DISCOVERED A SMALL LOCKED BOX BEHIND THE WATER HEATER IN OUR BASEMENT LATE TONIGHT
Stepping onto the cold concrete floor, I smelled that damp mildew scent that always seemed to stick to my clothes down here.
I wasn’t looking for anything specific, just clearing junk near the old water heater. My foot kicked something solid hidden behind it, tucked near the wall. It was a small metal box, scratched and old, with a simple padlock on it.
Mark was sound asleep upstairs, completely oblivious. My heart pounded a frantic rhythm against my ribs as I found a rusty wrench. I pried the lock open, the protesting metal groaning loudly in the quiet basement.
Inside, under a layer of thin, musty cloth, weren’t tools at all. There were pictures instead, dozens of small Polaroids of strangers. They were taken without knowledge – at the store, through windows, sitting on park benches.
Then, my breath caught hard in my throat, feeling the cold concrete beneath my bare feet. I saw one photo near the bottom that made my hand shake violently. It was a picture of me, taken from across our street, long before I knew him. “What the actual hell is this?” I whispered into the cold air, dropping the wrench with a clang.
Then my phone lit up on the floor next to the box with a new message from an unknown number.
👇 *Full story continued in the comments…*My phone screen glowed with the short, stark text: “Saw you down there. Some things are better left untouched.”
My blood ran cold, instantly colder than the concrete under my feet. Saw me? Down *here*? The message had arrived the exact second I found the box. The wrench clattered again as my shaking hand knocked it. I spun around, peering into the dark corners of the basement, the weak overhead bulb casting long, dancing shadows that seemed to conceal unseen eyes. But there was no one there.
I snatched up the phone, staring at the unknown number, then back at the box and the photos. The picture of me… taken from a distance, clearly not posed, taken *before* I knew Mark. A chill, deeper than the basement air, seeped into my bones. Who were these people? Why were their pictures here? And who knew I had just found this, sending a warning message the instant I did?
My mind raced, connecting impossible dots. The box hidden *behind* the water heater, in a place only someone living here would know to use. The photos… candid, almost surveillance-like. And the message, proving someone knew I was down here, knew I’d found it, and wanted me to stop.
My eyes fell on the photo of myself again. That street… I remembered living there. It was years ago, long before Mark and I met. How could a photo of me from that time, taken secretly, be in a box hidden in the basement of the house I now shared with him?
The truth, ugly and sharp, began to claw its way into my consciousness. Mark, sound asleep upstairs, oblivious? Or was he? Who else could have put this box here? Who else would have a photo of me from back then? Who else would know I was down here in the basement right now?
My heart hammered against my ribs again, not with frantic curiosity this time, but with pure, icy terror. I looked up the stairs towards the quiet house above. The message, the box, the photo of me… it all pointed to one horrifying conclusion. The person who had taken these photos, who had hidden this box, who was watching me now, wasn’t a stranger. It was Mark. The man I loved, the man sleeping soundly upstairs, had a secret life I couldn’t even begin to comprehend. And he knew I had just found it. Getting upstairs suddenly felt like walking into a trap.