Chapter 2 The Locked Door

The door was always locked.

It looked normal enough white paint, brass handle but it never opened. Not once. Damian called it his "work room." Said he needed quiet, private space for focus. But I knew better. I could feel the energy coming from that door. Cold. Contained. Like something waited behind it.

One afternoon, when no one was home, I tested the handle. It didn't budge. I leaned in, listening. Silence. But as I turned to leave, I saw it heat. A faint shimmer, like the handle had just been touched. I jerked my hand back.

The same day, something else happened. Mom's little dog, Pepper, vanished. Damian said she must've slipped through the gate during the storm. But I checked-the gate was still chained shut. No footprints. No scratches. Nothing.

Then, I found the photograph.

It was tucked inside a psychology textbook Damian gave me for school. A black-and-white photo of a woman who looked unsettlingly like my mother. Same eyes. Same bone structure. But written on the back in faded ink:

"Amara 2007. Gone too soon."

I asked Damian who she was.

His smile twitched.

"An old girlfriend," he said flatly. "Car accident."

But he was lying.

I could feel it.

Deep down in my blood something seems off.