THE REASON FOR THE UNBELIEVABLY LOW PRICE OF THE WONDERFUL HOUSE I PURCHASED REMAINED A MYSTERY TO ME UNTIL I UNLOCKED THE BASEMENT.
During my property search with a real estate agent, I stumbled upon what seemed like an ideal residence. Excellent locale, impeccable state of repair, and a price that was almost suspiciously low. In fact, excessively cheap. I relentlessly sought some hidden defect—perhaps dampness, structural problems, even spectral residents (though I jest… somewhat). All inspections came back clear, yet an ENORMOUS padlock adorned the basement entrance.
It felt completely out of sync with the house’s overall atmosphere. Upon inquiring with the agent about it, she visibly flushed and hesitantly claimed ignorance regarding its purpose. But THEN she uttered this peculiar phrase, something along the lines of, “Should you decide to purchase the property, I will forward you the key subsequently.” Strange, wouldn’t you agree? Nevertheless, she persisted in emphasizing it was “an unparalleled bargain,” and truthfully? It appeared to be the perfect dwelling. Despite my reservations, I decided to proceed with the acquisition.
Advancing to my initial evening in the new residence. Around the witching hour, I was abruptly awakened by an odd, muted sound emanating from the cellar. My heart plummeted. I seized the closest implement of ‘defense’ (a mop, of all things) and made my way to the lower level…The next morning, a small, tarnished key arrived in the post, unaccompanied by any note or explanation. A shiver ran down my spine as I picked it up. This felt less like fulfilling a promise and more like sealing a pact. I held the key up to the light, noticing a tiny inscription – a single word etched into the metal: “Beware.”
Ignoring the prickling unease, I marched to the basement door. The enormous padlock, now seeming even more ominous, clicked open with a resounding echo. I took a deep breath and descended the creaking wooden stairs. The air grew heavy, thick with a musty odor and the faint, metallic tang of blood.
At the bottom, I fumbled for a light switch. A single, bare bulb flickered to life, revealing a small, concrete room. There was no dampness, no structural damage, no visible ghosts. Just rows and rows of neatly stacked cages.
And inside the cages? Guinea pigs. Hundreds of them. Little, furry balls of squeaking, twitching, adorable guinea pigs.
Confusion warred with relief. Guinea pigs? This was the mystery? But why the padlock, the secrecy, the ridiculously low price?
Then I noticed the numbers. Each cage was labelled, not with names, but with dates. Dates that corresponded to missing person reports in the local area. Dates that were often followed by a single, cryptic notation: “Experiment Complete.”
A cold dread washed over me. These weren’t just guinea pigs. They were… something else. Genetically altered? Possessed?
Suddenly, one of the guinea pigs, its eyes glowing an unnatural red, locked its gaze on me. It squeaked, a high-pitched, piercing sound that seemed to vibrate the very air. Then it spoke.
“Welcome to the neighborhood,” it said, its tiny voice warped and menacing. “We’ve been expecting you.”
The other guinea pigs joined in, a chorus of distorted voices chanting the same terrifying welcome. I stumbled back, realizing the truth: the house wasn’t cheap because of a structural defect, or a ghostly presence. It was cheap because I was the next experiment. And I was locked in a basement full of the results.