We really thought we were starting over. My husband and I, we had been through the wringer with his job loss and the medical bills that piled up like snow in a Wisconsin winter. When we found that place in Clark County, it felt like a blessing. It was quiet, surrounded by cornfields that went on forever, and the rent was only $1,450.

The landlord was a man named Mr. Henderson. He was soft-spoken, always wore a clean flannel shirt, and had a way of looking at his shoes when he talked. He handed us the keys on a Tuesday, and I remember him stopping at the cellar door. He didn’t lock it or anything, he just put his hand on the frame.

“The basement is damp and the wiring is old,” he said, and he sounded genuinely concerned for us. “Don’t touch the basement. It’s not safe for you to be down there.”

I didn’t think much of it. Most of those old farmhouses have foundations that look like they’re one stiff breeze away from folding. I just nodded and told him we’d stay out. I mean, who wants to spend time in a basement anyway?

We lived there for three months in total peace. It was lovely. We’d sit on the porch with our coffee, watching the hawks circle the fields, and for the first time in years, I didn’t wake up with my chest tight from anxiety.

Then, the washing machine decided it had seen enough. It let out a groan, shook like a lawnmower, and stopped turning altogether.

I called a contractor from town, a local boy named Dale. He came out on a Thursday afternoon with his tool belt slung low on his hips. He poked around at the machine for a bit, cursed under his breath about parts being discontinued, and then he stood up and wiped his hands on a rag.

“This floor is uneven,” Dale said, looking toward the corner of the room where the old cellar stairs were. “And that wall over there? It’s been patched recently. Doesn’t match the rest of the foundation.”

I told him not to worry about it, that the landlord kept the basement off-limits. But Dale, he was a curious soul. He walked over to that patch of wall, tapped it with his hammer, and looked back at me. It didn’t sound like solid stone. It sounded hollow. Like a wooden crate.

Before I could stop him, he had his pry bar out. I should have told him to put it away. I really should have. But the sound of that wood splintering was almost hypnotic. He peeled back a layer of rotting drywall, and there it was. A door. A heavy, metal door that didn’t belong in a farmhouse cellar.