Chapter 4 – The Hidden Room

The hallway was darker than before, as though the storm outside had stolen the light from every corner. Aanya’s torch beam danced across peeling wallpaper and broken picture frames, but her eyes kept drifting to the red thread.

It slithered along the floorboards, turning left past the crooked staircase, pulling her deeper into the Benson house.

She hesitated. The letter in her pocket seemed to burn against her skin. Trust the thread. It will lead you to me.

But to whom?

She forced her feet forward, step by step. The silence pressed heavy, broken only by the storm’s distant growl. Each creak of the floorboards under her shoes felt louder than it should.

The thread led her to a door at the far end of the hall—smaller than the others, almost hidden behind a tall wooden cabinet. Dust clung to its handle like a warning.

Her fingers trembled as she reached out. The handle resisted at first, then gave way with a groan. The door swung open to reveal… nothing.

Just a plain wall.

Aanya frowned, leaning closer. Why would there be a door that led nowhere?

Her torchlight caught something—tiny, carved symbols etched faintly into the wood. She traced them with her fingertip. They were worn, nearly invisible, but they formed a pattern… like an old lock mechanism.

The thread, however, did not stop at the wall. It disappeared through it.

Her chest tightened. “This isn’t possible…”

Instinct pushed her to knock. The hollow echo that answered back made her heart skip. The wall wasn’t solid—it was hiding something.

She pressed against the edges, searching for a catch. Her palm slid over the carvings again, and this time, something clicked.

The wall shifted.

A hidden panel swung open with a whisper of dust, revealing a narrow room beyond.

Aanya’s breath caught.

The chamber was small, almost suffocating, lined with shelves of objects—an old violin, a cracked mirror, bundles of letters tied with ribbon. The air smelled faintly of smoke, sharp and bitter, as though it had been sealed in since the night of the fire mentioned in the journals.

But what stole her attention was the desk at the far end.

Another photograph rested there.

Her knees weakened as she picked it up.

It was her mother.

Not as she knew her, not in the comfortable dresses and careful smiles she wore at home. In this picture, her mother was younger, her eyes wide and unguarded, standing on the very steps of this house.

The back of the photograph bore a single line, scrawled in the same hand as the letters:

She tried to protect you.

Aanya’s throat tightened. Protect her? From what?

Her thoughts tumbled, colliding with questions she couldn’t answer. Why had her mother never spoken of this place? Why was her image here, hidden in a secret room? And who left these clues behind for Aanya to find now?

Her hands shook as she set the photo down. That’s when she noticed it—beneath the desk, a small locked chest.

The red thread ended there.

She crouched, tugging at the chest. It was heavy, its iron lock rusted but intact. She rattled it, desperate for it to give. It didn’t budge.

Her frustration boiled. “Damn it…”

Then—another sound.

Footsteps.

Her blood ran cold.

They were heavier now, deliberate, echoing from the hallway outside. Not the slow groaning of old wood, but a steady tread, as though someone knew exactly where they were going.

She snapped her torch off again, heart racing in the dark. Her breaths came shallow, ragged.

The steps grew closer.

She pressed herself against the wall, straining to listen. The cabinet outside scraped faintly against the floorboards, as though being moved. Whoever it was—they knew about this hidden door.

A splinter of light pierced the crack as the secret panel began to shift.

Panic surged. She darted back, pressing into the corner of the room. The chest, the photograph, the letters—all forgotten in the sudden terror of being caught.

The panel creaked open.

Torchlight spilled inside, but it wasn’t hers.

A shadow stretched across the room. Tall. Broad. Unfamiliar.

“Aanya,” a voice murmured.

Her heart seized. They knew her name.

She bit her lip, staying silent, every muscle frozen.

The torch beam swept across the shelves, pausing on the violin, then the mirror, then the desk.

Finally, it landed on her.

Her breath hitched.

The figure stepped closer, and for the first time, Aanya saw his face.

It wasn’t a stranger.

It was the man from the painting upstairs.