As quietly as she could, she opened the door. Beyond it was a sheet of utter darkness, so she illuminated her phone again and cast the light ahead of her. There was a set of concrete steps leading down into a basement, and a strong smell of salt and bleach. Her stomach cramped.

Heather made her way down the steps, tipping her makeshift torch into the room ahead. The floor was bare and stained, and a long sturdy table stood on one side, much newer and better cared for than the one in the kitchen. There was a large plastic storage box in one corner, filled with big industrial bottles of cleaning fluids and other things she didn’t recognize, and next to the table there was a metal trolley, littered with tools.

Still think this is the wrong place? Part of her asked mockingly.

The light dawdled over the trolley, winking off of scalpels, knives, and small saws with tiny jagged teeth. There were other things there, too— razor blades, ice picks, a long length of nylon rope, dark brown glass bottles with white paper labels. On the corner of the thing something dark and gelatinous clung; it had hair coming out of it, long strands of slightly curly red hair. Heather backed up rapidly, her heels striking the front of the last step and making her jump.

“Fuck. Fuck.”

All of her previous certainty seemed to flee her. Grinding her teeth together to keep from crying out, Heather ran back up the steps and into the hallway, the light from her phone jumping and flashing. For a few seconds she stood at the kitchen entrance, quite ready to run back outside and across the beach, when she heard someone moving upstairs.

It was the briefest sound—half a footstep, the shifting of a shoe against carpet—but it was enough to stop her dead.

Nikki, she told herself. Nikki could be up there.

She went to the stairs and climbed them, wincing at every creak of the floorboards. At the top was a wide landing, the carpet stripped up and rolled against the walls. There were three doors that she could see, one standing open to reveal a tiny, dismal looking bathroom. She opened the door closest to her, the knife held high. The blinds in this room were drawn tight, and she could barely see anything save for a vague impression of some bulky furniture; a bed, a wardrobe perhaps?

“Nikki?” No response.

She lifted the phone light again and had a brief glimpse of a big mirror on the other side of the room. She saw her own face, pale and gaunt, her dark hair strewn haphazardly across her forehead—and then watched in shock as the face blinked and held up both hands to shield its eyes.

“What—?”

The figure lunged at her, throwing her down and to the floor with a crash. Heather cried out, the knife flying from her hand, and then the figure had both hands around her throat. It was a man, she belatedly realized; a man who had her face, her stature, her hair. He crashed her head against the floorboards, and her vision filled with static.