a prickling sensation crawling up his spine. The air felt thick, charged, and a strange ringing noise filled his head. His vision blurred, his balance wavered — and then, silence.

Blinking, Sam steadied himself against the stone wall. The air smelled different — less like mildew, more like polished wood and faint traces of candle wax. The storm was gone. Confused, he turned toward the stairs and climbed up.

“Jake?” he called. “Hey, the breaker’s on.”

No answer. The hallway was… different. The peeling wallpaper was now pristine, the floors gleamed, and the faint flicker of gas lamps cast a warm glow. He moved forward, his boots silent on the polished wood. A sound drifted through the house — a woman’s voice, singing, accompanied by the soft, delicate notes of a piano.

Drawn by the melody, Sam stepped toward the parlor. Inside, a young woman sat at the grand piano, her back to him. She was dressed in an elegant gown, her hair styled in elegant updo. The song she sang was haunting, carrying an air of sorrow.

He took a cautious step forward, the floor creaking beneath him.

The music stopped.

{{user}} turned her head slightly, startled, her wide eyes meeting his.

Sam swallowed hard.