Chapter 2 – The Letter with Her Name

The red thread glowed faintly under the torchlight, its fibers catching the dust in the air like strands of fire in the dark. Aanya stared at it, her breath unsteady.

She crouched low, touching it with trembling fingers. It was real—thin, coarse, but strong, as if it had been spun to last decades. It disappeared into the shadows of the hallway, pulling her attention forward, daring her to follow.

“Follow the red thread, and you will find what was lost.”

The words from the letter pulsed in her mind.

She swallowed hard. This is insane. She should turn back, slam the door shut, and run home. Yet the sight of her name written on paper that must have been hidden for years anchored her to the spot. Whoever wrote this knew her. Knew she would one day come here. That truth gnawed at her fear until curiosity overpowered it.

Gripping her torch, Aanya stepped carefully, the floorboards groaning beneath her weight. The thread led her past broken picture frames, their glass shattered, images too faded to recognize. Dust clung to the walls in thick sheets, and cobwebs glimmered like lace in the corners.

At the end of the hall, the thread slipped under a door. The wood was scarred, its handle rusted. Aanya hesitated before twisting it. To her relief, the door gave way with only a mild groan.

Inside was a small sitting room. Torn curtains sagged from their rods, letting in thin streams of rain-dimmed light. An armchair sat in the corner, its stuffing spilling out. A bookshelf leaned precariously against the wall, half-empty, the few surviving volumes swollen from water damage.

But her eyes locked on what lay across the floor: the red thread, winding toward the fireplace.

Aanya’s pulse quickened. She knelt by the hearth, brushing aside ashes long turned gray. The thread seemed to vanish into a small crack between the bricks. She tugged gently, and to her surprise, the brick shifted loose.

Behind it was a hollow space. Inside lay a small tin box, its surface scratched and rusted.

She pulled it out, heart hammering. The lid resisted but finally gave way with a screech.

Inside were papers—letters, folded pages, and a photograph.

The photo was black-and-white, worn at the edges. It showed a young woman with dark, searching eyes and a gentle smile. Aanya’s stomach dropped. The woman looked eerily familiar, like staring into a mirror blurred by time.

She traced the outline of the face with her finger, her throat tightening. Who are you?

Beneath the photo was another letter, this one addressed differently:

"To the one who carries her face."

Aanya’s hands shook as she unfolded it.

You do not know me, but you carry the blood of those who once lived here. She was taken from this house, but her shadow remained. If you seek the truth, find the journals. They remember what we could not say aloud. Trust only the red thread. It knows the way.
 

She let the paper fall to her lap. Her mind whirled. Blood of those who once lived here? Did this mean the woman in the photograph was her ancestor? Or something else entirely?

Her mother had never spoken about their family history. Whenever Aanya asked about grandparents, about lineage, the subject was quickly changed. She’d grown used to those silences, but now they pressed in like walls.

The room suddenly felt smaller, darker.

She shoved the photograph and papers back into the tin, clutching it tightly. The torchlight caught another glimmer near the bookshelf—another stretch of red thread, winding upward this time.

It disappeared behind the leaning shelf.

Heart pounding, she pushed against it, the wood groaning as it scraped against the floor. Dust billowed, making her cough, but slowly, the shelf shifted aside.

Behind it was a narrow doorway, one she never would have noticed otherwise.

The red thread trailed inside.

Her torch revealed steep stairs spiraling downward into the basement.

The air smelled of damp stone and something sharper, almost metallic.

Every instinct screamed to leave. Basements were the stuff of horror stories, and this one promised nothing good. But then she looked at the tin box in her arms, the letter calling her “the one who carries her face,” and something steadied inside her.

This was no ordinary accident of fate. Someone, long ago, wanted her to find this.

Aanya set her jaw and began her descent.

The steps groaned beneath her, and shadows wrapped tighter around her the deeper she went. By the time she reached the bottom, her breath fogged in the cold air.

The basement was larger than expected. Shelves lined the walls, some bare, others stacked with boxes and jars. A broken lantern sat on a table, and in the center of the room stood an old trunk, its lock snapped open.

The red thread ended here, tied neatly to the trunk’s handle.

With trembling hands, Aanya lifted the lid.

Inside lay stacks of leather-bound journals, their spines cracked with age. Each one bore initials she didn’t recognize. Dust rose in small clouds as she lifted the first. She opened it carefully, scanning the handwriting inside.

The words chilled her.

August 14, 1975. They came again last night. She begged them to leave her child, but they would not. I can still hear the crying. If anyone finds this, know that it was not an accident. The fire was no accident. We were betrayed from within.
 

Aanya’s vision blurred as she reread the entry. Betrayed? A fire? A child taken?

Her chest tightened. She turned the pages, each one filled with fragments of the same story—fear, betrayal, and loss.

At last, her eyes landed on a sentence that made her blood run cold:

Her name will be Aanya. If she ever returns, guide her to the truth.
 

The journal slipped from her fingers, thudding onto the concrete floor.

Her name. Written decades ago.

The basement seemed to close in, every shadow leaning closer, listening.

For the first time, Aanya wondered if she was truly alone in the Benson house.