The Hidden Room

Part One: The Discovery

The renovations on our Victorian house were running three weeks behind schedule and about fifteen thousand dollars over budget when we found it.

“Rebecca, you need to see this,” my husband Michael called from upstairs, his voice echoing strangely through the half-finished rooms.

I set down my coffee mug and navigated through the maze of paint cans and drop cloths that covered our first floor. “What is it now?” I asked, trying not to sound as irritated as I felt. Another rotted support beam? More knob-and-tube wiring that needed replacing? This 120-year-old house was quickly becoming a money pit, draining our savings and testing our marriage.

I found Michael in what would eventually be our bedroom, standing in front of the walk-in closet we’d been expanding. The contractor had removed the drywall earlier that day, exposing the original lath and plaster walls beneath. But now, a section of that wall had been removed as well, revealing a dark space beyond.

“What did Carlos do?” I asked, assuming our contractor had accidentally knocked through to the adjoining bathroom.

Michael shook his head, his expression unreadable. “Carlos and his crew left hours ago. I was just checking their progress when I noticed this section of wall sounded different.” He tapped the remaining plaster. “It was hollow. So I pushed, and…”

He gestured to the opening, about three feet high and two feet wide, jagged around the edges where the plaster had crumbled away.

“There’s a room back there,” he said, his voice hushed with a mixture of excitement and apprehension.

I stepped closer, peering into the darkness beyond the hole. The beam from Michael’s phone flashlight revealed a small space, perhaps six feet square, with what appeared to be shelves along one wall.

“A hidden room?” I whispered, goosebumps rising on my arms despite the August heat. “Was that in the house plans the realtor gave us?”

Michael shook his head. “Not that I remember. This doesn’t make any sense—the house’s footprint doesn’t allow for extra space here.”

He was right. We’d studied the floor plans extensively before beginning renovations, mapping out exactly where walls would be removed and new ones added. There shouldn’t be any unaccounted-for space, especially not one this size.

“Hand me your phone,” I said, suddenly eager to see more. The rational part of my brain suggested we should call Carlos, make sure we weren’t compromising any structural elements, but curiosity overpowered caution.

Michael passed me his phone, and I knelt before the opening, shining the light more deliberately around the space. The beam illuminated dusty wood floors, those strange shelves I’d glimpsed earlier, and something else—a small table or desk against the far wall.

“I’m going in,” I decided, already wiggling through the opening before Michael could object.

“Bec, wait—” he started, but I was already inside, straightening up in the hidden room.

The air was stale and heavy with dust, making me cough as I took my first breath. The space was larger than it had appeared from outside—more like eight feet square, with a ceiling just high enough for me to stand upright at five-foot-six. Michael, at six-foot-two, would have to stoop.

“What do you see?” he called, his face appearing in the jagged opening.

“It’s some kind of… study, maybe? Or a storage room?” I swept the flashlight around again. The shelves contained boxes and what looked like old leather-bound books. The desk had a single drawer, closed. A layer of dust covered everything, undisturbed for what must have been decades.

“Rebecca, come out of there,” Michael said, his earlier excitement now replaced with concern. “We don’t know if it’s structurally sound, or if there are exposed nails, or—”

“It’s fine,” I assured him, moving carefully toward the desk. “I just want to see what’s in here.”

I reached for the drawer, then hesitated. Some irrational part of me feared what I might find—a dead animal perhaps, or something worse. But curiosity won out, and I pulled the drawer open.

Inside was a single item: a leather-bound journal, its cover cracked with age.

“There’s a journal,” I called to Michael, picking it up gingerly. “It looks really old.”

“Bring it out,” he replied. “And then come out of there, please. We need to call Carlos and make sure we’re not damaging anything structural.”

I nodded, tucking the journal under my arm and making my way back to the opening. As I did, my flashlight beam caught something on the wall I hadn’t noticed before—a small, framed photograph.

I paused, directing the light at the image. It showed a family: a stern-looking man in a suit, a woman in Victorian dress, and two children—a boy and a girl, perhaps ten and eight years old. They weren’t smiling, as was typical of photographs from that era, but there was something unsettling about their expressions, something almost fearful.

“Rebecca?” Michael called, his voice tinged with impatience.

“Coming,” I replied, tearing my gaze from the photograph and crawling back through the opening.

Once back in our unfinished bedroom, I brushed the dust from my clothes and handed Michael his phone. “We should document this before Carlos gets back,” I said. “Take some pictures of the opening and the room beyond.”

Michael did as I suggested, snapping several photos while I examined the journal. The leather was dry and cracked, the pages yellowed with age. Opening it carefully, I found handwritten entries dating back to 1897—just a few years after our house was built.

“Listen to this,” I said, reading the first entry aloud:

“September 15, 1897. I have decided to keep this record of events, though I pray no one will ever read it. The room has been completed according to my specifications, unknown to Clara or the children. If my fears are realized, it shall serve as our sanctuary. May God forgive what I have done.”

Michael lowered his phone, frowning. “What does that mean? ‘If my fears are realized’?”

I shook my head, skimming through more entries. “I’m not sure. The writer—I assume he was the original owner—seems paranoid about something. There are references to ‘them’ watching the house, and ‘signs’ he’s been seeing around town.”

“Sounds like the guy might have had some mental health issues,” Michael suggested, peering over my shoulder at the journal.

“Maybe,” I agreed, continuing to flip through the pages. About halfway through, the handwriting changed, becoming more frantic, the words pressed harder into the paper.

“November 3, 1897. They know. God help us, they know what I have discovered. I have moved our essential supplies to the room. Clara thinks I have lost my mind, but she will thank me when the time comes. I have instructed David and Eleanor on what to do when they hear the signal. May it never come to that.”

The entries continued for several more pages, growing increasingly erratic, before stopping abruptly in mid-December of that year.

“That’s it?” Michael asked when I reached the final entry. “What happened to them?”

I closed the journal, a chill running down my spine despite the summer heat. “I don’t know. But I think we should find out.”

Michael’s expression shifted from curiosity to concern. “Bec, it’s just the ravings of some paranoid guy from the 1890s. Probably nothing happened to them at all.”

But I couldn’t shake the feeling that something significant had occurred in this house, something connected to that hidden room and the abrupt end of the journal entries.

“Let’s at least look up the history of the house,” I suggested. “We know it was built in 1895. We can check city records, see who the original owners were.”

Michael sighed, recognizing the determination in my voice. “Fine. But let’s call Carlos first, make sure that room isn’t going to collapse our second floor.”

I nodded, though my mind was already racing ahead, imagining the story behind the hidden room. Who had built it, and why? What had the journal writer been so afraid of? And most importantly—what had happened to him and his family?

Carlos arrived the next morning, eyed the hole in our closet wall with professional concern, and spent an hour examining the hidden room and the surrounding structure.

“Structurally, it’s sound,” he concluded, emerging from the opening with dust in his salt-and-pepper beard. “Whoever built this knew what they were doing. It’s not affecting any load-bearing walls.”

“So we can keep it?” I asked eagerly.

Carlos shrugged. “If you want. Might make a nice reading nook or storage space once it’s cleaned up. Need to put in proper access, though—a door instead of crawling through a hole in the wall.”

Michael and I exchanged glances. We’d discussed it the night before, and to my surprise, he had warmed to the idea of incorporating the hidden room into our renovation plans.

“We’d like to keep it,” Michael confirmed. “Can you draw up some plans for adding a proper door?”

Carlos nodded, already making notes on his tablet. “Sure thing. Want to keep the original shelving?”

“Yes,” I said quickly. “We want to preserve as much of the original room as possible.”

Once Carlos left to get supplies, Michael and I returned to the hidden room, this time equipped with proper flashlights, dust masks, and gloves. We began carefully examining the items on the shelves—old boxes containing mundane household items like candles, matches, and preserved foods long since spoiled, as well as several more leather-bound books that turned out to be family Bibles and classic literature.

“Nothing particularly sinister,” Michael commented, flipping through a copy of Great Expectations that had seen better days.

“Not on the surface,” I agreed, turning my attention to the photograph I’d spotted the day before. I carefully removed it from the wall, wiping away the dust with my gloved hand.

The family stared back at me with those same uneasy expressions. Turning the frame over, I found an inscription on the back: “The Ellison Family, 1896. Edward, Clara, David, and Eleanor.”

“Michael, look,” I said, showing him the inscription. “These are the people from the journal—Clara was his wife, and David and Eleanor were the children.”

Michael examined the photograph, his brow furrowed. “They look… afraid.”

“Exactly what I thought,” I said, a chill running through me despite the stuffy air in the hidden room. “Whatever Edward Ellison was worried about, his family felt it too.”

We spent the rest of the morning cleaning the room as best we could, removing the perishable items while carefully preserving anything that might have historical significance. By lunchtime, we’d uncovered nothing else of note beyond the journal and photograph.

“I’m going to head to the city records office this afternoon,” I decided as we ate sandwiches amid the chaos of our renovation. “See what I can find about the Ellison family.”

Michael gave me a look. “You’re really invested in this, aren’t you?”

“Aren’t you curious?” I countered. “A hidden room, a cryptic journal, a family who may have disappeared? It’s like something out of a mystery novel.”

“Or a horror movie,” Michael muttered, but I could tell he was intrigued despite his attempts to seem nonchalant. “Just… don’t get too caught up in this, okay? We still have a house to renovate.”

I promised to keep my investigation reasonable, but as I drove to the city records office that afternoon, my mind was consumed with questions about the Ellison family and their fate.

The city records clerk, a middle-aged woman named Valerie with cat-eye glasses and an unexpectedly enthusiastic interest in local history, was thrilled to help when I explained what I was looking for.

“The Ellison house on Maple Street? Oh, that’s a fascinating property,” she said, leading me through rows of filing cabinets. “One of the few Victorian homes in the area that’s remained largely intact over the years.”

“Do you know anything about the original owners?” I asked, following her to a dusty corner of the archives.

Valerie’s expression turned thoughtful. “The Ellisons? Let me see what we have.” She pulled out several folders and led me to a reading table. “Here’s the original deed, property tax records, and… ah, yes, a file on the family themselves.”

My heart quickened as she handed me the last folder, which contained newspaper clippings, birth and death certificates, and various official documents.

“Thank you,” I said, already opening the file with eager hands.

“Of course. Let me know if you need anything else,” Valerie replied before returning to her desk.

I started with the newspaper clippings, arranged chronologically. The first was a simple announcement from 1895 about Edward Ellison, described as a “prominent local physician,” commissioning the building of a new home on Maple Street. Another from early 1897 mentioned his medical practice and involvement in the community.

But it was a headline from December 20, 1897, that made my blood run cold:

LOCAL FAMILY DISAPPEARS UNDER MYSTERIOUS CIRCUMSTANCES

The Ellison family of Maple Street has not been seen for nearly a week, according to concerned neighbors. Dr. Edward Ellison failed to appear at his medical practice last Monday, and neither his wife Clara nor their children David and Eleanor have been spotted outside the home. Police conducted a welfare check yesterday at the behest of Mrs. Ellison’s sister and found the house empty, though all personal belongings and even the family’s winter coats remained. Foul play is suspected.

My hands trembled as I read the article, which went on to describe the community’s shock and the police investigation that followed. According to the piece, there were no signs of struggle in the home, no evidence of violence, and no indication of where the family might have gone. They had simply vanished.

I quickly flipped to the next article, dated January 5, 1898:

SEARCH FOR MISSING FAMILY CONTINUES AS MYSTERY DEEPENS

This piece reported that despite extensive searches of the house, grounds, and surrounding area, no trace of the Ellisons had been found. The only unusual detail mentioned was that police discovered “curious markings” on several of the home’s doors and windows, which some officer had speculatively linked to “occult practices,” though the article was quick to dismiss such notions as sensationalism.

The final clipping, from March 1898, was brief, noting that the case remained unsolved and the house would be sold at auction, with proceeds held in trust should the family ever return—which, the article implied, was unlikely.

I sat back, my mind reeling. An entire family, vanished without a trace, just days after the final entry in Edward Ellison’s journal. What had happened to them? Where had they gone? And what connection did their disappearance have to the hidden room and Edward’s mysterious fears?

The birth and death certificates provided no additional clues—there were birth records for all four Ellisons, but no death certificates, supporting the narrative that they had disappeared rather than died.

I photographed everything in the file with my phone before returning the materials to Valerie, thanking her for her help.

“Find anything interesting?” she asked, clearly hoping for some juicy historical tidbit.

“Very,” I replied. “The original family apparently disappeared without a trace.”

Valerie’s eyes widened behind her cat-eye glasses. “The Ellisons? Yes, that’s one of our town’s enduring mysteries. There are all sorts of theories, from mundane to… well, rather fantastical.”

“What kind of fantastical theories?” I asked, my curiosity piqued.

Valerie glanced around, as if checking for eavesdroppers in the empty records office. “Well, Dr. Ellison was known to have some… unconventional interests. Spiritualism was popular in that era, and some say he may have been involved in something darker. Of course, that’s just local gossip,” she added quickly.

“Is there anywhere else I might find information about the Ellisons?” I asked. “Newspaper archives, historical society records?”

“The historical society would be your best bet,” Valerie suggested. “They have collections that never made it into official records—personal letters, diaries, that sort of thing. They’re only open on Wednesdays and Saturdays, though.”

Today was Thursday, which meant I’d have to wait two days before visiting the historical society. I thanked Valerie again and headed home, my mind buzzing with questions about the Ellisons and their fate.

When I pulled into our driveway, I noticed an unfamiliar car parked in front of our house—a black sedan that seemed oddly out of place in our quiet neighborhood. As I got out of my car, the sedan’s driver’s door opened, and a man emerged.

He was tall and thin, dressed in a crisp dark suit despite the summer heat, with silver hair and wire-rimmed glasses. Something about his bearing—rigid, formal—set my teeth on edge.

“Mrs. Harlow?” he called, approaching with measured steps. “Rebecca Harlow?”

I nodded cautiously, one hand still on my car door. “Yes?”

“My name is Thomas Blackwood,” he said, offering a business card. “I represent the Historical Preservation Society. I understand you and your husband have uncovered something interesting in your home.”

I took the card, frowning. How could he possibly know about the hidden room? We’d only discovered it yesterday, and had told no one except Carlos.

“I’m not sure what you’re referring to,” I said carefully.

Blackwood smiled, a thin, humorless expression that didn’t reach his eyes. “The hidden room behind your closet wall. With the journal.”

My blood ran cold. “How do you know about that?”

“Word travels quickly in small towns, Mrs. Harlow,” he replied smoothly. “Our society is very interested in preserving the historical integrity of homes like yours. We would be most grateful if you would allow us to examine the room and any artifacts you may have found.”

Something felt off about this encounter, about this man who somehow knew details he shouldn’t know. I took a step back, my instincts screaming caution.

“I’m afraid now isn’t a good time,” I said, forcing a polite smile. “We’re in the middle of renovations, and the room isn’t safe yet. Perhaps once our contractor has finished making it accessible—”

“The historical value of such finds can be… diminished if not properly preserved from the outset,” Blackwood interrupted, his voice taking on a harder edge. “I really must insist on seeing it now.”

That was when Michael opened our front door, clearly having heard voices outside. “Bec? Everything okay?”

Relief flooded through me at the sight of my husband. “Fine, just talking to Mr. Blackwood here. He’s from the Historical Preservation Society and wants to see the room we found.”

Michael came down the porch steps, instantly picking up on my discomfort. He wrapped an arm around my shoulders, subtly positioning himself between me and Blackwood.

“Like my wife said, now isn’t a good time,” he stated firmly. “The room is part of an active construction site. Insurance liability and all that. You understand.”

Blackwood’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. “Of course. Safety first.” He reached into his jacket pocket and produced another card. “When you’re ready for a proper historical assessment, please call this number. Day or night.”

Michael took the card without looking at it. “We will. Thanks for your interest.”

We stood our ground, waiting until Blackwood returned to his sedan and drove away before heading inside.

“What was that about?” Michael asked as soon as we closed the door. “How did he know about the room?”

I shook my head, still unsettled by the encounter. “He said ‘word travels quickly,’ but Michael, we only told Carlos. And I don’t believe for a second that Thomas Blackwood represents any legitimate historical society.”

Michael examined the business card Blackwood had given him. “The Historical Preservation Society. Never heard of it.” He pulled out his phone and searched the name. “Nothing. No website, no social media, no listing in any directory.”

“Who is he really, then?” I whispered. “And why is he so interested in our hidden room?”

Michael’s expression darkened. “I don’t know, but I don’t like it. I’m calling Carlos to make sure he didn’t mention the room to anyone. And I’m installing a security camera on the porch tonight.”

As Michael made the call, I sank onto our couch, my mind racing. The Ellison family had disappeared under mysterious circumstances in 1897, mere days after Edward’s final journal entry. Now, more than a century later, a strange man was at our door within 24 hours of us discovering the hidden room, somehow knowing details no one should know.

What had we stumbled into? And more importantly—were we in danger?

Part Two: The Connection

That night, sleep eluded me. I tossed and turned on our temporary bed in the guest room, my mind cycling through everything I’d learned about the Ellisons and their mysterious disappearance. Beside me, Michael slept fitfully, occasionally mumbling in his dreams.

Around 3 AM, I gave up on sleep entirely and slipped out of bed, careful not to wake my husband. I padded quietly to the kitchen, made a cup of chamomile tea, and settled at the table with Edward Ellison’s journal.

Reading it again in the quiet darkness, I noticed details I’d missed earlier. Edward frequently mentioned his work as a physician, but there were cryptic references to “my true research” and “discoveries that must remain hidden.” He wrote about “watching eyes” in town and “symbols that appear where none should be.”

One entry from late October 1897 particularly caught my attention:

“Today I found the marking on our garden gate—the same as was on the Miller boy before he vanished. They are watching us. They know what I know. I have accelerated work on the room. Clara thinks me mad, but she has not seen what I have seen.”

The Miller boy? Another disappearance? I made a mental note to look for any records of missing children in 1897 when I visited the historical society on Saturday.

I continued reading, noting how Edward’s writing became increasingly frantic through November. He wrote about moving supplies into the hidden room, teaching his children “the signs of warning,” and preparing for what he called “the inevitable confrontation.”

The final entry, dated December 14, 1897, sent chills down my spine:

“They came to the clinic today. Three of them, dressed as patients, but their eyes gave them away. They asked questions about my research, pretending casualness. I provided no answers. Tonight, we begin our vigil. If the markings appear on our door, we will have no choice but to use the room. May God protect us all.”

And that was it. No more entries. According to the newspaper articles, the family was reported missing less than a week later.

I closed the journal, my tea long since gone cold. What had Edward Ellison discovered that put his family in danger? Who were “they,” and what had happened on that December night in 1897?

A soft noise from upstairs jolted me from my thoughts—a creaking floorboard, as if someone were moving around on the second floor. My heart skipped a beat. Michael was asleep beside me in the guest room, and we had no pets. We were supposed to be alone in the house.

I sat frozen, straining to hear. For several seconds, there was nothing. Then came another creak, definitely from the direction of our unfinished bedroom—where the hidden room was located.

Fear gripped me. Was someone in our house? Had Blackwood returned?

Quietly, I made my way to the guest room and shook Michael awake. “There’s someone upstairs,” I whispered urgently.

Michael was instantly alert, years of college rugby having conditioned him to wake quickly. “Stay here,” he murmured, reaching for the baseball bat we kept under the bed—a precaution that had seemed excessive when we moved in, but now felt utterly inadequate.

“No way,” I whispered back. “I’m coming with you.”

After a brief, silent argument conducted entirely through facial expressions, Michael relented, and we crept together toward the stairs, him wielding the bat, me clutching my phone with 911 pre-dialed.

The old steps groaned beneath our weight, each sound seeming impossibly loud in the silent house. At the top of the stairs, Michael paused, listening. I heard it too—faint movements coming from our bedroom.

Michael gestured for me to stay behind him as we approached the partially open bedroom door. The renovations had left it without a proper latch, and it swung inward with a gentle push from Michael’s hand.

Our flashlights revealed an empty room, looking exactly as we’d left it—drop cloths covering the floor, paint cans stacked in one corner, tools arranged neatly where Carlos had left them. The hole in the closet wall gaped darkly, like a mouth waiting to speak.

“There’s no one here,” Michael whispered, lowering the bat slightly.

I was about to suggest checking the other rooms when a soft thud came from inside the hidden room.

Michael and I froze, exchanging alarmed glances. Someone was in there.

“Call 911,” Michael mouthed to me, raising the bat again.

But before I could press the call button, a strange sound emerged from the hidden room—not footsteps or movement, but what sounded like… humming? A soft, childlike melody, barely audible.

“Hello?” Michael called, his voice steady despite the bizarre situation. “Who’s in there?”

The humming stopped abruptly. Silence fell, heavy and expectant.

“Whoever you are, come out now,” Michael continued, his grip tightening on the bat. “The police are on their way.”

Nothing. No sound, no movement.

Michael looked at me, indecision clear in his eyes. Should we retreat and wait for police? Should he look inside the room? The sensible choice was obvious, but curiosity and an inexplicable sense of urgency pushed against caution.

Before either of us could decide, a small, pale hand appeared at the edge of the opening in the wall.

I gasped, stumbling backward. Michael raised the bat defensively.

The hand was followed by an arm, then a face—a young girl, perhaps eight or nine years old, with long dark hair and a solemn expression. She wore what appeared to be an old-fashioned nightgown, white and flowing.

“Eleanor?” I whispered, the name coming unbidden to my lips—the name of the Ellison daughter who had disappeared in 1897.

The girl’s eyes met mine, dark and knowing in her pale face. “They’re coming back,” she said, her voice soft but clear. “You found his journal. Now they know you’re here.”

Michael lowered the bat slowly, his face a mask of disbelief. “Who… who are you?”

But the girl’s attention remained fixed on me. “You have to finish what he started,” she continued, as if Michael hadn’t spoken. “You have to close the door.”

“What door?” I asked, my voice barely audible. “What are you talking about?”

“The door he opened with his research,” she replied. “The door that let them in.”

A sudden draft swept through the room, cold as December despite the August night. The girl turned her head sharply, as if hearing something we couldn’t.

“They’re coming,” she whispered urgently. “Hide the journal. Don’t let them find it.”

“Who’s coming?” Michael demanded, finding his voice again. “Who are you?”

The girl looked at him at last, her expression softening. “My name is Eleanor Ellison. And you’re in terrible danger.”

Before either of us could respond, a loud crash came from downstairs—the unmistakable sound of our front door being forced open.

Eleanor’s eyes widened with fear. “Too late,” she breathed. “They’re here. Quick, into the room!”

Without waiting for our response, she disappeared back through the opening. Michael and I stood frozen, caught between the impossible appearance of a girl who should have been long dead and the very real sound of intruders entering our home.

Heavy footsteps moved deliberately through our first floor, accompanied by the softer sounds of multiple people spreading throughout the house.

“In here,” Eleanor’s voice called softly from the hidden room. “Hurry!”

The decision made itself. Michael nudged me toward the opening, and I crawled through without hesitation, him following close behind, still clutching the baseball bat.

Inside the hidden room, Eleanor stood in the center, her pale nightgown glowing faintly in the beam from our flashlights. The room looked different somehow—cleaner, the shelves fully stocked with supplies, the desk arranged with papers and books.

“They can’t see the room unless they know exactly where to look,” Eleanor whispered as Michael pulled himself fully inside. “But they’ll search everywhere. We must be silent.”

As if to emphasize her point, the sound of footsteps on the stairs reached us—heavy, deliberate steps that spoke of purpose rather than caution.

Michael positioned himself protectively in front of me, bat raised, eyes fixed on the opening we’d just crawled through. I clutched the journal to my chest, my mind reeling with questions but too terrified to voice any of them.

Eleanor moved to stand beside me, her small hand finding mine in the darkness. Her touch was cool but solid—not the ethereal chill I might have expected from a ghost, but the hand of a living, breathing child.

“Who are they?” I whispered, barely audible even to myself.

Eleanor’s fingers tightened around mine. “Those who walk between,” she replied cryptically. “Those who took my family.”

Footsteps entered our bedroom now, multiple sets moving methodically around the space. Flashlight beams swept across the outer room, visible through the jagged opening in thin slices of light.

“Check everywhere,” a male voice commanded—a voice I recognized with a chill as belonging to Thomas Blackwood. “The journal must be here somewhere.”

“What about the hole in the closet wall?” another voice asked. “Marks says they found a hidden room.”

My blood ran cold. How did they know? Carlos had sworn he hadn’t told anyone about the room.

“Check it,” Blackwood ordered.

Footsteps approached the closet, and a flashlight beam appeared in the hole, sweeping across the hidden room. I held my breath, pressing back against the wall, certain we would be discovered.

But the beam passed over us as if we weren’t there, illuminating only empty shelves and dusty corners—nothing like the well-stocked room I could clearly see around us.

“Nothing here,” the second voice reported. “Just an empty space. Probably an old chimney shaft or something.”

Eleanor’s grip on my hand tightened, her dark eyes meeting mine with a mixture of fear and determination.

“They can’t see us,” she whispered, “but they’ll keep looking. We need to wait until they’re gone.”

Michael, still positioned in front of us with his bat, glanced back with a questioning expression. I could read the doubt in his eyes—was this really happening? Were we taking direction from what appeared to be the ghost of a girl who disappeared over a century ago?

But what choice did we have? Our home had been invaded by mysterious men led by the suspicious Thomas Blackwood, all apparently searching for Edward Ellison’s journal—the same journal I now clutched to my chest.

“Keep searching,” Blackwood’s voice commanded from outside the hidden room. “Tear the place apart if you have to. That journal cannot fall into the wrong hands.”

For nearly an hour, we huddled in the hidden room, listening to the systematic destruction of our home as Blackwood’s men searched every possible hiding place. They ripped up floorboards, pried off baseboards, emptied drawers and cabinets, all while we remained undetected in our impossible sanctuary.

Finally, the sounds of destruction ceased, and Blackwood’s voice came again, tight with frustration. “Nothing. They must have taken it with them or hidden it elsewhere. Wilder, check with our source again—find out exactly what they found and where they might have put it.”

Footsteps retreated, the front door opened and closed, and silence fell over the house once more. Still, we waited, Eleanor’s small form rigid with tension beside me.

“Are they gone?” Michael whispered after several minutes of silence.

Eleanor closed her eyes, as if listening to something beyond our perception. “Yes,” she finally said. “But they’ll be back.”

Michael lowered the bat, turning to face us fully. His expression was a complex mixture of fear, confusion, and determination.

“Okay,” he said, his voice steadier than I expected. “I think it’s time you told us exactly what’s going on. Who are you, really? What is this room? And who were those men?”

Eleanor’s dark eyes met his, solemn and ancient in her young face. “I told you. I’m Eleanor Ellison. This is our safe room that Father built.” She gestured around us. “And those men… they’re the same ones who came for us in 1897.”

“That’s impossible,” Michael argued, though without much conviction. “Those men would be long dead by now.”

A small, sad smile touched Eleanor’s lips. “They were never truly alive to begin with, Mr. Harlow.”

I sank down onto the small chair by the desk, my legs suddenly unable to support me. “Eleanor,” I said gently, “you and your family disappeared in 1897. That’s over 120 years ago. How can you be here, now, looking exactly as you did in that photograph?”

Eleanor’s gaze shifted to the framed family portrait on the wall—the same one I’d examined earlier, showing the stern Edward, his wife Clara, son David, and Eleanor herself.

“Time works differently when you’re caught between,” she said cryptically. “For me, it’s only been… I don’t know. Days? Weeks? It’s hard to tell.”

“Caught between what?” Michael pressed, setting the bat against the wall and crouching down to be at eye level with the girl.

Eleanor hesitated, glancing at the journal I still held. “Father could explain it better. He understood the science of it. I only know what he told us.”

I opened the journal, flipping to the earlier entries where Edward had mentioned his “true research” and discoveries.

“What was your father researching, Eleanor?” I asked gently. “What did he discover that put your family in danger?”

The girl’s expression darkened. “Doorways,” she whispered. “Doorways between worlds. He didn’t mean to open one. It was an accident.”

“Doorways between worlds?” Michael echoed, skepticism warring with the undeniable evidence of our situation—the ghostly girl from the past, the hidden room that somehow existed in two states simultaneously, the men searching for a century-old journal.

Eleanor nodded solemnly. “Father was a doctor, but his true passion was physics—what he called ‘the science of the impossible.’ He believed there were worlds layered upon our own, separated by only the thinnest of barriers.”

I glanced down at the journal, pages filled with Edward Ellison’s increasingly frantic handwriting. “And he found a way to break through that barrier?”

“Not intentionally,” Eleanor said, perching on the edge of the small desk. “He was experimenting with electromagnetic fields, trying to prove his theories. One night in his laboratory, something… responded to his equipment. A doorway opened, just for a moment. But it was long enough.”

“Long enough for what?” Michael asked, though I could tell from his expression that he feared the answer.

“Long enough for them to notice our world. To become interested in it.” Eleanor’s voice dropped even lower. “To want it.”

A chill ran through me despite the stuffy air of the hidden room. “The men who were just here—Blackwood and the others…”

Eleanor nodded again. “They’re not men, not really. They’re just wearing human shapes. They’re what Father called ‘Interlopers’—beings from another reality who want to fully open the door between worlds.”

“Why?” I asked. “What do they want?”

“Everything,” Eleanor replied simply. “Our world. Our lives. Our reality. They can only maintain their human forms temporarily, but if they could open a permanent doorway…” She trailed off, her young face grave.

Michael ran a hand through his hair, his expression caught between disbelief and dawning horror. “And your father’s journal—it contains information that could help them do this?”

“Yes,” Eleanor confirmed. “Father realized his mistake almost immediately. He spent months researching how to close the door permanently, how to undo what he’d inadvertently done. The journal contains both—the knowledge that could open the door wide, and the method to seal it forever.”

“And that’s why they came for your family,” I said, the pieces falling into place. “They wanted the journal.”

Eleanor nodded, her eyes filling with tears. “Father saw the signs—the strange markings appearing on our door, the people in town with eyes that weren’t quite right. He built this room as a last resort, a place where the Interlopers couldn’t see us due to the specific electromagnetic properties of the walls.”

“What happened that night?” I asked gently. “The night your family disappeared?”

Eleanor’s small frame seemed to shrink even further, her shoulders hunching as if under a great weight. “They came. Three of them, wearing the shapes of men Father knew from town. He saw the marking on our door when he returned from his clinic and knew we had only minutes. He rushed us into this room, but…”

She faltered, a single tear sliding down her pale cheek.

“But what?” Michael prompted softly.

“Father had finished his research. He knew how to close the door permanently, but it required… a sacrifice. A life freely given.” Eleanor’s dark eyes met mine. “He chose to give his own.”

My heart ached for this child who had witnessed such impossibly traumatic events. “Oh, Eleanor…”

“He told us to stay hidden, no matter what we heard. Then he left the room, taking the final formula with him—the last page he’d torn from the journal.” She gestured to the book in my hands. “He confronted them, offered himself in exchange for the doorway being sealed. But they tricked him.”

“How?” Michael asked.

“They agreed to his terms, took his life, but never fulfilled their end of the bargain. The doorway remained open, just a crack. And then they came for us—Mother, David, and me. We fled deeper into the room, but…”

Eleanor’s form seemed to flicker slightly, like a television with poor reception. “Time doesn’t work right near the doorways. We’ve been caught for what feels like days to us, but out here…” She gestured vaguely at the world beyond the hidden room.

“Over a century has passed,” I finished for her.

“Yes.” Eleanor composed herself with visible effort. “And now you’ve found Father’s journal, and they know. They’ll keep coming until they have it.”

Michael and I exchanged glances, the full weight of our situation sinking in. We had inadvertently stumbled into a century-old conflict between worlds, with apparently nothing less than the fate of our reality hanging in the balance.

“If they get the journal,” I said slowly, “they could fully open this doorway?”

“They need both the journal and the final formula Father took with him,” Eleanor clarified. “But yes, with enough study, they could decipher his work and complete the opening.”

“And if we want to close the doorway permanently?” Michael asked.

Eleanor’s expression grew even more solemn. “The same requirement remains. A life freely given.”

Silence fell over the hidden room as we absorbed this grim information. Finally, Michael spoke, his voice steady despite the madness of our situation.

“We need to get out of here,” he said decisively. “Those men—these Interlopers—will be back. We need to take the journal somewhere safe, somewhere they won’t think to look.”

“Where?” I asked. “If they found us here, they could find us anywhere.”

“Not anywhere,” Eleanor interjected, a new urgency in her voice. “There are places where the barriers between worlds are naturally stronger—places they find difficult to access.”

“Like where?” Michael pressed.

“Churches, certain older buildings constructed with specific materials, locations with strong electromagnetic fields,” Eleanor listed. “Father had a cabin in the mountains, built with those principles in mind. That’s where he did most of his research.”

“Does this cabin still exist?” I asked, hope flickering to life. “After all this time?”

Eleanor frowned in concentration. “I don’t know. It was remote, deliberately isolated. About three hours’ drive from town, up in the White Mountains.”

“Do you remember how to get there?” Michael asked.

The girl nodded slowly. “I think so. Father took us there several times.”

“Then that’s our destination,” he decided, checking his watch. “It’s almost dawn. We should leave now, before Blackwood and his… associates return.”

I stood, clutching the journal tightly. “What about our things? Clothes, food, supplies?”

“We’ll grab what we can quickly,” Michael replied. “But we can’t take much without raising suspicion. And we shouldn’t use credit cards once we leave—if these Interlopers have human allies, they might be able to track electronic transactions.”

I nodded, trying to think practically despite the surreal situation. “We have some emergency cash in the safe. And the camping gear is still in the garage from our trip last month.”

“Perfect,” Michael said, already moving toward the opening in the wall. “I’ll check if the coast is clear, then we’ll grab what we need and go.”

He crawled through the jagged opening, flashlight in hand, baseball bat tucked under his arm. I made to follow, then paused, turning back to Eleanor.

“Can you… leave this room?” I asked, suddenly uncertain. “I mean, are you…?” I couldn’t bring myself to ask directly if she was a ghost.

Eleanor seemed to understand my unspoken question. “I’m not dead, Mrs. Harlow. None of us are—not in the way you’re thinking. We’re just… caught. Suspended. I can leave this room, but not for long. The further I go from locations connected to the doorway, the harder it is to maintain my presence in your time.”

I digested this information, trying to make sense of it. “But you can guide us to the cabin?”

She nodded. “I believe so, yes.”

“Rebecca,” Michael called softly from the bedroom. “It’s clear. Let’s go.”

With one last glance at Eleanor, I crawled through the opening, emerging into our half-renovated bedroom. The first light of dawn was visible through the uncurtained windows, casting long shadows across the destruction Blackwood’s men had left in their wake.

Eleanor followed, her small form seeming more substantial in the growing light than I had expected. She wasn’t transparent or ghostly—just a solemn-faced child in an old-fashioned nightgown, her dark hair falling in waves around her shoulders.

We moved quickly through the house, gathering essentials—clothes, food, water, the camping gear from the garage, and all the cash we had on hand, about two thousand dollars. I changed into practical clothes, sturdy jeans and hiking boots, while Michael loaded our old Subaru, carefully parking it behind the house where it wouldn’t be visible from the street.

Eleanor watched our preparations with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension, occasionally flinching at modern devices like our cell phones and the car itself.

“We should leave those behind,” she said, pointing to our phones as we prepared to depart. “They can use them to find you.”

Michael and I exchanged glances. The idea of going completely off-grid was unsettling, but Eleanor’s warning made sense given what we now knew.

“We’ll take one phone but keep it powered off,” Michael decided. “For emergencies only. And we’ll remove the battery when it’s not in use.”

Within twenty minutes, we were ready to leave, the car packed with our hastily gathered supplies and Edward Ellison’s journal secure in my backpack. Eleanor hesitated at the rear door of the Subaru, eyeing it with trepidation.

“It’s okay,” I assured her, opening the door wider. “It’s just like a carriage, but… faster.”

She nodded bravely and climbed in, her small hands clutching the seat beneath her. Michael and I got in front, and with one last glance at our violated home, we drove away, heading north toward the White Mountains and what we hoped would be sanctuary.

Part Three: The Confrontation

The journey to the mountains was tense but uneventful. Eleanor directed us from the backseat, pointing out landmarks that had somehow survived the century-plus since she had last traveled this route—a distinctive rock formation, an old church, a bend in the river. Some things had changed dramatically, of course—towns where there had once been only wilderness, highways cutting through formerly remote areas—but enough remained for her to guide us with surprising accuracy.

“There,” she said as we turned onto a narrow forest road, barely more than a track among the trees. “This is the way to Father’s cabin.”

The road grew increasingly rough as we climbed higher into the mountains, the Subaru’s suspension groaning in protest. After nearly forty minutes of slow, jarring progress, the trees opened up to reveal a small clearing—and in it, a cabin.

Despite Eleanor’s assurances that we would find her father’s research outpost here, I had harbored serious doubts. How could a remote cabin survive more than a century of harsh New England winters, not to mention potential development or logging operations? Yet there it stood, weathered and clearly abandoned, but unmistakably intact.

“That’s impossible,” Michael murmured as we parked near the structure. “It should have collapsed or been torn down decades ago.”

Eleanor’s expression was solemn as she gazed at the cabin. “Father built it to last,” she said simply. “And to remain hidden from those who shouldn’t find it.”

We approached cautiously, Michael taking the lead with his baseball bat still in hand. The cabin was small but solidly constructed of heavy timber, with a stone foundation and a steep roof designed to shed snow. The windows were intact, though filmed with decades of grime, and the door, when Michael tested it, swung open with surprising ease, its hinges silent.

Inside, the cabin was a single room with a stone fireplace, a narrow bed built into one wall, a sturdy table, and several shelves laden with books, papers, and what appeared to be scientific equipment of decidedly Victorian vintage. A thick layer of dust covered everything, but otherwise, the space looked as if its occupant had simply stepped out moments ago.

“This is exactly as I remember it,” Eleanor whispered, moving to the table where leather-bound notebooks lay open beside complicated brass and copper apparatus. “Father’s research.”

Michael closed and secured the door behind us, then moved to check the windows. “The glass is strange,” he commented, running his fingers over the panes. “It’s not normal window glass.”

“Iron-infused,” Eleanor explained. “Father discovered that certain materials disrupted the Interlopers’ ability to perceive our reality correctly. Iron was particularly effective, especially when combined with electromagnetic fields.”

I approached the table, examining the notebooks and equipment. The open pages showed detailed diagrams of concentric circles, mathematical equations I couldn’t begin to understand, and careful notes in the same handwriting as the journal we’d found.

“So this is where your father conducted his research into doorways between worlds,” I said, trying to comprehend the enormity of what we were dealing with.

Eleanor nodded, touching one of the brass devices gently. “He spent years developing his theories, building equipment to detect and eventually interact with what he called ‘adjacent realities.’ He never intended to open a doorway—he just wanted to prove they existed.”

“But he accidentally created an opening,” Michael said, joining us at the table.

“Yes,” Eleanor confirmed. “A small one at first. Just enough for them to become aware of us, to begin pushing through. By the time Father realized what was happening, it was too late. They were already here, already learning to take human form, already searching for ways to widen the opening.”

I shivered despite the cabin’s warmth. “And now they’re after the journal because it contains the knowledge they need.”

“Half of it,” Eleanor corrected. “Father tore out the final pages—the culmination of his research, both how to open the doorway permanently and how to close it forever. He took those pages with him when he…” She trailed off, unable to complete the sentence.

“When he sacrificed himself,” I finished gently.

Eleanor nodded, her eyes downcast. “But it didn’t work. They took his life but didn’t fulfill their part of the bargain. The doorway remained open, just enough for them to continue coming through, taking human forms for short periods.”

Michael frowned, processing this information. “So without those final pages, the journal is useless to them?”

“Not entirely,” Eleanor said. “It contains enough information for them to eventually reconstruct Father’s work, given time and resources. But the final formula—the key to opening or closing the doorway permanently—that was in the pages Father kept with him.”

I set my backpack on the table and carefully removed Edward’s journal. “So we need to find those missing pages.”

Eleanor’s dark eyes met mine, a mixture of hope and doubt in their depths. “If they still exist. If they weren’t destroyed when Father…” Again, she couldn’t finish.

Michael began examining the cabin more thoroughly, opening cupboards, checking under furniture, tapping on walls to locate potential hiding places. “If Edward Ellison was as careful and forward-thinking as he seems to have been, he wouldn’t have carried those pages with him. He would have hidden them somewhere safe.”

“Somewhere the Interlopers couldn’t find them,” I agreed, joining the search. “Eleanor, did your father have any special hiding places in this cabin? Secret compartments, false bottoms in drawers, anything like that?”

The girl frowned in concentration. “He was very private about his work. Even from us. But…” Her expression brightened slightly. “The fireplace. I remember once, he was showing David how the stones fit together, and one of them moved.”

We turned our attention to the stone fireplace that dominated one wall of the cabin. It was well-constructed, with large, fitted stones forming both the hearth and the chimney above. Michael began examining each stone methodically, pressing against them, looking for any that might move.

After several minutes of fruitless searching, he stepped back, frustration evident in his stance. “Nothing. They’re all solid.”

Eleanor approached the fireplace, her small hand hovering over the stones. “It was here somewhere. I remember Father showing David…”

As she touched one of the stones to the right of the hearth, there was an audible click, and a section of the floor beneath the table shifted slightly. We all froze, then moved as one to investigate.

Michael pushed the table aside, revealing a square section of floorboards that no longer aligned perfectly with those around it. He knelt and found a small iron ring set into one board, previously hidden by the table leg. With a firm pull, he lifted the section, revealing a compartment beneath.

Inside was a metal box, about the size of a large book, its surface inscribed with intricate patterns that reminded me of the diagrams in Edward’s notebooks. Michael lifted it carefully and set it on the table.

The box had no visible lock or latch, just those strange, interconnected patterns covering every surface. Eleanor stared at it, recognition dawning in her eyes.

“Father’s puzzle box,” she breathed. “He made it himself. It’s opened by—”

A sudden, sharp sound from outside interrupted her—the unmistakable crunch of tires on gravel.

Michael moved swiftly to the window, peering through the grimy glass. “A black sedan,” he reported tensely. “And a larger vehicle behind it. They found us.”

My heart raced. “How? We left our phones, used cash for gas…”

“The journal itself,” Eleanor whispered, her face pale with fear. “They can sense it, especially when it’s near locations connected to the doorway—like this cabin.”

Michael grabbed the puzzle box and thrust it into my hands. “Take this and the journal to the back of the cabin. There must be a rear exit. Eleanor, stay with Rebecca. I’ll try to stall them.”

“No,” I protested immediately. “We stay together.”

The sound of car doors slamming reached us, followed by voices—one of them unmistakably Blackwood’s measured, cold tones.

“There’s no time to argue,” Michael insisted. “Find the missing pages. Figure out how to close the doorway. That’s more important than any of us now.”

Before I could object further, heavy footsteps approached the cabin door, and a commanding knock sounded.

“Mr. and Mrs. Harlow,” Blackwood’s voice called, eerily pleasant. “We know you’re in there. Please open the door. We only wish to talk.”

Michael gave me a gentle push toward the rear of the cabin. “Go,” he whispered urgently. “I’ll be fine.”

With tears threatening, I grabbed Eleanor’s hand and the puzzle box, tucking the journal into my backpack again. We retreated to the rear of the cabin where, as Michael had guessed, a small door led outside.

“Mrs. Harlow, please,” Blackwood’s voice came again. “This doesn’t need to become unpleasant. Just give us the journal, and you and your husband can return to your lives.”

I paused at the back door, my hand on the simple wooden latch, torn between escape and refusing to leave Michael behind.

“They’re lying,” Eleanor whispered urgently. “Once they have what they want, they’ll have no reason to keep either of you alive.”

The front door shuddered under a heavy impact—they were trying to force their way in.

Michael looked back at us, his expression resolute. “GO!” he mouthed silently.

With a wrenching feeling in my chest, I pushed open the back door, pulling Eleanor with me into the dense forest behind the cabin.

We ran blindly at first, pushing through underbrush, stumbling over roots and rocks, the puzzle box clutched awkwardly against my chest. Behind us, I heard the crash of the cabin door giving way, followed by angry shouts.

“There’s a path,” Eleanor gasped after several minutes of headlong flight. “To the right. Father used it.”

I veered right as directed, and sure enough, a narrow trail appeared, barely visible beneath years of encroaching vegetation. We followed it as it wound upward through the trees, the sounds of pursuit growing fainter behind us.

The path led to a small clearing on a rocky outcropping, offering a view of the surrounding forest and, in the distance, the cabin we’d fled. I could see figures moving around it—Blackwood and at least four others, spreading out to search the surrounding area.

“We can’t outrun them for long,” I panted, setting down the puzzle box to catch my breath. “We need to open this, find the missing pages, and figure out what to do next.”

Eleanor knelt beside the box, her small fingers tracing the intricate patterns on its surface. “It’s a sequence puzzle,” she explained. “Press the correct patterns in the correct order, and it opens. Press them wrong…”

“And what happens?” I asked, kneeling beside her.

Her expression grew solemn. “Father said it would trigger a mechanism that would destroy the contents.”

Great. A self-destructing puzzle box containing possibly the only information that could save us from interdimensional invaders. No pressure.

“Do you know the sequence?” I asked, trying to keep the desperation from my voice.

Eleanor’s brow furrowed in concentration. “I… I think so. Father showed it to Mother once, when he thought we weren’t watching.” She closed her eyes, her fingers hovering over the patterns. “First, the anchor point—the star pattern here.” She pressed a star-shaped indentation, and it sank slightly into the metal with a soft click.

“Then… the double-nested circle,” she continued, pressing another pattern. Another click, softer this time.

“The triad of triangles… the wave form…” With each pattern she pressed, the clicks grew quieter, the box seemingly responding to her touch.

“And finally…” She hesitated, her finger poised over a complex pattern that resembled overlapping spirals. “The vortex.”

She pressed the final pattern, and for a moment, nothing happened. Then, with a series of soft, mechanical sounds, the top of the box split into four triangular sections that folded outward like petals of a metal flower.

Inside lay a sheaf of papers, yellowed with age but intact, covered in Edward Ellison’s distinctive handwriting and complex diagrams.

“The missing pages,” Eleanor breathed, reaching out to touch them reverently.

I carefully lifted the pages from the box, handling them as delicately as possible given their age and importance. The topmost page contained what appeared to be the conclusion of Edward’s research—a complex formula surrounded by notes and warnings.

“Can you understand any of this?” I asked Eleanor, showing her the pages.

She shook her head sadly. “Father tried to explain his work to us, but it was beyond my comprehension. I know only what he told us in simpler terms—that he had found a way to close the doorway permanently, but it required a sacrifice.”

I scanned the pages, looking for anything that might clarify this ominous requirement. On the final page, in Edward’s increasingly desperate handwriting, I found it:

“The doorway, once opened, can only be sealed through the voluntary sacrifice of a living soul at the threshold point. The life energy released creates a barrier impenetrable to those who would cross between worlds. There is no other way. God forgive me for what I must do to protect my family and our world.”

A chill ran through me as I read these words. Edward Ellison had given his life in an attempt to close the doorway, but the Interlopers had somehow tricked him, taking his sacrifice without fulfilling the requirement of the formula.

“We need to get back to Michael,” I said, carefully folding the pages and securing them in my pocket. “We need to warn him about Blackwood and the others.”

Eleanor nodded, her young face grave. “The doorway point—where Father’s experiment first opened the breach—it’s in the basement of your house. That’s where they’ll take the journal once they have it. That’s where they’ll attempt to complete the opening.”

I stared at her in horror. “Our house? The doorway is in our house?”

“Yes,” she confirmed. “That’s why Father built the hidden room—as close as possible to the doorway, but shielded from their perception. It’s why they want your house so badly. They’ve been trying to regain full access to that location for over a century.”

The implications were staggering. Our dream home, purchased at a surprisingly affordable price, had been the site of an interdimensional breach for over 120 years. No wonder it had seemed like such a bargain—how many owners had fled after experiencing the strange phenomena that must occasionally emanate from such a place?

A shout from below interrupted my thoughts—the search parties were getting closer.

“We need to move,” I urged, gathering the puzzle box and my backpack. “Is there another way down from here? A way back to the cabin that avoids the main path?”

Eleanor nodded, pointing to a barely discernible trail leading around the edge of the outcropping. “This way. It’s longer but less visible.”

We followed the faint trail as it wound its way through denser forest, eventually bringing us to a position where we could see the cabin again without being immediately visible from it. The black sedan was still parked outside, but the larger vehicle—a dark SUV—was gone.

“Where’s the other car?” I whispered, scanning the area for signs of Blackwood and his men.

“Looking for us,” Eleanor replied softly. “But some of them will have stayed behind to search the cabin thoroughly. And to deal with your husband.”

Fear clutched at my heart. Michael was alone in there, facing entities that weren’t even truly human. I had to help him, but how?

As if in answer to my unspoken question, Eleanor pointed to a small structure partially hidden by vegetation about fifty yards from the main cabin.

“Father’s equipment shed,” she said. “Where he kept his more dangerous experiments. There might be something there we can use.”

We made our way carefully to the shed, which proved to be a solidly built miniature version of the main cabin, its door secured with a heavy iron padlock that had rusted with age. I searched around the doorframe and under nearby rocks, finally finding a key hidden in a small recess beneath the rough-hewn porch step.

Inside, the shed was a jumble of Victorian-era scientific equipment, much of it unrecognizable to my modern eyes. Brass and copper apparatuses shared space with glass tubes, strange crystalline structures, and what appeared to be early electrical devices.

“What are we looking for?” I asked, overwhelmed by the array of unfamiliar objects.

Eleanor moved purposefully to a heavy wooden chest in one corner. “Father’s defensive measures,” she said, attempting to lift the lid, which proved too heavy for her small frame.

I helped her open it, revealing an assortment of odd devices nestled in velvet-lined compartments. Eleanor selected one that resembled a brass compass with additional dials and indicators around its circumference.

“This detects their presence,” she explained, handling the device with familiar ease. “When they’re in human form, they emit a specific energy signature. This will warn us when they’re near.”

She adjusted some of the dials, and the needle immediately swung toward the cabin, vibrating slightly.

“Three of them,” she reported, studying the dial. “In or near the main building.”

I continued searching through the chest, finding what looked like metal cylinders with elaborate engravings, glass globes filled with swirling, colorless gas, and small, circular devices with needle-like protrusions.

“What are these?” I asked, picking up one of the cylinders.

“Disruptors,” Eleanor replied. “They interfere with the Interlopers’ ability to maintain human form. Father designed them as a defensive measure.” She selected several of the devices, showing me how to activate them. “These won’t harm humans, but they cause great pain to those from the other side.”

Armed with Edward Ellison’s strange devices, we formulated a hasty plan. I would create a diversion at the rear of the cabin while Eleanor, less visible to the Interlopers due to her unique state of existence, would slip inside to warn Michael and help him escape.

The plan was simple, desperate, and full of potential points of failure—but it was all we had.

As we crept closer to the cabin, the brass detection device in Eleanor’s hands indicated that the three Interlopers were all inside, presumably searching for the missing pages or interrogating Michael. I circled around to the rear, clutching two of the disruptor cylinders, my heart pounding so loudly I feared it might give me away.

On Eleanor’s signal—a bird-like whistle we’d agreed upon—I activated both devices as she had shown me, twisting their bases until they emitted a soft, high-pitched hum. Then I threw them through the cabin’s rear window and ducked beneath the sill.

The effect was immediate and dramatic. Inhuman shrieks erupted from inside, followed by sounds of furniture being overturned and glass breaking. Through a gap in the window frame, I glimpsed chaotic movement within—figures stumbling, their forms seeming to ripple and distort as if I were viewing them through heat waves rising from hot pavement.

Eleanor slipped in through the back door amid the confusion, and I held my breath, counting seconds that felt like hours. The inhuman screaming continued, punctuated by angry shouts in recognizable human voices—the Interlopers struggling to maintain their disguises under the influence of the disruptors.

Finally, the back door burst open, and Michael stumbled out, supported by Eleanor. His face was bruised, a cut above his eye bleeding freely, but he was alive and moving under his own power.

“Run!” he gasped, grabbing my arm as they reached me.

We fled into the forest, the sounds of pursuit erupting behind us as the Interlopers recovered from the disruptors’ effects. Michael was limping but keeping pace, his jaw set with determination.

“They tried to make me tell them where you’d gone,” he panted as we ran. “But I didn’t know, so…” He gestured to his injuries with grim humor.

“We found the missing pages,” I told him between labored breaths. “Edward’s final formula. It explains how to close the doorway.”

“How?” Michael asked, ducking under a low-hanging branch.

“A sacrifice,” Eleanor answered solemnly. “A life freely given at the threshold point.”

Michael absorbed this information with a tight nod, saving his breath for running. Behind us, shouts and the crashing of underbrush indicated our pursuers were gaining ground.

“We need to split up,” I decided as we reached a fork in the path. “They’re after the journal and pages. I’ll take them and lead them away. You two head back to the road, try to find help.”

“Absolutely not,” Michael objected instantly. “We stay together.”

“There’s no time to argue,” I insisted, echoing his own words from earlier. “This is bigger than us now. If they get both the journal and the missing pages, they can open the doorway permanently.”

“Then destroy them,” Michael countered. “Burn them right now.”

I shook my head. “We can’t. The pages also contain the formula for closing the doorway. We need them.”

The sounds of pursuit grew louder, closer. We had seconds, not minutes, to decide.

“Go,” Eleanor urged, tugging at Michael’s arm. “I know another way back to the road. We can circle around, meet Rebecca at your car.”

Michael’s face was a mask of anguish, torn between staying with me and recognizing the logic of our plan. Finally, with a muttered curse, he pulled me into a fierce embrace.

“Be careful,” he whispered against my hair. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” I replied, fighting back tears. “Now go!”

He released me and followed Eleanor down the left fork of the path, disappearing quickly into the dense undergrowth. I took the right fork, making no attempt to hide my trail, wanting the Interlopers to follow me instead of them.

It worked. Within minutes, I heard my pursuers change direction, focusing solely on my path. I ran as hard as I could, clutching my backpack with its precious, dangerous contents, trying to put as much distance as possible between myself and Michael.

The trail climbed steeply, winding up the mountainside through increasingly rocky terrain. My lungs burned, my legs protested, but I pushed on, driven by the knowledge of what would happen if Blackwood and his inhuman associates caught me.

Finally, gasping for breath, I reached what appeared to be a dead end—a sheer rock face blocking the path. Looking frantically for another way forward, I spotted a narrow gap between the rocks, just wide enough for a person to squeeze through. Without hesitation, I pushed myself into the opening, scraping my arms and shoulders on the rough stone as I forced my way through.

Beyond the gap, the path continued briefly before opening onto a stunning vista—a cliff edge overlooking a vast expanse of forested mountains. The view would have been breathtaking under different circumstances. Now, it represented a trap. There was nowhere else to go.

The sounds of pursuit grew louder, echoing through the gap in the rocks. I had minutes, perhaps seconds, before they found me. Desperately, I looked around for some means of escape or defense.

The cliff edge was about thirty feet above a steep, tree-covered slope. Jumping would be risky but possible. I might survive with injuries, especially if the trees helped break my fall. It was my only option.

I moved toward the edge, preparing to jump—when a familiar voice stopped me cold.

“That would be most unwise, Mrs. Harlow.”

I turned to find Thomas Blackwood emerging from the gap in the rocks, his suit immaculate despite the chase through the forest, his silver hair perfectly in place. Behind him came two more men, similarly unruffled by the pursuit, their movements too smooth, too coordinated to be fully human.

“The fall wouldn’t kill you,” Blackwood continued conversationally, “but the injuries would be quite severe. We wouldn’t want that, would we?”

I backed away until my heels touched the very edge of the cliff. “Stay back,” I warned, reaching into my pocket where I had stashed one last disruptor cylinder.

Blackwood smiled, the expression never reaching his cold eyes. “You have something we want, Mrs. Harlow. Something that rightfully belongs to us. Give us the journal and Dr. Ellison’s missing pages, and you can walk away from this unharmed. You have my word.”

“Your word means nothing,” I spat. “You’re not even human.”

His smile widened, becoming something predatory. “Perceptive. But then, Edward Ellison’s daughter would have told you all about us, wouldn’t she? The child has been most… inconvenient over the years.”

“You’ve known about Eleanor all this time?” I asked, stalling while I tried to formulate some plan of escape.

“Of course,” Blackwood replied smoothly. “The Ellison family never truly disappeared, Mrs. Harlow. They exist in a state of suspension between our worlds—a fascinating side effect of Edward’s experiments. We’ve been aware of them for over a century, though their ability to interact with your world has been… limited.”

My mind raced. If they knew about Eleanor, they might know where Michael was heading. I needed to warn him somehow.

“Enough conversation,” one of the other men said, his voice oddly modulated, as if he were struggling to form human words. “Take the journal and pages. Now.”

Blackwood shot his companion an irritated glance. “Patience, Wilder. Mrs. Harlow is being reasonable, aren’t you?” He extended his hand toward me. “The journal and pages, please.”

“Why do you want them so badly?” I asked, continuing to stall. “You’ve been in our world for over a century already. What difference would opening the doorway permanently make?”

Blackwood’s smile turned indulgent, the way one might smile at a child asking why the sky is blue. “We can only maintain these forms temporarily,” he explained. “It requires considerable energy, and the results are… imperfect.” For an instant, his features seemed to ripple, revealing something beneath that was decidedly not human. “With a permanent doorway, we could bring our full existence into this reality. We could truly live here, among you.”

“And what happens to us—to humans—when you do?”

His expression turned cold. “Progress always has its costs, Mrs. Harlow. Some species thrive. Others… adapt or disappear. It’s simply the way of things.”

It was all I needed to hear. They weren’t just visitors from another world; they were invaders, planning to supplant humanity entirely.

“No,” I said firmly, backing up until my heels were at the very edge of the cliff. “You can’t have the journal. You can’t have our world.”

Blackwood sighed, as if disappointed by a student’s poor test performance. “I had hoped you would be reasonable.” He nodded to his companions. “Take her.”

As the two other Interlopers moved toward me, I pulled out the disruptor cylinder from my pocket and activated it. The high-pitched hum filled the air, and all three beings staggered, their human forms rippling like reflections in disturbed water.

I used their momentary disorientation to make a run for the gap in the rocks, but Blackwood recovered quickly, lunging with inhuman speed to block my path. His hand closed around my arm with crushing force, his fingers elongating grotesquely as his human disguise began to slip.

“The journal,” he hissed, his voice no longer entirely human. “Give it to me!”

I struggled against his grip, the disruptor’s effects clearly wearing off more quickly for him than for his companions. In desperation, I swung my backpack at his head with my free hand. The impact was enough to make him release me, and I stumbled backward, dangerously close to the cliff edge again.

Blackwood advanced, his human appearance deteriorating further with each step. Beneath the disguise of Thomas Blackwood was something tall and spindly, with too many joints and a face that seemed to shift and reform continuously.

“Your species is so fragile,” he said, his voice distorting. “So brief. You live, you die, all in an eyeblink. We offer eternity.”

“We don’t want your kind of eternity,” I spat, clutching the backpack to my chest. The other two Interlopers were recovering now, flanking Blackwood as they approached.

I was trapped. There was nowhere to run, no way to fight three of them. The cliff behind me promised certain injury, if not death. The journal and pages in my possession could doom humanity if they fell into the Interlopers’ hands.

In that moment of desperation, a memory surfaced—Edward Ellison’s final words in his journal: “The doorway, once opened, can only be sealed through the voluntary sacrifice of a living soul at the threshold point.”

Edward had tried to sacrifice himself to close the doorway, but the Interlopers had tricked him somehow. They had taken his life without fulfilling the requirements of the formula.

But what if…

A crazy, desperate idea formed in my mind. The Interlopers needed both the journal and the missing pages to fully open the doorway. What if I destroyed them both? Would that be enough to close the breach permanently?

No, Edward’s formula was specific—it required a living sacrifice at the threshold point, which was in the basement of our house. Miles away from here.

But perhaps I could at least ensure the Interlopers never got what they wanted.

As Blackwood and his companions closed in, I made my decision. I took one last step backward, feeling the edge of the cliff crumble slightly beneath my heel.

“Stop!” Blackwood commanded, his form stabilizing somewhat as he regained control. “You’ll kill yourself.”

“Maybe,” I agreed, clutching the backpack tighter. “But you’ll never get the journal or the pages.”

“Don’t be a fool,” he snarled. “Your death would accomplish nothing.”

But I wasn’t listening anymore. In one fluid motion, I unzipped the backpack, removed the journal and pages, and held them out over the precipice.

“No!” Blackwood lunged forward, but it was too late.

I released the documents, watching as they tumbled through the air, carried by the mountain breeze out over the forest below. Then, before the Interlopers could reach me, I turned and leapt from the cliff edge.

The fall seemed to happen in slow motion. The wind rushed past me, the ground approaching with terrifying speed. I twisted in the air, trying to position myself to hit the trees in a way that might break my fall without breaking my neck.

The impact came in stages—first the outermost branches, slowing me slightly, then thicker ones that bent and snapped beneath my weight, each one reducing my momentum. Pain exploded in my left arm, my ribs, my leg, but I remained conscious, tumbling through the canopy until I hit the ground with a force that drove the breath from my lungs.

I lay there, dazed and in agony, certain that I had broken multiple bones. Above me, I could hear Blackwood and the others shouting, their inhuman voices carrying easily through the mountain air. They would find a way down, would search for the scattered pages of the journal. I needed to move.

With excruciating effort, I dragged myself to my feet. My left arm hung useless at my side, definitely broken. My ribs screamed with each breath, and my right ankle could barely support weight. But I was alive, and I needed to find Michael and Eleanor.

I began limping downhill, using trees for support, each step sending fresh waves of pain through my battered body. I had no idea where I was in relation to the road or the cabin, but downhill seemed the most logical choice.

After what felt like hours but was probably only twenty minutes, I heard a familiar voice calling my name.

“Rebecca! Bec, where are you?”

“Michael!” I tried to shout, but my injured ribs turned it into a pained gasp. I tried again, managing a hoarse cry. “Michael! Here!”

Moments later, he burst through the underbrush, Eleanor close behind him. The relief on his face when he saw me was immediately replaced by horror as he took in my injuries.

“My God, Bec, what happened?” He rushed to support me as my legs threatened to give way.

Through pained breaths, I explained about my encounter with Blackwood and my desperate leap from the cliff. “I threw the journal and pages into the forest,” I concluded. “They’ll be searching for them, but the documents will be scattered, probably damaged. It should buy us some time.”

Michael’s face was grim as he helped me through the forest, supporting most of my weight. “We found the car,” he told me. “It hasn’t been damaged. We can drive back to town, get you to a hospital.”

“No,” I gasped, the pain making it difficult to think clearly. “We can’t. Not yet. They’ll be looking for us in town. And we need to figure out how to close the doorway permanently.”

“That can wait,” Michael argued. “You need medical attention.”

“It can’t wait,” Eleanor interjected, her young face solemn. “They’ll keep coming. They’ll find other copies of Father’s work, other ways to open the doorway. We need to end this now.”

Despite my injuries, I knew she was right. This had to end, once and for all.

“The threshold point,” I said through gritted teeth. “It’s in our house, in the basement. We need to go there.”

Michael looked from me to Eleanor, conflict evident in his expression. Finally, he nodded. “Alright. But we’re stopping at a pharmacy first. You need pain medication, bandages, something to immobilize that arm.”

I didn’t argue. The pain was becoming overwhelming, and I knew I needed to remain conscious if we were going to have any chance of success.

We made our way slowly back to the car, Michael supporting me while Eleanor scouted ahead for any sign of the Interlopers. By some miracle, we reached the road without encountering them, though I had no doubt they were still searching the forest for the scattered pages of Edward’s work.

As promised, Michael stopped at a small pharmacy in the first town we passed through. He left me in the car with Eleanor while he purchased supplies—painkillers, bandages, an arm sling, and other first aid necessities. He returned quickly and administered rudimentary first aid, wrapping my ribs, splinting my arm, and giving me the strongest over-the-counter pain medication available.

It wasn’t enough to fully dull the pain, but it made it bearable. As we drove back toward our house, I tried to focus, to remember everything I’d read in Edward’s final pages.

“The sacrifice,” I said, the painkillers making my thoughts slightly fuzzy. “Edward tried to sacrifice himself to close the doorway, but something went wrong. The Interlopers took his life but didn’t fulfill their end of the bargain.”

Eleanor nodded, her expression somber. “They tricked him. Father thought by offering himself willingly at the threshold point, he could force the doorway closed. But they found a way to take his life without triggering the closure.”

“So how do we make sure it works this time?” Michael asked, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.

I tried to recall the specific wording from Edward’s notes. “He wrote that the sacrifice had to be made ‘at the threshold point’ and that it had to be ‘voluntary.’ The life energy released would create a barrier impenetrable to the Interlopers.”

“There must be specific conditions,” Eleanor mused. “A ritual or formula that Father attempted to follow, but the Interlopers found a loophole.”

As we drew closer to home, a heavy silence fell over the car. We all understood what was at stake—and what would likely be required to end this threat once and for all.

“I’ll do it,” Michael said suddenly, his voice tight but determined. “If a sacrifice is needed, it should be me.”

“No,” I objected immediately, pain forgotten in the face of his suggestion. “There has to be another way.”

“There isn’t,” he replied gently. “You read Edward’s notes. A life freely given is the only way to close the doorway permanently.”

“Then it should be me,” I argued. “I’m already injured. You have a better chance of fighting them off if something goes wrong.”

“It doesn’t have to be either of you,” Eleanor interrupted softly. “I’m already caught between worlds. I’m not fully alive in the way you are, not anymore. If anyone should make this sacrifice, it’s me.”

Michael and I exchanged pained glances. The idea of this child—even one who had existed in a strange state of suspension for over a century—sacrificing herself was deeply disturbing.

“We’ll figure something out,” I said firmly. “Maybe there’s a detail we’re missing, something that would allow us to close the doorway without anyone dying.”

But as we approached our house, I couldn’t shake the feeling that Edward Ellison had been right. Some prices couldn’t be avoided.

Night had fallen by the time we arrived home. The house was dark and silent, showing no signs of having been visited by Blackwood or his associates since we fled. Michael parked a block away as a precaution, and we approached cautiously, Eleanor leading the way with assurances that she would be able to sense if any Interlopers were present.

“It’s clear,” she whispered as we reached the back door. “They’re not here yet, but they will be soon.”

Michael helped me inside, my injuries making even the simplest movements painful. Despite the destruction Blackwood’s men had caused during their search, the house felt oddly welcoming—a familiar sanctuary in the midst of madness.

“The basement,” Eleanor directed, moving purposefully through the darkened house. “That’s where Father’s laboratory was. That’s where the threshold point is located.”

We followed her to the basement door, which had always been locked when we moved in. The renovation plans had included breaking through to expand the living space, but we hadn’t gotten that far yet.

“I don’t have the key,” Michael said, examining the old-fashioned lock.

“We don’t need one,” Eleanor replied, placing her small hand against the door. “Father designed it to respond to family.”

To our amazement, the lock clicked open beneath her touch, and the door swung inward, revealing a steep staircase descending into darkness. Michael found a flashlight among our emergency supplies, and we made our way carefully down the steps, the beam illuminating a scene frozen in time.

The basement was a Victorian scientist’s laboratory, untouched for over a century yet preserved in perfect condition. Complex brass and copper apparatus lined workbenches, glass tubes and containers gleamed in the flashlight beam, and at the center of the room stood a large device that could only be described as a machine out of a Jules Verne novel.

It was constructed of brass, iron, and copper, with multiple rotating rings surrounding a central chamber. The device hummed faintly, emitting a barely perceptible vibration that seemed to resonate through the floor beneath our feet.

“Father’s doorway machine,” Eleanor whispered, approaching it with a mixture of awe and trepidation. “It’s still active after all this time.”

I stared at the device, trying to reconcile its steampunk aesthetics with the incredible power it apparently contained—the power to open passages between worlds.

“So this is the threshold point,” Michael said, examining the machine without touching it. “Where Edward tried to sacrifice himself to close the doorway.”

Eleanor nodded, her eyes fixed on the central chamber. “The doorway isn’t fully open, just a crack. Enough for them to push through occasionally, taking human form temporarily.” She pointed to the rotating rings. “Father designed it to open fully or close permanently. Nothing in between.”

“How does it work?” I asked, fascinated despite our dire situation.

“Electromagnetic fields, primarily,” Eleanor explained. “Father discovered that certain electromagnetic frequencies could thin the barriers between realities. This machine generates and focuses those frequencies.” She pointed to various components, clearly familiar with the device. “These are calibration controls. These adjust field strength. This is the activation mechanism.”

“And how do we close it?” Michael asked, the key question that had driven us here.

Eleanor’s expression grew solemn. “The voluntary sacrifice must occur within the central chamber, at the moment of full activation. The life energy released creates a counter-frequency that collapses the doorway permanently.”

We stood in silence for a moment, absorbing this information. Edward Ellison had built a machine that could open or close doors between worlds, and the price of closing it permanently was a human life.

“There has to be another way,” I insisted again, unable to accept that our only option involved someone dying.

Before either Michael or Eleanor could respond, a sound from upstairs froze us all in place—the distinctive creak of our front door opening.

“They’re here,” Eleanor whispered, fear evident in her young voice.

Michael immediately took charge. “Hide,” he directed, pointing to a heavy workbench in the corner. “Both of you. I’ll deal with them.”

“No,” I protested. “We stay together.”

“There’s no time to argue,” he replied, his voice brooking no dissent. “You’re injured, Bec. You can barely stand. I need to know you’re safe.”

Before I could object further, footsteps sounded on the basement stairs. Michael pushed me behind the workbench, and Eleanor followed, her small body trembling with fear.

From our hiding place, we could see the bottom of the stairs as Thomas Blackwood descended, followed by his two associates. All three looked somewhat disheveled, their previously immaculate appearance marred by their search through the forest. Blackwood’s silver hair was mussed, his suit torn in places, and his companions showed similar signs of wear.

More disturbing, however, was the way their human disguises seemed to be failing. Their features occasionally rippled and shifted, revealing glimpses of the alien entities beneath. Their movements were jerky, uncoordinated, as if they were puppets being operated by inexperienced puppeteers.

“Mr. Harlow,” Blackwood greeted Michael, his voice fluctuating between human and something else entirely. “How considerate of you to lead us directly to the threshold point.”

Michael stood his ground, positioning himself between the Interlopers and the doorway machine. “It’s over, Blackwood—or whatever your real name is. You’re not getting what you want.”

Blackwood made a sound that might have been a laugh in a human throat. “On the contrary. We’re precisely where we need to be. The journal and pages, while useful, were merely a convenience. The doorway machine itself contains all the information we need to complete the opening.”

From our hiding place, I saw Michael tense, ready for a fight he couldn’t possibly win against three inhuman entities. I had to do something, anything, to help him. Ignoring the pain from my injuries, I searched frantically around our hiding spot for a weapon or tool we could use.

“Child,” Blackwood called suddenly, his fluctuating gaze scanning the laboratory. “Eleanor Ellison. I know you’re here. I can sense you, just as I’ve sensed you for over a century. Why not join us? Your father’s work is about to reach its culmination.”

Eleanor trembled beside me, her small hand finding mine in the darkness.

“Don’t listen to him,” I whispered. “He’s lying.”

But Eleanor’s expression had changed, a strange determination replacing her fear. “I know what I have to do,” she whispered back. Before I could stop her, she slipped from our hiding place, moving to stand beside Michael.

“Eleanor, no!” I hissed, but it was too late.

“Ah, there you are,” Blackwood said, something like satisfaction in his distorted voice. “The last of the Ellisons. How fitting that you should witness the completion of your father’s great work.”

“It wasn’t his ‘great work,'” Eleanor replied, her young voice steady despite the danger. “It was his greatest mistake. One he died trying to correct.”

Blackwood made that strange laughing sound again. “A noble but futile gesture. He didn’t understand the true requirements of the formula. The sacrifice must be pure, untainted by prior contact with the doorway.” He gestured dismissively. “Edward was already changed by his experiments, his life energy altered. It was useless for closing the breach.”

This new information hit me like a physical blow. Edward’s sacrifice had failed not because the Interlopers had tricked him, but because he himself had been rendered unsuitable by his prolonged exposure to the doorway.

Which meant…

Eleanor had reached the same conclusion. “That’s why you’ve never harmed me or Mother or David,” she said, understanding dawning in her voice. “We’re all changed, all unsuitable.”

“Precisely,” Blackwood confirmed. “But now, thanks to Mr. and Mrs. Harlow, we have fresh, untainted vessels available. The perfect sacrifices to finally open the doorway permanently.”

Michael tensed, ready to fight, but he was hopelessly outnumbered. The two other Interlopers moved with frightening speed, seizing him before he could react. He struggled against their grip, but they were inhumanly strong.

“Michael!” I cried, giving away my position. Immediately, Blackwood turned toward the workbench, his features rippling into something monstrous.

“Ah, Mrs. Harlow. Please, join us. Your presence completes our little gathering.”

I knew hiding was useless now. Clutching a heavy wrench I’d found beneath the workbench, I emerged, my injuries making me clumsy and slow.

“Let him go,” I demanded, brandishing the wrench with my good arm.

Blackwood ignored me, turning his attention to the doorway machine. His elongated fingers moved over the controls with surprising familiarity, adjusting dials and levers. The machine’s hum intensified, and the rotating rings began to spin more rapidly.

“After all these years,” he said, his voice barely human now, “the doorway will finally open fully. Our kind will pour through, and this reality will be ours.”

“You’re going to kill everyone,” I accused, edging closer despite my fear. “Replace humanity with… whatever you are.”

Blackwood’s distorted face turned toward me. “Not everyone will die. Some will be repurposed. Vessels, servants, pets. Those who cooperate will find the transition… less unpleasant.”

As he spoke, something incredible began to happen. The central chamber of the doorway machine started to glow with an otherworldly light, and within that light, I could see… something. A tear in reality itself, widening with each passing second. Through that tear, shapes moved—forms so alien and wrong that my mind struggled to process them.

“Stop!” Michael shouted, still fighting against his captors. “You don’t know what you’re doing!”

“On the contrary,” Blackwood replied, his voice now completely inhuman, a harsh, grating sound. “We know exactly what we’re doing. We’ve waited over a century for this moment.”

The tear widened further, the light from it casting bizarre shadows around the laboratory. I could feel something emanating from it—a cold, alien presence that made my skin crawl and my mind recoil.

“The final step,” Blackwood announced, turning toward Michael. “The sacrifice.”

With a gesture from Blackwood, the two Interlopers began dragging Michael toward the central chamber, where the tear in reality pulsed and widened.

“No!” I screamed, lunging forward with the wrench. One of the Interlopers batted me aside effortlessly, sending me crashing into a workbench. Pain exploded through my already injured body, and for a moment, darkness threatened to overwhelm me.

When my vision cleared, I saw Michael being forced into the central chamber, directly in front of the widening tear. The alien light played across his features, illuminating his determination and fear.

“Bec, I love you,” he called, his voice barely audible over the machine’s growing roar. “Get out of here! Run!”

But I couldn’t run. I couldn’t leave him. With desperate strength, I pushed myself to my feet again, searching for any way to stop what was happening.

That’s when Eleanor stepped forward, her small form suddenly radiating a strange power. “You’re wrong,” she said to Blackwood, her voice cutting through the machine’s noise. “A sacrifice will close the doorway, not open it further.”

Blackwood turned toward her, his alien features contorting in what might have been amusement. “Foolish child. Your father’s formula was flawed. The electromagnetics are correct, but his understanding of the energies involved was backward. A pure life given here will widen the breach irreparably.”

“No,” Eleanor insisted. “You’re lying. You’ve always been lying.”

As she spoke, she moved closer to the central chamber where Michael was being held. Something about her was changing—her form becoming more solid, more present, as if she were drawing energy from the doorway itself.

Blackwood noticed it too. “Stop her!” he commanded, but his associates were fully occupied restraining the still-struggling Michael.

With a sudden burst of speed, Eleanor darted forward and placed herself between Michael and the pulsing tear in reality. The alien light engulfed her small form, and for an instant, she seemed to glow from within, her features more vivid and alive than I had yet seen them.

“Eleanor, no!” I cried, understanding her intention.

She looked back at me, a sad smile on her young face. “It’s alright, Mrs. Harlow. I’ve been caught between worlds for over a century. It’s time for me to choose one.”

Before anyone could stop her, Eleanor thrust her arms into the pulsing tear. The effect was immediate and catastrophic.

The tear in reality seemed to convulse, the light emanating from it changing from alien blue to a blinding white. Eleanor’s body became a silhouette against that light, her form stretching and distorting as if being pulled in multiple directions simultaneously.

“No!” Blackwood shrieked, the sound barely human at all. “What have you done!”

The doorway machine began to shake violently, the rotating rings spinning so fast they became blurs. The Interlopers restraining Michael released him, staggering back as waves of energy pulsed from the central chamber.

“Get back!” Michael shouted, grabbing me and pulling us both behind a heavy workbench as the machine’s vibrations reached a fever pitch.

Through a gap between the bench and floor, I watched in horror and awe as Eleanor’s form was drawn completely into the tear, which immediately began to contract. Blackwood and his associates rushed toward it, their human disguises falling away entirely to reveal spindly, multi-jointed forms with features too alien to comprehend.

“The doorway!” one of them screeched in a voice that hurt my ears. “It’s collapsing!”

Blackwood reached the central chamber just as the tear contracted to a pinpoint of light. He thrust his elongated limbs into it, trying to force it open again, but the light flared blindingly, and when it faded, his limbs were gone, severed cleanly at what might have been elbows.

His inhuman scream of rage and pain echoed through the laboratory as the doorway machine gave one final, violent shudder. Then, with a sound like thunder, the central chamber imploded, taking Blackwood and his associates with it in a flash of light so intense it left afterimages burned into my vision.

Silence fell, broken only by the settling of dust and the soft patter of small components falling from workbenches disturbed by the implosion.

Michael and I remained frozen behind the workbench for several long moments, unable to process what we had just witnessed. Finally, cautiously, we emerged from our shelter.

The doorway machine was gone—not destroyed, but simply… absent. In its place was a perfect circle of clean floor, as if that section of the laboratory had been reset to its original condition. No trace remained of Blackwood or his associates. No trace remained of Eleanor.

“She sacrificed herself,” I whispered, tears streaming down my face. “She knew what would happen.”

Michael nodded, his own eyes glistening. “She freed herself. And saved us all.”

We made our way slowly up the basement stairs, each step painful for me due to my injuries. The house above was quiet, empty—just an ordinary home once more, with no trace of the extraordinary events that had occurred beneath it.

In the days that followed, we tried to return to normal life as best we could. I received proper medical treatment for my injuries—a broken arm, three cracked ribs, a sprained ankle, and various cuts and bruises. The doctors were skeptical of my story about falling while hiking, but they didn’t press the issue.

The renovations on our house continued, though we instructed Carlos to leave the basement untouched, sealing the door permanently. We never told him why, and he didn’t ask, though he did mention that the strange cold spots and unexplained noises that had plagued the renovation seemed to have disappeared completely.

We never spoke publicly about what had happened—who would believe us? Interdimensional invaders, a girl from 1897, a doorway between worlds… it sounded like the plot of a horror movie, not something that could happen in real life.

But in private, Michael and I often discussed Eleanor and her family, wondering what had become of them. Had Eleanor’s sacrifice finally freed them from their state of suspension? Had they found peace? We would never know for certain.

Six months after the events in the basement, as we sat on our newly renovated porch enjoying a cool autumn evening, Michael handed me a small, worn book.

“I found this when we were cleaning out the attic last week,” he said. “I think you should have it.”

It was a child’s diary, its pages yellowed with age. Inside, in careful, childish handwriting, was the name “Eleanor Ellison, 1897.”

With tears in my eyes, I opened the diary, reading entries from the life of a young girl over a century ago. Her everyday concerns, her thoughts about school and friends, her love for her parents and brother. Normal, human experiences from before her world had been shattered by her father’s discovery.

The final entry was dated December 13, 1897, the day before Edward Ellison’s last journal entry:

“Father says we must be ready. He has taught us what to do if the bad men come. I am scared, but Father says he will protect us. He says everything will be alright.”

I closed the diary gently, holding it to my chest. In a way, Edward had protected his family, though not as he had intended. And in the end, it was his daughter who had protected us all, closing the doorway her father had accidentally opened.

Sometimes, in dreams, I see Eleanor—not as the solemn, haunted child we met, but as she might have been had her life continued normally. Running through sunny fields, growing up, having a family of her own. I like to think that wherever she is now, she’s at peace, finally freed from the suspension between worlds that had held her for so long.

As for Michael and me, we stayed in the house, despite everything that had happened there. It was our home, and now, thanks to Eleanor’s sacrifice, it was just a house—unusual in its architecture perhaps, but no longer a focal point for interdimensional breaches.

Life went on, as it always does. We never found any trace of Thomas Blackwood or his associates, and no more strange visitors came knocking at our door. The hidden room behind our closet wall became a reading nook, its original purpose forgotten by all but us.

Sometimes, when the house is quiet and the light is just right, I think I catch glimpses of movement at the corner of my eye—a small figure darting around a corner, a flash of a white nightgown, the echo of a child’s laughter. But when I turn to look, there’s never anything there.

Just memories, perhaps. Or maybe something more.

After all, as Edward Ellison discovered to his cost, the barriers between worlds are thinner than we like to believe. And some connections, once made, are never truly broken.