…But what I saw at the bottom stopped me in my tracks.
The basement was not empty.
In the far corner stood a recliner — old, worn, and pointed toward a dusty TV set that flickered static. Around it were toys, half-open books, and a small side table with juice boxes on it. Someone had clearly been spending time down here.
“Girls…” I whispered, my voice trembling. “Who set all this up?”
“We did,” Sophie said proudly. “It’s Daddy’s space. We keep it nice for him.”
“Yeah,” Mia chimed in, “We talk to him and tell him about school. He listens. Sometimes he moves the toys.”
I felt cold all over. It didn’t feel like a game. It felt… real. Too real.
I checked every inch of that basement. No hidden doors. No intruders. No physical signs of anyone living there. And yet — the girls insisted. Day after day, they spoke to “Daddy.” Left drawings for him. One morning, I found a crayon-scribbled note under my pillow: He’s happy you’re here. Just be quiet at night.
I finally confronted Rachel again.
She went pale. “They used to come down here and cry after he died. They missed him so much… I think their minds created a way to keep him close.”
“Do you believe it?” I asked.
She didn’t answer. Just stared at the basement door.
That night, long after everyone was asleep, I crept downstairs once more. The air felt heavier. As I reached the bottom step, the TV snapped on — static, just like before. I hadn’t touched the remote.
And on the screen, in the middle of the white noise, appeared a faint outline — a man’s figure, sitting in a recliner.
I haven’t been down there since.
