Note: this is an erotic story, but for the sake of the website, I chose a chapter without any explicit sexual content. If you want to read that, click the ‘Read More’ button at the bottom.

Cory and Christine lived in a central-passage split-house. The main floor was nice enough, a kitchen and dining room to the left of the entrance with a door separating the two.

To the right was a parlor, where they spent their free time, and a washroom with a mirror, toilet, and sink. A wall separated the two, keeping their noises and scents distinct. Everything on the main level was modern to the time period, a perfect place for hosting guests.

They bought the place dirt cheap, as the main floor, though unimpressive in itself, was the only one finished. The upper level, where they slept, contained a bedroom with naught but a black rod iron bedframe in the middle of an empty floor, with peeled wallpaper and an unconnected ceiling fan its only companions. The upstairs bathroom, whose tiling appeared to have been abandoned halfway, had a toilet that worked, a shower with only hot water, and a sink with only cold water.

The staircase that took up much of the entrance was grand, the tiny side door that led to the basement just nice enough to avoid careful inspection but just roughed up enough to ward inquisitive souls off.

It all had the effect of suggesting whoever lived here had cared much more about appearances than reality, keeping the rooms guests would see tidy and neat and neglecting the rest.

The basement, if you could call it that, was a bare bones structure comprised of exposed concrete floors, wooden beams, wires, and insulation. There was but one room in the basement, a little box underneath the stairs where the walls were filled in, unlike the rest of the floor.

Inside the room was a floor access door, a metallic hatch to the underworld, that led to a crawl space. They just called it a cellar door, though it didn’t lead to a cellar.

It led to a series of underground tunnels.

They knew this because when they had first bought the place, they explored every nook and cranny. Their explorations led them to the crawl space. The crawl space led them to the skeletons.

The cops came and exhumed the bodies. As they sat there in shock, they had it explained to them that the house’s previous owners (not the ones who had just sold them the house, rather their predecessors) had long been accused of multiple murders, but there had never been enough evidence for a search warrant, and the bodies had never been found.

“Well, now they have,” Cory responded, his sardonic wit a defense mechanism born from his current state of shock and an overactive imagination. His childhood had been spent checking for monsters under the bed and in the closet, waking up to invisible presences and asking, Hello? in his most assertive pre-pubescent tone.

He had always worried. But never before did he have a cause to worry.

Now they lived in a house in which a serial killer had, in which lives had been taken and bodies had been hid, in which spirits were trapped.

He was terrified.