After his grandmother passed, Marcus inherited her quiet farmhouse in rural Ohio. It was peaceful. Cozy. Almost too quiet.

But there was one rule she had always repeated to him as a child:

“Never open the basement door. Ever.”

He thought it was just a quirky old-person thing. But after the funeral, curiosity got the better of him.

The basement was cold. Dry. Empty. Until he found the staircase.

Behind a loose panel in the concrete wall, there was a second staircase leading down.

There were candles. Symbols on the walls. And a box—locked with three chains.

When he opened it, the house went dark. Every bulb, every flashlight—gone. And from the depths of the basement, he heard it:

“You broke the seal.”

He found his name carved into the floorboards—dozens of times.

Every plank had the same word etched over and over again:

MARCUS. MARCUS. MARCUS.

Then a date.

Two weeks from today.

He left that night. He’s been staying in hotels. He says the number keeps appearing—on receipts, room numbers, even his dreams.

He doesn’t know what’s coming. But something is.

And it knows his name.

Want to see what was inside the box?

Comment “📦” and I’ll show you the photos he took—before they were mysteriously wiped from his phone.