Chapter 2: The Ghost in the Basement

I tapped the notification:

'Okay, which one’s fake? 1. Your mom will die. 2. You yourself will die. 3. There will be a ghost in your basement.'

I stared at the screen, paralyzed. Tears blurred my vision. This was the worst game I’d ever played.

These three options made my scalp tingle again. My fingers shook as I scrolled back and forth, desperate for a loophole. There was none.

Two of them were the same as before, the ones I hadn’t picked—and never would.

It was like the game was closing in, forcing my hand.

Clearly, I was being forced to choose the third option.

But just now, I really saw a ghost at Derek’s place… If this was the same ghost, did that mean she was coming here next?

Does that mean the woman is coming for me next?

I started to shake, clutching my phone tighter. Every shadow in my house seemed deeper, every creak of the floor a warning.

Just like she killed Derek.

But that can’t be right. If she only wanted to kill me, why this game of picking lies? She could just come and get me, couldn’t she?

The ghost must have some reason for doing this.

Maybe this was all about control—about forcing me to make impossible decisions. Maybe she fed off fear, off the agony of being forced to choose.

I noticed—

This time, the multiple-choice question mentioned a very specific place: 'basement.'

The word glowed in my mind. The basement—where I was never allowed to go.

Previous messages never mentioned a location. This was the first time. Was it a clue, or a trap?

There had to be something special about it. Maybe it was the key to all the weird things happening tonight.

Should I go check it out?

My hands shook as I debated, the air in my room stale and cold. If I waited, would things get worse?

While I hesitated, I noticed a few other hidden rules—

First, only after the answer I picked became reality did the next message arrive. Every choice triggered an event. If I delayed, maybe I could buy myself time.

Second, the messages didn’t mention a time limit for answering. Maybe I could just not answer, or at least not rush?

With that hope, I got up to look for the basement key.

The house creaked as I padded down the hall in my socks, old hardwood cool under my feet. I glanced over my shoulder, half-expecting to see that ghostly woman lurking in the shadows.

Speaking of the basement, my mom never let me in—she always kept it locked. Ever since I was a kid, that door was off-limits. She was weirdly strict about it, never giving a real answer. I always figured it was just full of junk.

But I was clever enough to know where she hid the key. She wasn’t exactly subtle—a flowerpot on the back porch, taped under the rim. I’d found it once looking for a lost baseball, never told her.

I found it easily, went to the door, and unlocked it. The old brass key turned with a rusty click. The door creaked open, a puff of cool, stale air washing over me.

The stairs creaked under my weight, and the air smelled like old paint and forgotten Christmas decorations. As I pushed the door open, a musty smell of old sage drifted out.

It was earthy, heavy, almost medicinal. I wrinkled my nose. I’d smelled sage before—sometimes my mom burned it when she said the 'energy' in the house felt weird. She’d told me it was good for cleansing, for keeping away the bad stuff.

When I was little, my mom told me sage could ward off bad spirits. I remembered her waving a bundle around, chanting softly while I giggled, not taking it seriously. Now, it felt like a warning I should have listened to.

With the power out, I used my phone flashlight to look around. The narrow beam swept over dusty boxes, battered suitcases, and a pile of board games from another era. Shadows jumped and danced, making everything look twice as creepy.

Inside were all sorts of old things—tables, chairs, wardrobes, lamps—stuff we didn’t use anymore. My flashlight picked out shapes from my childhood—my old tricycle, a broken snow globe, my dad’s faded ballcap. The basement was like a museum to a life I barely remembered.

My eyes were drawn to a dark red wardrobe—

It stood out, paint peeling at the edges, like it didn’t belong in this decade. Something about it felt ominous, as if it was waiting for me.

The basement had been locked for ages, but the wardrobe door was slightly open. My heart pounded. I took a shaky breath, feeling like I was in one of those horror movies I’d always scoffed at.

I took a deep breath, walked over, and gently opened the door…

The hinges squealed, the sound echoing off the concrete walls. My hand shook as I reached for the knob.

Thankfully, there wasn’t a terrifying head popping out. I let out a relieved breath, half-laughing at myself. Inside was just shadows and old cloth.

Inside were some even older items—a stack of faded dresses, yellowed with age. A battered hatbox. My mom’s old high school yearbook. I dug deeper, curiosity getting the better of me.

Faded red clothing. The fabric was stiff, the kind you’d see in sepia-toned photos. I brushed my fingers over the embroidery, feeling the raised patterns.

A bronze hand mirror covered in strange markings. I turned it over, squinting at the carvings. Symbols I didn’t recognize, swirling in and out of each other like a secret code. The glass was cloudy, reflecting only vague shapes.

And also, a thick… Marriage contract—

My fingers closed around a heavy folder, the paper inside crinkling. The cover was red, faded to a dull brick color. My hands trembled.

This looked nothing like the marriage certificates we signed at City Hall when my cousin got married. It was older, creepier—like something out of a Civil War documentary.

But why would my family have something like this?

I racked my brain, thinking back to every family gathering, every story my mom told about the old days. Nothing added up.

I hesitated for a moment, then picked it up and opened it. The paper was thick, rough against my fingers. My pulse quickened as I flipped through the pages.

Inside was a black-and-white photo—grainy, the edges curling with age. I peered at it in the harsh glow of my phone, trying to make out the faces.

A man and a woman sat side by side in the picture. They looked stiff, unsmiling, dressed in formal clothes—like something from an old daguerreotype. The woman was smiling; she looked a lot like my mom.

It was uncanny—the same eyes, the same stubborn chin. But the hairstyle and dress were decades out of fashion. My stomach fluttered with unease.

But the photo was so old, I couldn’t be sure if it was really her. I squinted, trying to reconcile the two images. The resemblance was there, but the years distorted everything.

The man’s face, though, had been blacked out over and over, making it impossible to tell who he was. Thick strokes of ink marred his features, hiding him completely.

The strangest thing about the photo was their clothing—it looked a lot like funeral clothes. Not just the black and white; something about the cut screamed mourning attire. Goosebumps prickled my arms.

Below were the personal details of both people, but those too had been blacked out. Names, dates, places—all covered by angry slashes of marker or pen. Like the past itself was being erased.

What on earth was this?

I stared, searching for meaning. Was this the secret my mom had been hiding? Was it connected to the ghost upstairs?

At that moment, my phone vibrated again. The sound jarred me out of my thoughts. I nearly dropped the contract, scrambling to check the screen.

I quickly checked and saw a new message:

'5:'

The number glowed ominous on my screen, like a warning buzzer on a game show. My pulse raced.

This number made me pause. I realized what it meant—a countdown. My time was running out.

Immediately, another message came:

'4:'

The numbers ticked down, relentless. I started to panic, feeling trapped in the basement, trapped in this nightmare.

I was shocked.

No way out, no more thinking. It was forcing me to choose.

So if I didn’t answer after a certain amount of time, it would start a countdown to force me to answer. Sweat trickled down my back. Each buzz from my phone made me flinch, like a shock collar.

My heart hammered, sweat prickling at my hairline. I fumbled for the doorknob, desperate to escape.

I turned to run, wanting to get out and answer later. If I could just make it upstairs, maybe things would make sense. Maybe the ghost wouldn’t follow. I stumbled toward the door, clutching the contract to my chest.

Because I could only pick 3.

It was the only option left—'There will be a ghost in your basement.' But I couldn’t make myself hit send. Not yet.

But right then, I suddenly found the door wouldn’t open.

I rattled the handle, panic rising. It was stuck, jammed tight, as if something—or someone—was holding it shut from the other side.

Another message came:

'3:'

The numbers kept ticking down, relentless. My breathing sped up, chest tightening. The walls felt like they were closing in.

Panicking, I kept shaking the doorknob…

I banged my shoulder against the door, hoping to break it open. It didn’t budge. My knuckles ached from pounding.

The phone vibrated again, but I didn’t check—I was too flustered.

I knew it must be '2.' Time was almost up. My mind was racing, searching for a way out, any loophole.

I had no idea what would happen if I didn’t answer in time.

Would I die? Would my mom die? Would the ghost come for me? I didn’t want to find out.

But it definitely wouldn’t be good. The dread was overwhelming, a suffocating weight on my chest. I was trapped.

Just as the phone vibrated for the last time, the door suddenly opened. The knob turned easily, the door swinging wide. I stumbled backward, nearly falling over.

But standing in the doorway was a figure…

A shadow fell across the stairs, blocking the weak light from the kitchen. For a split second, I thought it was the ghost. My blood froze.

I jumped in fright. My heart felt like it would burst out of my chest. I stumbled away, clutching the old contract, legs shaking.

Luckily, what she said next calmed me instantly: 'Seriously? In the basement at this hour? I told you that place is off-limits.'

It was my mom’s voice. Warm, familiar, annoyed. Relief crashed over me in a wave so strong it nearly made me cry.